Sanctuary: Safe Haven

The tension in the air thickened as Vorgrim and the saint of Clan Varran stood across from one another, fists raised, bodies poised for another brutal exchange. The storm rumbled overhead, and the arena, once filled with roaring spectators, had become a battlefield of destruction. The crowd was no longer cheering—they were fleeing.

The sheer power radiating from the two combatants was too much for most to handle.

Canna, seated calmly in the air with his conjured chair, watched with a faint smile. The arena beneath him was being slowly torn apart by the clashing titans, but Canna didn't flinch. He was simply observing, enjoying the spectacle of a pure, primal battle of warrior skill.

Down below, the fists flew. Each strike from Vorgrim sent shockwaves through the arena, and every counterpunch from the saint cracked the ground beneath them. They moved like beasts, driven by the fire of battle, their bodies taking hits that would have crumpled normal men. They didn't use weapons or magic—just their fists and skill, pure and unrelenting.

The saint grunted as one of Vorgrim's blows landed on his ribcage, but he grinned through the pain. With a snarl, he countered with a heavy punch that caught Vorgrim on the jaw, sending him stumbling back. Blood trickled down the saint's face, but his eyes gleamed with a wild joy he hadn't felt in years.

"You're good" the saint growled, his voice filled with respect, though his fists didn't stop moving. "Damn good."

Vorgrim wiped a trail of blood from his lips, his red eyes glowing with the fury of combat. He didn't respond with words—his body spoke for him. He surged forward again, this time faster, his fists blurring as he unleashed a barrage of punches that the saint barely managed to block.

The crowd, what was left of it, had already begun to panic. They could sense the growing danger, the destructive power of the two fighters. Even the most seasoned warriors in the stands began to retreat, their survival instincts kicking in as the arena itself began to collapse under the force of the blows.

A few of the weaker fighters in the crowd attempted to flee, only to be caught by a blast of energy from one of the fighters' missed attacks. The arena walls shook, chunks of stone falling from the ceiling, the ground splintering into deep cracks.

"Get out!" someone screamed, and that was all it took. The remaining spectators stampeded toward the exits, scrambling over one another in a desperate attempt to escape the chaos unfolding below.

Canna, still hovering in the air, didn't seem to mind. He watched calmly, his expression thoughtful.

Below, the arena was starting to resemble a war zone. Columns of stone had been shattered, the once-pristine floor now covered in debris and blood. Vorgrim and the saint moved like blurs, their punches faster and stronger with each passing second. Every strike was a calculated effort to break the other's defense, but neither would yield.

With a roar, the saint activated another skill, his muscles bulging as his body grew even larger. He slammed a fist into the ground, causing a massive tremor that split the earth in two, sending Vorgrim flying into the air. But Vorgrim wasn't out of the fight yet—he twisted his body mid-air, landing with a thundering impact before launching himself back at the saint.

The two clashed again, fist to fist, the sound of their blows echoing like thunderclaps. Blood was now flowing freely from both warriors, staining the broken ground beneath them. But despite the damage they had taken, their movements didn't slow.

Vorgrim grinned, his tusks glinting in the stormlight. He had been waiting for a fight like this, a fight where his Voragon blood could fully unleash itself. He could feel the saint's respect in every punch, and in return, he gave it his all. His fists, covered in scars from a thousand battles, crashed into the saint's body, each strike a testament to his people's warrior legacy.

The saint, battered and bloodied, was no longer frowning. He was smiling, a wide, fierce grin that stretched across his face. It had been years—decades, even—since he had felt the thrill of a real fight. His son, the current leader of Clan Varran, was strong, but he wasn't on the saint's level yet. Training his son had been fulfilling, but it was nowhere near as exciting as this.

As much as he hated to admit it, the saint had grown bored. He had lived as a warrior for centuries, and the battles that had once excited him had faded into memory. He had trained, he had fought, but none of it had truly tested him.

Until now.

"I've missed this," the saint grunted, wiping the blood from his brow as he and Vorgrim stood apart for a brief moment, catching their breath. "It's been too long since I've had a fight worth my time."

Vorgrim didn't respond with words, only a snarl of approval as he raised his fists again. The saint chuckled, shaking his head as he lifted his own hands in preparation for another round.

The arena, by this point, was almost completely destroyed. Stone pillars had crumbled to dust, the floor was fractured beyond repair, and the stands had been abandoned. The once-great structure was now a ruin, a testament to the power of the two warriors who still stood, bloodied but unbroken.

Canna, still seated above, watched with interest. The destruction was impressive, but it was the sheer will of the fighters that caught his attention. Both the saint and Vorgrim were warriors to the core, neither willing to back down, neither willing to yield. It was a rare thing, to see such pure combat.

The saint cracked his knuckles, his smile widening. "You're the real deal stranger! I haven't fought anyone like you in decades."
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"Then let's make this the best fight you've had in centuries," Vorgrim growled, his fists clenched tight.

With another thunderous clash, the two charged at each other again, their fists colliding with the force of a raging storm. The ground beneath them shattered completely, and the arena collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a ruined battlefield and two warriors locked in the fight of their lives.

Blood dripped from their bodies, but their spirit remained unbroken. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the saint was happy.

"This is what I've been waiting for," he muttered to himself as he delivered a brutal uppercut to Vorgrim's jaw, sending the red-skinned warrior flying into the rubble. But before the saint could follow up with another blow, Vorgrim was back on his feet, fists raised, his Voragon pride refusing to let him fall.

And though they were both bruised and bloodied, one thing was clear: This battle was far from over.