The territory of Marquis Hector began from Modvil, a land once rich with trade and life.

But to reach it, they had to take the long, treacherous route from Qeino—passing through Lyshar, Norvik, and finally across the forest path that led to Modvil.

Now, under the dim, overcast sky, Steven, Asael, and Anne led their weary group into Lyshar.

What was once a proud fortress territory—a symbol of resilience and power—was now nothing but ruins.

Crumbling walls. Shattered homes. Blackened buildings, burnt to their skeletons.

The air was thick with the stench of death. It clung to their clothes, sank into their skin.

Some of the corpses were fresh, still torn and mutilated from recent battles.

Others were nothing but bones, half-buried in the debris, whispering tales of forgotten lives.

The humans moved in silence, their footsteps barely making a sound against the rubble-littered ground.

Fear weighed on them like a shroud.

Even the children, who should have been too young to understand, knew better than to make a sound.

Because they weren’t alone.

Goblins. Wolves. Twisted creatures of the dark.

The monsters roamed the broken streets like scavengers, feasting on whatever corpses they could find.

Their glowing eyes flickered in the shadows.

The group tried to avoid them, slipping through alleys, hiding behind collapsed buildings.

But there were too many people.

Too many exhausted, hungry bodies unable to move fast enough.

More than once, a goblin caught their scent, its shrill cry summoning a swarm of its kin.

Fights broke out. Blood was spilled.

Even the strongest men among them staggered under the constant tension.

And then, another problem arose—food.

At first, they rationed what little they had.

Then the rations ran out.

People grew weak, their steps sluggish.

Mothers held their crying children close, their sunken eyes filled with silent despair.

The oldest among them barely had the strength to walk anymore.

And that was when Steven made the decision.

“We will eat the monsters.”

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His words echoed in the ruins, sending a shudder through the group.

Silence followed.

Then—

“No!”

"That's... that's insane!"

"We can’t eat those things!"

Their protests came fast and panicked, their voices laced with disgust and horror.

But Steven didn’t waver.

He crouched beside the freshly killed goblin, his blade still slick with its dark blood.

“If you have another way to survive, tell me now,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

No one spoke.

Because there was no other way.

And so, they cooked the monster meat.

The flames crackled.

The scent was foreign, sickening—nothing like the comforting aroma of roasted game.

The first bite was the hardest.

The children cried as their mothers forced the food into their mouths, their tiny hands trembling.

Some of the men, including Bob, vomited after the first swallow but forced themselves to eat again.

Anne, pale and shaking, clutched her bowl tightly, forcing herself to chew.

Asael stared at his portion for a long time before whispering, “This is what we’ve become now…”

He didn't need food now as his divine power allowed him to stay without food for a very long time.

No one felt good about it.

But survival no longer had room for morality.

And so, with hollow eyes and heavy hearts, they continued their journey.

-----

The night was eerily silent.

The distant rustling of leaves, the occasional hoot of an owl—the sounds of the night felt normal.

Too normal.

Then—

A faint crunch.

Steven’s eyes snapped open.

His instincts screamed.

They weren’t alone.

“Everyone, wake up!”

His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

There was a moment of confusion—tired groans, murmurs of protest.

Kenta rubbed his eyes. “Hngh… what happened?”

Steven didn’t turn to him.

His hand was already gripping his sword.

“We’re surrounded.”

And then—

A thunderous growl echoed through the trees.

Figures emerged from the darkness.

Orcs.

Dozens of them.

Their bulging muscles rippled, their yellow eyes glowed in the moonlight.

Their jagged teeth gleamed with saliva, some still smeared with old blood.

One of them sniffed the air, his lips curling into a sick grin.

“Found them! Chiiik!” he hissed.

Another orc, larger than the rest, raised a rusted axe still wet with fresh blood and roared.

“Humans! Deliver!”

Laughter erupted.

Some dragged their weapons across the dirt, letting the metal screech against the stones, sending shivers down spines.

A child whimpered.

A mother clutched her baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes.

“Everyone, form a circle!” Asael commanded.

The survivors scrambled, fear in their every step.

Women, children, and the elderly were huddled inside.

The strongest men stood outside, gripping their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white.

At the frontlines, at opposite ends—

Steven and Asael.

The orcs’ jeers turned to growls.

Then—

“Charge!”

The ground shook.

They rushed forward, clubs, axes, and rusted blades raised high, ready to strike.

A golden explosion of light erupted from Asael’s body.

His vision blurred. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

A sword and armor materialized out of thin air, glowing with a brilliant radiance.

He could feel it.

His pulse synced with the hum of his blade.

An orc lunged with a jagged axe.

Asael moved—too fast for the orc to react.

His golden sword flashed.

A spray of crimson shot into the air—

Four orcs fell at once, their bodies split open like butchered animals.

One of them let out a wet gurgle, trying to speak as his intestines spilled onto the dirt.

Asael didn’t stop.

Another swung at him.

He pivoted, parried, and drove his blade forward.

It pierced the orc’s chest cavity, skewering his beating heart.

A second later, the orc's body twitched violently, then collapsed in a lifeless heap.

Another came from behind.

Asael spun—his sword cleaved straight through the orc’s skull.

Blood and brain matter splattered onto the ground.

He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t.

On the other side of the battlefield, Steven charged.

His sword crackled with energy, arcs of blue lightning dancing along its blade.

An orc swung his axe.

Steven sidestepped and brought his sword down.

A burst of lightning exploded—

The orc’s head burst open, flesh melting, eyeballs bursting like overripe fruit.

Three more came at him.

He leapt into the air, sword raised.

He swung—

A blue arc of lightning streaked across the battlefield—

Three bodies split apart mid-run.

Their torsos slid off their legs, and their limbs twitched for a moment before falling still.

The orcs hesitated.

Their laughter stopped.

For a moment—just a moment—they hesitated.

Then rage overpowered their fear.

“Kill them!”

They charged again.

Steven gritted his teeth.

A club swung at him.

He ducked, spun, and drove his blade into an orc’s gut.

Lightning surged through the body—

The orc screamed, his flesh cooking from the inside out, his eyes popping from their sockets.

Steven ripped his sword free, sending bits of scorched flesh flying.

Another lunged at him.

Steven slashed across its chest—

A deep gash tore through muscle and ribs, exposing the still-pulsing heart beneath.

The orc staggered, staring at its own insides.

Then Steven rammed his sword straight into the exposed heart.

The orc let out a final, sickening wheeze before falling limp.

Another tried to reach the circle of humans.

Steven’s eyes flashed.

He raised his sword—

A bolt of lightning shot out.

It struck the orc’s head—

The skull burst like an overripe melon, splattering bone, brain, and gore across the grass.

“Hold the line!” Asael shouted from across the battlefield, his golden light still flickering.

Steven exhaled sharply, wiping blood and flesh from his face.

But he couldn’t stop.

Because this wasn’t over yet.

More were coming.

And they had to survive.