I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

GRRR!

Erot, the Ogre General of Seraphine's army, unleashed a guttural growl that rolled like thunder across the battlefield. The massive clang of metal against metal followed as his iron-studded club slammed into the equally enormous weapon of Ithriel's Ogre General. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, warping the heat-haze above the obsidian and rattling the bones of any soldier nearby.

The two towering beasts stood locked in place—shoulders bulging, muscles rippling, tusks flaring—locked in a primal test of brute force and craftsmanship. Their weapons groaned under the pressure, iron grinding against iron in a shriek that pierced through the roar of battle like a scream through stone.

Ogres were prideful of their craftsmanship, and few things ignited their blood more than a chance to prove it in battle. Erot was no exception. In fact, he lived for it.

That's why he hated the human.

'Human... dumb. He say he no want weapon, then use other stupid weapon.'

The memory of Lucy's refusal to wield a weapon he made, only to fight with another blacksmith's sword instead, boiled Erot's blood all over again. His fury didn't subside with time. It festered. It fueled.

Snorting hot breath through flared nostrils, Erot planted his feet deeper into the molten-cracked obsidian. Black shards crumbled beneath his heels, crunching like shattered glass as he began to push harder. His shoulders quaked with tension. The sheer force of his push sent tremors spiderwebbing through the rock, rippling out like aftershocks from an earthquake.

Ithriel's Ogre slid backward, heels dragging long gouges through the blackened field. The opposing general snarled in frustration, his massive frame grinding against the ground, trying to hold his ground, but it was useless.

Erot roared again, louder now, the sound reverberating across the canyon-like battlefield.

The other Ogre dropped to one knee with a thunderous BOOM, the obsidian fracturing beneath him like cracked ice under a falling boulder.

Then, in a move that showed the other general's brutal resolve, he released one of his monstrous, green, three-fingered hands from his club and gripped Erot's with it. He tried to halt the inevitable, their weapons now tangled, locking their clubs like horned beasts locking antlers.

But Erot only grinned, wide and wild.

He was getting angrier.

And that meant stronger.

That was Erot's gift. The deeper his rage, the deeper his strength. Seraphine had known what a terrifying weapon he could become. That's why she made sure Ravun—the God of Rage—never laid a finger on him. In Erot, rage wasn't chaos. It was power.

His yellowed tusks curled upward as he reeled his free arm back, club raised high, obsidian fragments still falling from his battered feet.

"STUPID HUMAN!" he bellowed and swung.

The club came crashing down in a monstrous horizontal arc. The wind howled from its speed, ripping dust and ash from the earth in its wake.

The weapon struck Ithriel's general square in the face with an impact that split the air. The sound that followed wasn't just loud—it was cataclysmic. Like the sky itself had cracked. Thunder didn't begin to describe it. It was as if lightning had slammed into the world's core.

The kneeling Ogre's tusks shattered like brittle bone. His jaw twisted with a sickening crunch, and his massive body was launched off the ground like a broken doll, soaring backward across the battlefield. He crashed into the obsidian plain over fifty feet away, leaving a crater of shattered black stone in his wake.

The smell of blood, iron, and scorched earth filled the air around Erot.

And still, his only sound was a low, growling snarl.

Meanwhile, Tara and Fenara clashed in a fiery duel far from the center of the battlefield, their struggle carving out its own storm of chaos on the obsidian plain. Blurs of yellow, orange, and black danced across the glassy, cracked stone—mana-fueled afterimages spiraling in dizzying loops as they circled one another like predators. The air around them shimmered from the heat of magic and motion.

Each of Tara's movements was sharp and calculated, but her every breath grew heavier, and her every dodge was slower. She had learned her lesson early—raw power wouldn't win against Fenara. The tiger-striped general was too strong, too unyielding. So Tara had opted for another tactic: death by a thousand cuts. Keep moving. Slice at the edges. Wear her down.

But even with her superior speed, she hadn't landed a blow.

Another swipe—aimed low at Fenara's tiger-striped Achilles—missed. Tara twisted her body to retreat, claws dragging small gouges in the obsidian as she launched backward. This time, her chest heaved harder than before. Her lungs burned. Her breath rasped in her throat like she'd inhaled smoke and fire.

'Not good. Not good at all. I'm out of breath, and Fenara isn't even sweating.'

She straightened herself quickly, refusing to show weakness. Her spine ached to hunch forward, but she wouldn't give the predator in front of her even a hint of vulnerability.

Fenara's fangs were already out, her breath steady and cold in the hot battlefield air.

Her piercing orange eyes glowed with a savage glee, locked on Tara like a lion studying prey.

Her striped fur, sleek and pristine, glistened beneath the crimson-stained sky.

Her silver hair didn't have a single strand out of place. The only signs she'd even been fighting were the faint scratches across her leather top, barely noticeable amidst the carnage.

"Are you just going to run forever, Tara?!" Fenara called out, her voice like a whip-crack across the battlefield.

Tara hissed in response, her lips curled back to bare fangs of her own.

Compared to Fenara, she looked ragged—her fur was stained with blood, especially around her left arm, where claw marks had torn through her muscles and hide alike.

She didn't dignify Fenara's taunt with words. Instead, she lunged forward again, jaw clenched, determined to finally draw blood.

But her fatigue betrayed her. Her movements, once fluid and feline, had grown sluggish. Her legs didn't respond as fast, and her dash faltered mid-surge.

Fenara was already gone.

She blurred—nothing but orange and black streaks—and reappeared directly in Tara's path. Shimmering with concentrated mana, one claw extended like a blade forged of glowing intent.

Tara barely reacted in time. She twisted to avoid a fatal blow, but pain tore through her shoulder as the claw carved straight through her flesh, slicing clean through from shoulder to back. The heat of the wound burned like fire licked with acid.

Then Fenara kicked her.

The blow landed squarely in Tara's gut, a brutal impact that sent the air fleeing from her lungs in a single, choking gasp. The world spun as her body tumbled backwards across the blood-slick obsidian, each impact against the stone feeling like being struck by a warhammer. Her claws scraped the surface, trying to stop herself, but the momentum was too great.

Finally, she slid to a stop, gasping, her hands trembling. Hot and sticky blood seeped down her side, matting the fur around her shoulder.

She forced herself to her feet, staggered, but stood. Now wild with fury, her eyes locked onto Fenara with a predator's glare. A low, guttural growl crawled up her throat.

Fenara stood about twenty feet away, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. Her claw—dripping with Tara's blood—glowed faintly as she lifted it to her mouth and licked it.

"You taste good," she said with a sharp-toothed grin. "Who's the one stabbing who now?"

The words were like oil on a fire.

Tara's fury erupted.

It was one thing to be struck. But to have her blood mocked—tasted—was something else entirely.

Her growls deepened, shaking in her chest like an earthquake waiting to erupt. Veins bulged across her brow. Her eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Enough of this shit," she spat through gritted teeth. "You're going to die."

Then it happened.

Her thighs expanded, dense muscle swelling beneath her fur as raw mana surged through them in pulsing waves. The obsidian under her feet cracked from the sheer pressure radiating from her stance. The wind shifted, kicked up by the sudden spike in power.

Tara had activated her ability.