The Teenage Orc towered at a monstrous eight feet tall, its hide a canvas of mottled green stretched so tight over bulging muscles that veins throbbed visibly beneath. Bone-white tusks, each the size of a human forearm, jutted from its twisted mouth like spears itching to pierce flesh.
Its bloodshot, beady eyes locked onto Martin with a malicious, gleeful hunger that churned the air into a thick, oppressive miasma.
In its fists, it wielded a crude monstrosity — a club stitched together from stone and splintered bone, jagged edges glinting under the dim cave light. The thing wasn't just a weapon; it was a death sentence carved for cowards.
Martin tilted his head, cracked his neck with a wet pop, and muttered under his breath, "Ugly motherfucker."
The orc roared — a sound like a landslide tearing through a graveyard — and hurled itself forward, a blur of raw hatred and swinging death.
Martin barely had time to react. He rolled aside, the club pulverizing the ground where he'd stood just moments before. The earth cracked open like a skull under a sledgehammer, spraying dust and shards of rock into the air. The sheer shockwave nearly knocked him off balance.
"Jesus, calm down!" Martin barked, charging back with a snarl.
He countered with a jab, his crystal-coated gauntlet aimed square at the orc's exposed ribs. His fist connected with a satisfying crunch — but the result was underwhelming, barely a scratch on that mountain of meat.
The orc erupted into guttural laughter, a hideous, mocking noise. Before Martin could pull back, the creature's massive arm swung in a savage backhand. It collided with Martin's side with a sickening CRACK, launching him like a broken doll into the nearest cave wall. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs and sent a spatter of blood flying from his mouth.
"Son of a…" Martin wheezed, collapsing to his knees, red dribbling down his chin.
The orc wasn't about to let him catch his breath. With another earth-shaking roar, it charged again, club raised high like a divine hammer descending for judgment.
Martin ducked left at the last second, narrowly avoiding a deathblow that would've reduced him to paste. He retaliated with a vicious uppercut to the orc's kneecap — this time, the crystal reinforcement lent his blow enough force to crack bone. The sick sound of splintering filled the cave.
The orc howled, staggering backward, favoring its injured leg.
Sensing an opening, Martin pressed forward with brutal precision. His fists blurred, each punch seeking out joints, tendons, and exposed flesh. His gauntlets tore into skin, drawing spurts of dark, oily blood that sizzled as it hit the cavern floor.
But the orc wasn't just a lumbering brute. It adapted, grunting in frustration as it shifted tactics. One feint, the orc aimed its club at his crotch, Martin overextended to dodge to save his 9 generations.
But it succeeded in drawing Martin into overextending, the orc stopped midmovement and reversed the strike, and the club clipped him across the ribs in a glancing blow — enough to lift him off his feet and send him skidding across the gravel-strewn floor, coughing up blood and bile.
Martin spat crimson onto the ground, laughing bitterly. "Alright, fuck this."
Time to bring out the big guns.
Agony flared through his nerves as he activated his trump card — his entire body erupting in jagged, gleaming crystal plates. His skin screamed in protest, but he bit down the pain. One minute. Sixty seconds of godhood — or death.
The orc charged once more, feral and slobbering.
Martin didn't dodge this time. He met it head-on.
Fist met club. Crystal clashed against stone and bone. The resulting explosion of force sent shockwaves rippling through the air.
Martin's right punch smashed into the orc's arm with a sickening squelch, sending shivers up its massive frame. The orc roared, its club lashing out in retaliation, slamming against Martin's left leg. The force tore away a massive chunk of his crystal armor, revealing bloodied, bruised flesh underneath.
Ignoring the fire in his muscles, Martin grabbed the creature's head in both hands, crystallized fingers digging into the sides of its skull. He drove his knee up — CRUNCH! — Shattering what few teeth remained and sending a spray of gore into the air like macabre confetti.
The orc shrieked, blinded by blood and rage, but refused to fall. Using its free arm, it locked onto Martin's waist, tightening like a vice, and thrust its massive forehead forward.
CRACK!
Their heads collided with bone-rattling violence. Martin's crystal helmet shattered like brittle glass, shards embedding into his scalp. His vision went white — stars exploding behind his eyelids — and for a heart-stopping moment, the world tilted sideways.
Consciousness teetered on a knife's edge.
But instinct kept him alive. Even dazed, he ducked under the next wild swing and drove a right hook into the orc's club, sending the weapon spinning away with a deafening clatter. A beat later, the orc's massive hand rose in a brutal uppercut — but Martin, fueled by desperate adrenaline, crossed his arms to block.
The impact shattered his arm armor in a spray of crystal fragments and lifted him clean into the air. He slammed into the cavern ceiling with a bone-snapping thud before crashing back down, coughing up more blood, his body barely holding together.
They were both battered, broken, but neither willing to yield.
They clashed again — a symphony of violence.
Martin's ribs cracked like dry wood. Blood streamed from cuts across his body. His breath wheezed in ragged gasps.But the orc looked worse: one eye swollen shut, tusks snapped off at the base, its face a mess of flayed skin and broken bone. Blood poured freely from deep gashes, pooling at its feet.
At the thirty-second mark, Martin faked a stumble to the left.
The orc lunged.
Perfect.
Martin spun with savage precision, driving his crystal-coated right fist into the orc's exposed throat.
SPLURCH!
The sound was wet, obscene — flesh giving way under force.
The orc gurgled, clutching at its ruined throat.
Martin didn't give it the luxury of recovery.
Grabbing one of its shattered tusks, he yanked its massive head down and delivered a brutal, knee-shattering strike to the creature's jaw. Shards of broken teeth sprayed out like bloody shrapnel, peppering the cavern floor.
With a feral roar, Martin ended it.
A final punch — crystal-coated, fueled by every ounce of rage and survival instinct — smashed into the orc's skull. Again. And again. And again.
Bone cracked. Skin tore. The orc's arms twitched, flailing weakly in protest, but every time it tried to shield itself, Martin's fists battered them down. Blow after blow rained down, turning the creature's head into a pulped, gory ruin.
The Teenage Orc finally gave a strangled gasp and collapsed like a felled tree, dead before it could hit the floor properly.
Martin staggered back, chest heaving, blood and gore dripping from his ruined crystal armor. The jagged plates crumbled and fell away, tinkling like broken glass across the stones.
He leaned forward, hands on blood-slicked knees, laughing hoarsely between gasps.
"Nightmare Mode, huh?" he rasped, blood streaming from his nose.
His arms screamed with agony. His body was wrecked. But he was still alive. Still breathing.
Still standing.
Martin wiped the gore from his face with the back of his hand, cracked his neck, and surveyed the blood-soaked cave full of corpses with a grim smile.
"Not bad for a Monday," he muttered darkly, before limping toward whatever fresh hell awaited him next.