The Demon King was a being of overwhelming power, his mere presence enough to shatter hope and drown nations in fear.

But even he did not conquer the world alone.

To enforce his will upon the land, he had three Generals—each one a monster in their own right, each one capable of toppling kingdoms with their strength alone.

These three pillars of darkness held his empire together, ruling over vast territories, commanding legions of demons, beasts, and corrupted beings.

And among them, none were to be taken lightly.

The Lizardman Tyrant.

Movok was a beast of pure carnage, a towering colossus of muscle and scales, his emerald-green body carved with battle scars from countless wars.

He stood for one thing alone—strength.

To him, the weak deserved only death, and the strong earned the right to rule.

He did not deal in deception or trickery, nor did he waste time with schemes or diplomacy.

When Movok marched upon a kingdom, it was like a storm of fire and steel, his warbands leaving only ruins and bones in their wake.

His soldiers, mostly orcs, lizardmen, and ogres, thrived on brutality.

Movok commanded the East and half of the North, his domain a land of war and endless conquest.

A kingdom of monsters and warriors, where only the strongest survived.

The Tigerkin Schemer.

Where Movok relied on brute force, Korran was his polar opposite.

A beastmen of the Tiger Clan, Korran was both brilliant and ruthless, a creature who thrived on deception, assassination, and the careful placement of pawns.

He had no interest in honor or fairness.

His philosophy was simple:

"The ends justify the means."

Korran had no hesitation in betrayal, extortion, or murder.

He would gut a child if it meant securing his victory.

Where Movok led his armies to crush the enemy head-on, Korran’s forces broke their enemies from within.

A kingdom would fall before they even realized they had lost.

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His domain stretched across the West and the other half of the North, a land of whispered conspiracies and unseen blades.

Together, they ruled through lies, assassinations, and manipulation, shaping the world to fit their ambitions.

The Voodooist of the Abyss.

If Movok was the might of the army, and Korran was its intelligence, then Tores was its nightmare.

A shadow wrapped in dread, he was neither beast nor man, but a walking plague of curses, spirits, and unspeakable horrors.

Tores did not conquer through swords or politics.

He broke minds.

He twisted nature itself.

Wherever Tores walked, the air grew cold, the ground withered, and the whispers of the damned followed.

His magic could corrupt the flesh, shatter the will, and bend reality to his will.

It was said that those who gazed into his soulless eyes could feel their very sanity unraveling.

He did not plot, nor did he crave power.

Tores had only one purpose—

To obey the Demon King.

No matter what the order was.

His territory stretched across the South and the Center, his lands a realm of endless night and unholy rituals.

No one entered his domain and returned sane.

The three generals held together the Demon King's empire, but they did not see eye to eye.

- Movok looked down on Korran, despising his trickery and lack of honor.

- Korran saw Movok as a muscle-brained fool, easily manipulated and too simple-minded to rule.

- Tores… simply did not care.

Yet despite their hatred and rivalries, they served under one master.

Because they all knew one thing.

The Demon King was absolute.

And in his name—

The world would burn.

-----

The moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale glow over the rugged, cleaved hills where shadows danced between jagged rocks.

The air was thick with tension, a mixture of sweat, blood, and the faint scent of decay.

At the heart of this desolate place, two monstrous figures stood face to face.

On one side was Fran, the Orc Chief.

His grayish-green skin was smeared with dried blood, his thick tusks protruding from his snarling mouth.

Behind him stood a band of brutish orcs, each one gripping crude weapons, their red eyes gleaming under the moonlight.

On the other side stood Leimer, the Gnoll Chief—a hyena-like being wrapped in tattered armor.

His fur was a sickly yellowish-brown, his long claws twitching with anticipation.

His lips curled back, revealing jagged fangs, and his piercing red eyes glimmered with amusement.

He was not as large as Fran, but what he lacked in brute force, he made up for in cunning and cruelty.

The two locked gazes, their minions waiting in tense silence.

Then, Leimer tilted his head, his ears flicking.

"So… tell me," he rasped, his voice like a blade scraping over bone, "why have you come here, Fran?"

Fran’s thick fingers curled into fists, his breathing deep and heavy.

"Humans," he grunted. "They have entered your territory. I need your help."

Leimer’s ears perked, his sharp claws tapping against his armored chest.

"And why, exactly, should I help?"

His laughter was low and guttural, a mocking growl that sent shivers down the spines of the weaker orcs behind Fran.

Fran’s eyes burned with anger, but he held it back.

He knew better than to be provoked by this deceptive, slithering mongrel.

Instead, he grinned, revealing his large, yellowed tusks.

"Because if you don’t help, the humans won’t be delivered on time," he said. "And if that happens… Lord Movok will be furious."

Leimer’s smirk faltered for just a second.

Even he, as cunning as he was, knew the cost of angering Movok.

Fran pressed on, his deep voice like rolling thunder.

"You wouldn’t want that, would you?"

Leimer’s ears twitched, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Then, just as quickly as his smirk had vanished, it returned, wider than before.

"Hmm… fine."

His clawed fingers flexed, his tail swaying behind him.

"I’ll help you."

Fran nodded and turned to his warriors. "Good. Then let’s move. We need to find them quickly."

Leimer chuckled, shaking his head.

"No need."

Fran paused, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Leimer’s black eyes gleamed, his fangs flashing in the moonlight.

"I already know where they are."

Fran took a step forward, his massive form looming over the gnoll.

"Where?" he demanded.

Leimer licked his lips, his tail flicking behind him.

"They will reach the Forest Path in a few days."

Fran’s eyes widened for a moment before he grinned savagely.

"Then we should attack immediately!"

But Leimer simply shook his head, chuckling darkly.

"No, no, no… We will attack them in the Forest Path."

Fran scowled, baring his tusks.

"Why wait?"

Leimer’s smile widened, stretching unnaturally, his black gums pulling back to reveal every jagged tooth in his mouth.

"Because," he said, his voice dripping with amusement, "that would be more fun."

Fran stiffened.

For a brief moment, his warriors shifted uneasily, sensing something far more sinister behind Leimer’s words.

Fran had fought many battles, had spilled countless gallons of blood, but even he felt an unsettling chill crawl up his spine when he saw the gnoll chief’s expression.

Leimer wasn’t planning just a battle.

He was planning a hunt.

A cruel, merciless slaughter, the kind that would make the trees themselves tremble in fear.

Fran grunted but said nothing more.

During the time when he was in orc kingdom, Leimer was the one who had attacked his territory.

So, he knew what Leimer was capable of.

And for once, he was glad that this vicious, treacherous beast was on his side.

At least for now.