Chapter-34  

Morock, his face contorted in a mask of rage, swung his war club down with all his might. The air whistled as the massive weapon cleaved through the stale air, aiming for Roland's head. Lilith, ever the strategist, braced herself for the inevitable impact.

But the impact never came. Roland, with a nonchalant air that bordered on infuriating, simply sidestepped the blow with a casual grace that belied his imposing stature. The war club whooshed past him, sending a tremor through the cavern floor and dislodging a few unfortunate bats clinging to the ceiling.

Morock, momentarily stunned, blinked in disbelief. He roared again, even louder this time, and brought the club down once more in a furious arc. Again, Roland, with the agility of a cat toying with a particularly slow mouse, simply swayed to the side, the club whistling harmlessly past him.

This became a comical dance. Morock, red-faced and sputtering with fury, swung his club wildly, each attempt more desperate than the last. Roland, on the other hand, moved with an effortless grace, dodging each blow with a bored expression.

"Having trouble there, big guy?" Roland quipped, his voice dripping with amusement. "Looks like your coordination skills need a little work. Perhaps some rhythm exercises? Maybe a Zumba class?"

"Silence, pipsqueak!" he roared, his voice cracking with strain. "I will crush you!"

Morock, fueled by a primal rage hotter than a dragon's breath after a particularly spicy yak dinner, swung his war club with the grace of a drunken troll attempting ballet. The air whooshed, and the massive weapon arced through the air, missing Roland by a country mile.

Roland, ever the picture of nonchalance, sidestepped the attack with a casual flourish that wouldn't be out of place in a ballroom waltz. "Easy there, big fella," he quipped, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Did you forget how doors work? Maybe those decorating skills don't extend to spatial awareness."

Morock roared again, a sound that could curdle milk and sour the mood of the most jovial imp. He swung the club once more, this time with even less success. It whistled past Roland's ear, missing him by the width of a particularly large goblin nose.

Lilith, who had been leaning against the cavern wall with a bored expression, couldn't help but snort. "Honestly," she drawled, "is this all he's got? I was expecting a bit more… oomph from the 'chieftain of the South Desolation'."

Morock, already at his wit's end (which, admittedly, wasn't very far), sputtered with rage. "Silence, lizard lady! I'll crush you both like… like… overripe melons!"

Roland chuckled, his amusement bordering on pity. "Melons, huh? Not exactly the most fearsome of metaphors, is it, Morock? Perhaps you need to work on your vocabulary in addition to your… coordination."

Frustration contorted Morock's face into a grotesque mask of rage. He lumbered around like a particularly grumpy rhinoceros after a particularly bad mud bath, his war club swinging wildly at the air. Roland, meanwhile, was practically skipping around the cavern, dodging each blow with the grace of a dancer and the agility of a squirrel dodging a hungry hawk.

"Come on, Morock," Roland called out, his voice laced with mock concern. "Is that all you've got? My grandma could hit harder with her rolling pin after discovering I ate the last cookie."

Morock roared, a sound that could shatter particularly brittle morale. "Silence, puny human!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with strain. "Just you wait!"

With a flourish that would have made a particularly flamboyant imp wince and a grimace that could curdle milk, Morock fumbled for a ring hidden within the folds of his loincloth (a fashion statement even Roland couldn't mock in good conscience). The ring itself was a gaudy affair, a massive obsidian skull adorned with garish rubies for eyes. Morock slammed the ring onto his finger with more force than finesse, and a wave of dark energy pulsed outwards, swirling around the orc like a miniature, smoky whirlwind. The cavern trembled slightly, and dust rained down from the stalactites hanging precariously from the ceiling. As the energy subsided, Morock's previously green skin darkened further, taking on an ominous shade of obsidian, his tusks gleaming an unnatural shade of red. He threw his head back and let out a roar that echoed through the cavern, the sound laced with a power he hadn't possessed before.

Lilith, who had been watching the display with the air of someone observing a particularly slow-witted imp attempting brain surgery on a particularly grumpy goblin, finally straightened up. A flicker of genuine concern crossed her face. "Lord Roland," she said, her voice losing its playful edge, "be careful. It seems our friend Morock here has resorted to using a… Devil Item."

Morock puffed out his chest, which with his new, shadowy form resembled a particularly large, angry black balloon. "Indeed!" he boomed, his voice echoing with a newfound power (and a touch of static). "This ring was a gift from the great Omrai! With its power, I will crush you both!"

Roland, however, simply raised an eyebrow. "Devil Item, huh? Sounds a bit… pedestrian, don't you think? Couldn't find anything a bit more… creative?" 

"Besides," Lilith said, "everyone knows Omrai isn't a devil. He's a demon lord, and a member of the Anti-World Dungeon Council faction at that. Not exactly the most trustworthy source of power boosters."

Roland simply shrugged. "I see, that bad then." Roland looked at Morock and act like he was giving advise to him, "Maybe next time do some fact-checking before accepting dubious gifts from shady demon lords, big guy."

Morock face contorted into a beetroot-like shade of red, and with a roar that could curdle dragon yogurt, he charged at Roland. This time, however, his movements were tinged with a desperate, feral energy. Gone were the clumsy swings of his war club; instead, he lunged with surprising agility, his fists clenched into meaty battering rams.

Roland, ever the picture of composure (or at least a picture that had been kicked by a particularly enthusiastic goblin), sidestepped the first blow with a nonchalant flourish. Morock, however, wasn't finished yet. He swung another wild punch, this one aimed squarely at Roland's jaw.

Just as it seemed contact was inevitable, Roland's hand shot up with lightning speed. He didn't attempt to block the blow, however, but instead… *flicked* Morock's oversized nose with his pinky finger.

The effect was instantaneous. Morock, mid-punch, froze. His face scrunched up in a look of utter bewilderment, as if a particularly impudent pixie had just stolen his favorite troll plushie. The cavern echoed with a stunned silence, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the distance.

Morock, still frozen in a state of utter disbelief, slowly lowered his fist. He blinked, then blinked again, as if trying to process what had just happened. A faint puff of smoke rose from the tip of his nose, courtesy of Roland's well-placed flick.

"You…" Morock sputtered, his voice a strangled whisper. "You… dare to flicked my nose?"

"Couldn't resist," Roland said like a veteran cringe joker. "Sorry, big guy, but the whole 'charging bull' routine just screamed for a good old-fashioned nose flick!"