"Honestly... I still bathe every day, you know."

Oren watched the armored man ascend the steps, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt with a lazy grin.

"So that stench of filth? I’m betting your nose is broken."

"Your cold humor won’t save you."

Oren couldn’t see the knight’s face beneath the pitch-black helmet, but malice radiated from the shadows. The armored man suddenly hefted his Stone Hammer—

***THUD!***

The sound shattered the tavern’s silence.

"I am Havil, Knight of the Human Hammer! I show no mercy to the fallen!"

Havil charged, Stone Hammer swinging. Oren leapt back several steps, still grinning.

"Nah, I think *you* just crawled out of the latrine. Your nose probably hasn’t adjusted yet—"

***CRACK!***

The hammer slammed toward Oren’s chest before he finished. He drew his Longsword just in time—but the moment steel met stone, Oren flew backward like an autumn leaf ripped loose by a gale.

*What kind of strength...?*

He crashed to the ground, tumbling across the floorboards before skidding to a halt. Struggling up on one knee, sword trembling in his grip, he saw Havil raise the Stone Hammer again—aimed squarely at his head.

***BOOM!***

Oren flipped backward, barely dodging the blow. The hammer struck like a meteor. Wood splintered. The entire staircase collapsed beneath them, sending both crashing from the second floor to the first.

"*Seriously...*"

Oren cursed, shoving broken planks off his body. Through the dust, Havil rose—a mountain of muscle hurling heavy debris aside. The Stone Hammer emerged next, dust swirling around its head.

*Why does this always happen to me...?*

Gritting his teeth, Oren pushed himself up. Havil settled the hammer on his shoulder and took a slow step forward.

"Human. You must now grasp the gap between our strengths."

"No. I just grasp the gap between your nose and a human’s."

Oren brushed dust off his coat, raising his Longsword. A faint *tsk* echoed from Havil’s helmet.

*He’s pissed.*

Havil’s next words confirmed it.

"I’d love to smash that insolent mouth shut. But as a knight, I offer you redemption." The hammer lifted. "Tell me where the Elvenfolk is. Or I’ll sever your limbs, sew your lips shut, and dump you in a dry well!"

"Hard pass. But honestly—" Oren’s grin vanished. His blade snapped up. As it swept down, *Long Edge*—House Rodni’s ancestral sword—ignited. Azure light coiled around the steel, holy and radiant, banishing the shadows. Moonlight seemed to pool in its glow as Oren settled into a fighting stance.

"—I have no intention of telling you."

"An enchanted blade?" Havil clicked his tongue, gripping the Stone Hammer’s haft with both hands. Crimson runes flared across the stone—molten, seething.

"*Annihilate! Annihilate! Annihilate! Long live humanity!*"

With a guttural roar, Havil leapt. The hammer descended like a falling star—

***KRAKOOM!***

The floor exploded into a crater. Oren sidestepped, blade flashing upward to slash Havil’s chest. Black blood sprayed—but the knight didn’t flinch.

Rage ignited in Havil. He swung the hammer wildly. Oren retreated, dodging left, right, backward—dancing like prey before a beast. He scanned the wreckage, eyes sharp, feet light. Havil’s fury mounted. He charged again, hammer raised high—

***SMASH!***

Oren planted a foot on the hammer’s head. Both hands drove *Long Edge* toward Havil’s throat—

***THWIP!***

Havil caught the blade bare-handed. Magic seared his gauntlet with sharp *crackles*. He yanked Oren close, then smashed his helmeted forehead into Oren’s face.

*Thud.*

Stars exploded behind Oren’s eyes. Blood filled his mouth as he staggered back. Havil’s fist connected with his cheek—

***WHAM!***

The world spun. Oren spat blood, barely keeping his footing. Through blurred vision, he saw the hammer rising for the killing blow—

***TWANG!***

An arrow shot from the second floor. It slammed precisely into the gap in Havil’s helmet.

At point-blank range, Oren heard flesh tear. He looked up.

Yamwen lowered her bow on the ruined balcony. Beside her, Lontan hefted his axe, face grim.

"Thanks for the assist, Yamwen," Oren rasped, wiping blood from his chin.

"Don’t thank me yet, Oren." Her voice held no relief. "This isn’t over."

As Oren processed her words, a wet *rip* echoed behind him.

He turned.

Havil stood tall, the Feathered Arrow ripped from his eye socket. He dropped it—the arrow clattered to the ground, a chunk of flesh still impaled on its tip.

"No way... It pierced his eye..." Oren muttered.

Havil ignored him. His helmet tilted upward, fixing on Yamwen and Lontan. Hysterical laughter burst from the darkness within.

"Two Elvenfolk. One orc..." His voice trembled with ecstasy. "Praise Iris! Praise Freyr! You grant me the honor of purging three mongrels!"

He shifted his grip on the Stone Hammer—left hand forward, right hand back.

"*In this barren wasteland of steel and stone, east and west, north and south bow before the Iron Fist. The unworthy flee before its might.*"

***SPARK!***

Silver light erupted. From the hammer’s haft, Havil drew a gleaming longsword. Runes coiled along its pure silver blade—mirroring *Long Edge*’s sacred glow.

"*We are humanity’s Iron Fist. May our hammers judge the damned.*"

Havil stepped forward. A wave of crushing pressure—thick with magic—slammed into Oren and his allies.