The four of them pressed forward, their journey taking them deeper into the ruined expanse of Qeino territory.

The path was a quiet graveyard of the past—ancient trees stood solemnly amid the crumbled remains of villages that had long since fallen to ruin.

Shattered homes, broken fences, and the charred remnants of once-thriving communities lined their way, silent testaments to the devastation that had swept through.

As they moved, their travels were not just about covering ground; they used the time to train and sharpen their skills.

In the open spaces between ruins, Steven sparred with Asael, helping him control the overwhelming surge of divine energy that sometimes threatened to consume him.

Each session was a battle between discipline and instinct, as Steven forced Asael to focus, to hone his abilities into something precise rather than reckless.

At the same time, Asael trained Kenta, patiently guiding the boy in swordsmanship.

Kenta’s hands were small, his stance unsteady, but there was determination in his eyes.

He swung his blade with all the strength he could muster, and though his strikes were weak, Asael corrected his form with quiet encouragement.

Each day, Kenta’s movements grew sharper, his resolve firmer.

During a moment of rest, Steven turned to Asael, watching the boy practice with mild curiosity.

“Why did you bring someone so small with you?” he asked, his voice edged with both amusement and doubt.

Asael glanced at Kenta, who was clumsily but diligently practicing his swings.

“If I didn’t bring him, he would have come on his own,” he said simply.

Steven raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure?”

A brief silence followed before Asael answered, his tone carrying a quiet weight. “Because I was once like that.”

Steven didn’t press further, but he understood.

He recognized the same stubbornness, the same fire that burned in young warriors who had suffered too much too soon.

Their journey continued until they finally reached the outskirts of Qeino territory.

The moment their boots met the unfamiliar soil, they halted.

Asael knelt down, his eyes narrowing as he studied the disturbed earth.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“What’s this?” he murmured, pointing at a series of footprints imprinted in the dirt.

The group gathered around, their gazes tracing the patterns.

There were two distinct sets—one large, heavy, pressing deep into the soil, while the other was lighter, uneven, as if something had been dragged across the ground.

Steven’s expression darkened. “Orcs.”

Kenta’s head snapped up. “Huh? What?”

Steven exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he examined the tracks further.

“It looks like orcs have taken humans captive.” His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of restrained anger in his words.

A flicker of fury sparked in Asael’s eyes. His grip on his sword tightened.

“Then we should go quickly and save them.” His voice held no hesitation—only urgency.

Steven studied him for a moment before nodding. “Hmm… okay.”

No more words were needed.

The four of them moved swiftly, following the path of the footprints.

The wind whispered through the broken land as they advanced, carrying the distant cries of an uncertain fate.

Every step they took was filled with silent resolve, their hearts bracing for whatever lay ahead.

They followed the footprints and reached a ruined village.

The ruined village lay before them, a graveyard of shattered homes and forgotten lives.

Smoke from smoldering fires curled into the sky, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt wood and blood.

The oppressive silence was broken only by the muffled cries of villagers, bound and gagged, their terrified eyes pleading for salvation.

From the cover of a collapsed wall, the four companions observed the scene.

A dozen orcs loomed over the captives, their hulking forms casting long, menacing shadows under the dim light.

Their rough, green skin was smeared with dirt and dried blood, and their crude weapons—rusted axes and massive clubs—gleamed ominously.

They snarled and barked orders in their guttural tongue, their cruel laughter echoing through the ruins.

Anne clenched her fists. "We need to save them," she whispered, her voice trembling with urgency.

Steven didn’t hesitate. "Let’s go." He stepped forward, his expression cold and resolute.

Asael followed without a word, determination burning in his gaze.

The orcs noticed them almost instantly.

One of them, larger than the rest, sneered.

"Chiiik! Humans!" It pointed a thick, clawed finger at them. "Attack! Capture them!"

Five orcs rushed forward with wild roars, their heavy footsteps shaking the ground.

They targeted Steven first.

The first lunged with its massive club, aiming to crush him in a single blow.

But before the weapon could descend, a brilliant flash of blue split the air.

Steven’s blade moved faster than the eye could follow—one clean slash, and the orc’s arm was severed at the elbow.

A strangled cry escaped its throat, but before it could even register the pain, Steven twisted his wrist and drove his sword deep into its chest.

A sudden surge of electricity crackled through the blade, lightning dancing along the orc’s body.

It convulsed violently, its muscles locking in place as the electric current consumed it.

Then, with a final spasm, it collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

The second orc hesitated, momentarily shocked by the brutal efficiency of Steven’s attack.

But hesitation was fatal.

Steven stepped forward in a blur, closing the distance before the orc could react.

His sword arced through the air, a streak of silver in the dim light. In one fluid motion, he slashed through the orc’s stomach.

Blood sprayed across the dirt, the creature’s face twisting in agony.

Before it could even collapse, Steven’s sword twisted in his grip, and with a swift thrust, he drove the blade into its heart.

The orc gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief, before falling limp at his feet.

Asael, meanwhile, also faced an orc.

The orc lunged, swinging a jagged axe in a diagonal strike aimed for his head.

Asael ducked at the last second, feeling the air ripple as the weapon narrowly missed.

Before the orc could recover, Asael retaliated—his blade flickered downward, slicing clean through the orc’s calf.

A guttural scream ripped from its throat as it stumbled forward, its balance shattered.

Wasting no time, Asael spun behind it and drove his sword through its spine, ending its suffering instantly.

The last two of the five orcs roared in fury and charged at the same time as their fallen comrade collapsed.

They swung their axe wildly, their rage overriding all sense of strategy.

But stwven had already seen through its reckless attack.

He sidestepped just enough to avoid the blade, then slashed upward in a deadly counter.

One orc’s throat split open, and with a final, choking gasp, it crumpled to the ground.

While as his sword reached to other orc, he twisted his wrist and thrust it in his heart.

It was fast.

Silence fell over the battlefield.

The remaining seven orcs stared at their fallen comrades in shock.

Even the captured villagers, who had been paralyzed by fear moments ago, now watched in astonishment.

Anne and Kenta stood frozen, eyes wide, as if they could hardly believe what they had just witnessed.

Even Asael, who had fought beside Steven, couldn’t help but feel the weight of what had just happened.

Steven, however, stood unfazed, his sword still crackling faintly with residual electricity.

His cold gaze locked onto the remaining orcs, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered across their brutish faces.

"Five down," Steven murmured, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of a storm brewing beneath.

"Seven remaining."

The battle was far from over.