Cain's eyes flickered toward the decayed stadium, its skeletal remains looming like a broken coliseum from a bygone era.
Through shattered walls and crumbling pillars, he caught glimpses of the golemite thrashing against the beastmen. Its iron limbs swung with jagged precision, each clash reverberating through the hollow architecture.
Cain maintained his distance, firing enchantments toward the three rat beastmen whenever they scurried out from cover.
They had a habit of flashing themselves just long enough to draw fire, almost as if to ensure he didn't forget his part in the battle.
He didn't mind — it kept him sharp and focused.
But his attention didn't linger there. He couldn't afford to.
Across the field, Ragta and his younger brother hammered away at a colossal steel golemite of their own.
The rhythm of their strikes was something out of a war chant — precise, metronomic, and synchronized to perfection.
Cain couldn't help but draw the comparison — it was like watching master mochi makers, slamming and folding the iron hide of the creature with brutal elegance.
Ragta's whip came danced around like a graceful serpent, and his brother's hammer followed milliseconds behind, each blow compressing metal like rice dough.
It wasn't just cooperation — it was synchronicity, the kind that transcended mere blood ties.
This was forged through countless battles, hammered within their bones.
Metal groaned under their onslaught, dents spreading like ripples as they pounded the golemite into submission.
Suddenly, the eastern wall of the stadium collapsed.
Dust and smoke billowed out, swallowing the horizon in a choking haze. A lion's roar erupted from within — loud, primal, and echoing with a finality that made Cain's muscles tense.
Silence followed. The fighting ceased on the side of the beastmen.
Cain's grip on his rifle tightened. This was the moment. The one where they would either honor the agreement or cut him out entirely.
He wasn't aiming for the lion's share — just the promised five percent.
Scanning the haze, he searched for movement, for any sign of the beastmen who came out on top.
The smoke refused to clear, and his line of sight blurred with ash and floating debris.
His gaze shifted back to the giants.
Ragta and his younger brother had stepped back, with Ragta, the larger of the two, beginning to channel energy.
Power thrummed in the air, visible and visceral, swirling around him in arcs of charged prana.
'Looks like he's ending the fight here as well...'
Whatever Ragta was preparing, it was big.
But just as giant's move neared completion, the air snapped with tension.
The stadium, still half-shrouded in smoke, crumbled inward with a thunderous crash.
Cain's eyes shook, unable to believe what he saw in the dust cloud, and then — there it was.
A streak of blue light, razor-thin and impossibly fast, cut through the haze, piercing straight for the giants.
Cain's breath hitched, eyes locked on the horror about to unfolding before him.
Boom!
The impact was instantaneous, a roar of extreme heat and flame that split the air with concussive force.
Ragta's brother didn't even have time to scream.
The super-heated ballista round struck him dead center in the chest — its heat so intense that flesh did not burn.
It vaporized...
His eyes, wide with unspoken agony, turned to molten orbs before popping in a flash of steam.
The giant's skin sizzled away in fragments of glowing embers, dissolving into the air like ash scattered to the wind.
Muscles flared, burst, and vanished, leaving only raw bone exposed to the hungry flames.
Within mere seconds, the giant was no longer a being of flesh — only a skeleton remained, still locked in mid-scream, the steel-like bones seared and blackened yet holding his hammer high, a twisted monument to the instant fury of fire.
Cain's fingers tightened around his rifle, knuckles white beneath the gloves.
His heart pounded like war drums, each beat reminding him of his fragility.
But there was no time to falter.
He snapped back to the present, rifle aimed and hands steady.
He fired off enchantments with brutal efficiency, beams of light streaking across the battlefield like final farewells.
Boosts cascaded over the remaining giants, shimmering layers of energy stacking upon them.
He didn't stop there.
Two swiftness buffs hit Ragta just as the next ballista shot roared through the air, carving a fiery path toward him.
Ragta, limbs surging with newfound speed, sidestepped with a slide that blurred the edges of reality — but not without cost.
The spearhead bolt whizzed past, tearing his right arm clean off in a spray of blood and charred flesh.
Cain didn't dawdle around, the moment the shot connected, he moved — jumping out of the vantage line and into the dense forest.
It was a gamble, a gesture meant to show his allegiance — he knew the giants could reach him in moments if they chose to, and if they did, there'd be no time to escape.
Besides, he didn't plan to run without any strategy in mind.
His mind was already three steps ahead, eyes scanning for exits, for cover, for the slightest opportunity to turn the tide.
This wasn't a retreat — it was positioning.
The beastmen wasted no time, their movements sharp and decisive as they encircled the giants.
Ragta's arm, or what was left of it, twitched and squirmed. Muscle fibers pulsed and stitched themselves together, staunching the wound through sheer force of innate regeneration.
But Cain knew the truth — it would take weeks, maybe even months, for him to get his arm back.
For now, Ragta would have to fight with one arm, and the beastmen sniggered at his predicament.
Midi and Dilim broke formation, sprinting in opposite directions with practiced precision.
The golemite cocked its head, iron limbs creaking as it tried to make sense of the sudden retreat.
Its confusion didn't last. The flaming ballista bolt crashed against its side, molten heat splashing across its metallic frame.
The creature staggered, then turned its gaze toward the beastmen, its eyes flaring for a second but it's logic dictated immense danger.
It chose to run, tearing through debris and dust.
Cain watched it all unfold, heart hammering against his ribcage.
Now he stood at a crossroads, two paths unfurling before him like threads of fate.
'I could play it safe and treat this as a lesson, a stepping stone to understanding. Or… I could become the oriole, the hidden predator waiting to snatch victory when both sides were bloodied and spent.'