THE DARK SAVAGE IN UNITED STATE

In an instant, Conan the Barbarian closed the distance between himself and Storm, his rugged form a blur of motion. His dual blades—cracked yet deadly—sliced the air with a relentless rhythm, unleashing a gust of wind that crashed against the weather goddess herself. He wasn't just attacking; he was unleashing frenzy, a combat technique born of primal rage. Every ounce of Conan's skill with bladed weapons surged to the forefront, bypassing the usual build-up of momentum. He was already in his most savage and swift state.

Though the fractured edges of his twin blades robbed him of the devastating whirlwind slash—an attack so fierce it could cleave through death itself—frenzy was a different beast altogether. It wasn't merely a technique but the embodiment of unchecked wrath, a destructive storm that wouldn't cease until devastation was complete.

Storm, ever the tactician, stretched her hands forward as the savage warrior's blades neared. A radiant yellow shield materialized before her, its energy pulsing with defiant brilliance. The shield wasn't just a defensive construct—it was a calculated counterstrike, designed to disrupt Conan's rhythm and halt the fury of his attack.

For all her skill, Storm underestimated the barbarian. She didn't know that these twin blades had carved through the impenetrable hides of siege assault beasts—hell-born monstrosities as sturdy as castle walls. Conan had hurled those beasts into the grinding maw of his relentless assault, leaving their flesh and sinew reduced to unrecognizable mince. Against such fury, her energy shield was little more than paper before a raging fire.

If Storm had known the kind of power she faced, she might have chosen to retreat. Yet, arrogance, born of her immortality and the power of the Time Stone, dulled her caution. She stood firm, her strategy rooted in the confidence of countless victories.

But confidence shattered as Conan's frenzy overwhelmed her. The vibrant red glow of his rage-infused blades intensified, hammering against her shield. In mere moments, the protective barrier splintered with the sound of shattering glass, its fragments dispersing into starlight.

Then came the sound of flesh yielding to steel. One of Storm's arms—clad in its bright yellow sleeve—was severed in an instant. A spray of crimson mist burst into the air, caught in the whirlwind of Conan's relentless assault.

Even the finest flesh of humanity was no match for weapons forged to tear through hellspawn. Siege assault beasts, bred in the infernal depths, could still be reduced to mangled pulp beneath Conan's blades. Human flesh fared no better, turning to blood and mist in the face of his fury.

Desperate and cornered, Storm reached for the one power humans were never meant to wield—time itself. Just as Conan's blades closed in for the final blow, she invoked the power of the Time Stone, rewinding reality to the moment before she had foolishly summoned him.

Reality shifted.

Conan's voice, a booming echo across the mountain range, repeated his earlier declaration. Yet Storm stood motionless, her heart racing as the memory of death lingered like a phantom. For the first time in centuries, she felt true fear.

This time, she wouldn't rush in. She studied Conan, his hulking form emanating an aura of death and battle-worn experience. If she was to survive this encounter, she would have to rethink her approach.

She spoke, her voice calm yet commanding: "I may be but a mage with decent mana," she began, "but this mage has protected this world for centuries. If you've come here with purpose, speak it now."

Conan's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened around his blade, but he did not move to attack. Instead, he raised a bottle, its contents radiating a heady aroma—a tantalizing blend of aged grains and divine sweetness. The scent made Storm pause, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

This was no ordinary drink. Conan's bottle contained a legendary brew, created from the purified blood of the Hell Demon King itself, mixed with the nectar of the High Heavens. It was said to hold the power to invigorate the soul while soothing the harshest wounds.

Storm, despite the tension, found herself intrigued. Here they were—two warriors from vastly different worlds, bound by their thirst for strength and survival. She couldn't help but feel a flicker of camaraderie with the barbarian, whose very presence defied the laws of the universe she had spent centuries defending.

But this truce, however fleeting, was fragile. As Conan took a swig from the bottle, his piercing gaze met hers. There was no mistaking it: the battle wasn't truly over. The clash of their worlds would continue—whether through words, wine, or war.