Marquis Hector.

A name that carried weight like an unshakable fortress.

A name that once struck fear into enemies and inspired unwavering loyalty among his soldiers.

He was the Wall of the North, the unyielding shield that had protected the kingdom from endless waves of barbarian invasions.

If one were to ask who the strongest person in the kingdom was, the answer would always be Duke Driesell—a man whose sheer might made him a legend.

But if one were to ask who the greatest commander was, there would be no hesitation. Marquis Hector.

Individually, he was second only to Driesell.

But in the art of war, in leading armies, in turning battles that should have been lost into overwhelming victories—he stood unmatched.

He was the reason the North held strong for decades.

Until the Demon King came.

Everything changed.

The barbarians, who had once been kept at bay, joined forces with the Demon King’s army.

The very enemies Hector had fought for so long turned into an even greater threat, attacking from within and without.

And Hector?

Lost. Assumed dead.

For months, there had been no word of him.

The North was overrun. No one believed he had survived.

But now—

If he was alive, that meant he had endured.

He had held his ground in the face of impossible odds.

Yet there was one problem.

Anne’s eyes burned with determination. "We should go north immediately."

But Steven’s voice cut through her resolve, cold and sharp. "No. We continue our journey."

Anne’s head snapped toward him, confusion flashing across her face.

"What? But why? Marquis Hector is alive! If we can reach him, we could—"

"And what if it's a trap?" Steven’s words carried an edge of steel, making Anne flinch.

That was the problem.

In this world, now, believing in someone so strong surviving was nothing but wishful thinking.

Silence fell over them.

Anne clenched her fists.

She wanted to argue, to push forward no matter what, but deep down, she knew Steven had a point.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Then—

"That’s exactly why we need to go." Asael’s voice rang out.

Steven turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Are you crazy?"

But Asael didn’t back down.

"If it's a trap, then that means there’s something important waiting for us. Something they don’t want us to see. And if it’s not a trap, then we’re running away from the one man who could change everything."

Steven remained silent, his gaze unreadable.

Instead, he turned to the freed captives. "Tell me everything you saw. Everything you know."

One of the men stepped forward hesitantly. "There are… rumors. Rumors of knights in the North."

"Knights?" Steven muttered.

Another spoke up. "And orcs. Many of them."

A third added, "And barbarians too."

Then—

"Yeah, and lizardmen as well."

The moment that word left the man's mouth, Steven froze.

His entire body went rigid.

He slowly turned his head, his expression no longer cold—but deadly serious. "What did you just say?"

The man swallowed nervously. "...Lizardmen. I saw them with my own eyes."

A storm brewed in Steven’s gaze. His breath came slow and deep, his mind racing.

Then, in a voice filled with certainty, he said, "We’re going to the North."

Asael raised a brow. "What? What happened all of a sudden?"

Steven’s grip on his sword tightened. His knuckles turned white.

"If lizardmen are there…" His voice was lower now, more dangerous. "Then that means he’s there too."

Asael frowned. "Who?"

Steven closed his eyes for a brief moment.

When he opened them again, his next words shook the air itself.

"Movok."

The name silenced everyone.

Movok.

The name alone was enough to send chills down the spine of anyone who heard it.

A large Lizardman—a monster in both strength and brutality.

Wherever he set foot, only ruin remained.

Villages burned. Men slaughtered. Women and children taken as prisoners, never to be seen again.

His presence meant devastation.

Everyone fell into a moment of hesitation upon hearing his name—the freed captives, Anne, Asael.

Even the wind seemed to still, as if the world itself feared him.

But not Steven.

His gaze remained steady, unshaken. "Let's go."

His voice carried no doubt, no fear—only cold resolve.

"...Umm, okay. Everyone, let's move!" Asael finally spoke, though his voice carried the faintest hesitation.

Then Steven stopped, glancing over the group of former captives. "Wait. Are they all coming with us?"

Asael nodded. "Yes. We can’t just leave them here."

Steven exhaled sharply through his nose.

"But why? They all would be just burden."

He said.

But then a little muscular man came forward.

"Please give us chance we won't be a burden."

He said.

"Who are you?"

Steven asked.

"My name is Bob."

Bob introduced himself.

"Can you use any weapon or fight?"

Steven asked.

"Yes, I can try."

Bob said and picked up an axe from fallen orc.

He tried to swing it but was not properly able to.

"No, you will be burden."

Steven said.

"No, please give them a chance. We can train them a bit on the way."

Asael said.

Kenta and Anne also requested.

"Fine."

Steven said.

He crossed his arms.

"But I’m not letting them slow us down. Everyone else will also have a role."

He moved among them, assigning tasks.

- The strongest men were given weapons—makeshift clubs, axe, knives, anything available—and ordered to protect the group.

They would also hunt for food.

- The women were assigned to cook whatever they gathered.

- The children were tasked with plucking fruits from trees, gathering whatever was edible.

This was no journey of the weak. If they wanted to survive, they had to work together.

And so, with orders given, the group set off toward the North.

---

In the middle of an open plain, dozens of tents stretched across the landscape, forming a makeshift war camp.

The largest of them all stood at the center—a massive black tent marked with crude red symbols, the language of orcs.

Inside, a massive, battle-scarred Orc Chief, Fran sat on a throne of bones and iron.

His posture was stiff, his thick fingers twitching nervously.

Because he was not the one in charge.

Standing before him was a hooded figure—not an orc, but something far more sinister.

A Lizardman.

His emerald scales glistened under the dim torchlight, and though his face was mostly hidden beneath the hood, his piercing yellow eyes gleamed with authority.

This was Magnum—the right hand of Movok.

"I hope everything will be delivered on time." Magnum’s voice was low, but each word dripped with menace.

Fran swallowed hard. "Y-yes! Don’t worry, everything will be ready!"

"Good." Magnum’s eyes narrowed. "Because if you fail, you know exactly what will happen, don’t you?"

Fran nodded frantically, sweat beading down his forehead.

"Y-Yes, of course! I swear, everything will be prepared on time."

"Better be."

Magnum turned, stepping toward the tent’s exit.

His tail flicked once—a small but deadly gesture.

"I am leaving now. No need to see me off."

And with that, he was gone.

Only when the tent flap closed behind him did Fran finally exhale.

His body slumped into his throne, hands shaking.

"Damn lizards..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples.

He had fought in countless battles, had seen thousands die—yet nothing terrified him more than displeasing Movok.

But then—

"Chief!"

An urgent voice shattered his moment of relief.

Another orc burst into the tent, breathing heavily.

Fran's expression darkened. "What happened?"

The orc hesitated, then finally spoke.

"One of our hunting groups… hasn’t returned."

"What?!"

Fran sprang to his feet, his massive frame shaking the ground beneath him.

His eyes darted toward the tent entrance, as if making sure Magnum hadn’t heard.

Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The orc shifted nervously. "I—I already sent some men to find them!"

Fran's jaw clenched. His mind raced.

He knew what Movok demanded.

Humans. Slaves. Sacrifices.

And if he failed to deliver them on time...

He shook his head violently, slamming his fist onto a nearby table.

"Damn it! Find them now! And raid more villages immediately!"

His eyes glowed with desperation. "You know what will happen if we fail."

The orc shivered. He knew.

Movok would not just kill them.

He would make an example out of them.

"Y-Yes, Chief! Right away!"

The orc rushed out, leaving Fran alone in the dimly lit tent.

He sat back down, rubbing his face.

"Please… just let everything go smoothly," he muttered, staring at the ceiling.