The arena was quiet, save for the dull thud of Ven’s boots on the packed dirt. The towering Half-Orc stood in the center, gripping her massive axe with both hands. She took a deep breath, her tusks flaring slightly, and then moved. The axe arced through the air with a whistle, slicing through an imagined opponent as Ven let out a sharp grunt. Her muscles rippled with each swing, sweat glistening on her greenish-gray skin under the midday sun.

She spun the weapon in a wide circle, adjusting her grip to transition into a downward slash. The blade struck the ground with a reverberating thud, kicking up a cloud of dust. With a growl, she yanked it free, pivoting to the side and unleashing a sweeping strike meant to cleave through the waists of foes. Ven's movements were raw, powerful, and unrelenting—less about elegance and more about overwhelming force.

Stopping to catch her breath, she ran a calloused hand across her forehead and looked at the deep grooves her practice had carved into the dirt. "Good. Dead already," she muttered to herself with a smirk. She shifted her stance and launched into another set of swings, this time focusing on tighter strikes. Each blow carried the weight of a warrior who had fought for every scrap of glory—and earned it.

By the time she was done, the arena bore the scars of her effort: deep gashes in the earth and splinters from shattered practice dummies. Ven rested her axe against her shoulder, her chest rising and falling as she surveyed her work. "Still strongest," she said under her breath.