The moon hung high, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield.

The orc horde kept coming.

Their heavy footfalls shook the ground, their guttural roars blending into a symphony of war.

They charged relentlessly, their bloodshot eyes burning with hatred and hunger.

But in their path stood two men—

Steven and Asael.

The field was soaked in crimson.

Orc bodies lay scattered, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their guts spilling onto the dirt.

The stench of death thickened in the air, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the putrid scent of split entrails and burning flesh.

Yet the orcs did not falter.

They pushed forward, their rusted blades slick with gore, their clawed hands reaching out for human flesh.

A hulking orc wielding a massive cleaver broke through, his thick veins bulging with bloodlust.

He swung at Steven.

Steven dodged, the blade missing his face by inches.

He countered—his sword crackled with lightning as he slashed upward.

The orc’s stomach split open, a mess of intestines and half-digested flesh spilled onto the battlefield.

The beast let out a garbled screech, stumbling as his own guts dragged behind him like rotting chains.

Steven didn’t let him suffer.

With a single step forward, he plunged his sword through the orc’s throat—

The blade burst out the back of his neck, taking chunks of spine and muscle with it.

The orc’s eyes rolled back, his massive body crashing to the ground, twitching before finally going still.

Another orc slipped past him, heading for the humans.

“No!”

Steven spun—

A bolt of lightning erupted from his sword, striking the orc’s face.

The creature's head exploded, skull fragments and seared brain matter splattering across the dirt.

On the other side, Asael was a golden blur.

His armor shimmered, his sword a streak of light.

An orc raised a massive club, swinging downward.

Asael parried, the force cracking the ground beneath them.

He stepped forward, twisted his sword—and drove it straight through the orc’s chest.

The blade burst through his back, ripping his heart in half.

The orc gurgled, blood bubbling out of his mouth, eyes wide with shock before he collapsed like a felled tree.

Another orc, wielding dual axes, charged at him.

Asael ducked beneath the first swing, sidestepped the second, and then—

With one powerful stroke—

He cleaved through the orc’s waist.

The upper half separated from the legs, sliding to the ground with a wet thud, organs spilling out like a slaughtered pig.

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But even in two pieces, the orc’s severed torso twitched, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream.

Asael didn’t spare him another glance.

Not all the orcs were stopped.

Some breached through the defenses, swinging wildly.

The humans held their shields up, trying desperately to block.

Bob was also at front, wielding the axe with both hands.

An orc was about swing his club.

But Bob tried to attack him first.

However his balance got a little unstable and he accidentally hit orc’s leg.

The orc to fell on ground in agony.

Without wasting time, Bob quickly slammed the axe in orc stomach.

It was lucky, but he killed one orc.

However, not all succeeded.

A massive axe came down, splitting a man’s skull in half.

Blood sprayed onto those beside him, his body crumpling to the ground, his brain matter leaking onto the dirt.

A woman screamed as an orc grabbed her, his jagged nails digging into her arm, drawing blood.

She thrashed, biting and clawing—

But the orc lifted his club.

Before he could bring it down—

A lightning bolt struck him, sending him convulsing, his skin blackening and peeling as he burned from the inside out.

His body collapsed into a smoking husk.

Steven rushed past, not even looking back.

Amidst the chaos, Kenta moved like a shadow.

His small frame allowed him to dart between the towering orcs, his daggers flashing.

An orc lunged at him, his massive axe swinging downward.

Kenta dropped low, rolling just in time as the axe crashed into the earth, digging deep into the soil.

The orc snarled and tried to yank it free—

Too late.

Kenta moved like a viper, his dagger slicing across the orc’s leg, cutting deep into muscle.

The orc staggered, roaring in fury.

But Kenta didn’t stop.

He slashed again.

Then again.

More cuts, more blood.

The orc swayed, his legs buckling under his weight as blood poured onto the ground.

Finally—

Kenta leapt, his dagger flashing.

He slit the orc’s throat in one swift motion.

A gush of dark blood sprayed out, coating Kenta’s hands and face.

The orc gurgled, clutching at his torn throat, stumbling for a moment—

Then he collapsed, face-first into the dirt.

Dead.

The orcs’ numbers were dwindling.

Their bodies littered the battlefield, forming piles of corpses, mangled and torn.

The stench of death was unbearable.

Yet the orcs refused to retreat.

They fought with madness in their eyes, knowing there was no escape.

They would die here.

But so would the humans—if they faltered.

Steven wiped blood and sweat from his face, his breath ragged.

He looked at Asael, whose golden light reduced a lot from before, his blade dripping with gore.

The battle wasn’t over yet.

Not until the last orc fell.

-----

The orc encampment stretched across the darkened forest, a mess of crude tents, spiked barricades, and smoldering bonfires.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and half-rotten flesh, the remnants of past raids left to fester beneath the twisted canopy.

Inside the largest tent, a hulking figure paced back and forth—

Frab, the Orc Chief.

His massive form was tense, his green skin glistening with sweat under the dim torchlight.

His tusks twitched as he gritted his teeth, his yellowed eyes burning with frustration.

His clawed fingers drummed against the hilt of his massive axe, the worn leather grip creaking under his tightening grasp.

He was waiting.

Waiting for news.

"Chief! Chief!"

A panting orc pushed through the tent’s entrance, his broad chest rising and falling with each gasping breath.

The Fran’s head snapped toward him.

"Chiik! Speak! Did the delivery go well?!"

The messenger nodded quickly, his voice still trembling from exhaustion.

"Yes, my lord! We raided more villages and secured the last batch of captives. The delivery was completed successfully."

A heavy exhale left the Fran’s lips, half relief, half frustration.

"Good… at least Movok won’t tear my head off this time."

Movok was not a being to be trifled with.

Fran had already suffered one near-execution at his hands.

Another failure, and his head would be mounted on a pike.

But that wasn’t the only problem.

Fran's expression darkened.

"What about the other task? Did you find the missing patrols?"

The messenger’s posture stiffened, his lips parting hesitantly.

A moment of silence.

Then—

"We found them, my lord… but they were already dead."

The tent fell silent.

Fran's breath hitched.

His massive hands clenched into fists, his knuckles cracking like dry bones.

"And?" His voice came out low, dangerous. "Who did it?"

The messenger gulped before speaking.

"Humans, my lord. We tracked their movements and sent more warbands after them, but… but…"

"But what?"

Fran’s patience snapped.

The messenger flinched, his knees nearly buckling.

"We found them dead too."

Fran's nostrils flared.

A rumbling growl escaped his throat, so deep it made the tent’s leather walls shudder.

This was bad.

They had barely managed to complete their last task without incurring Movok’s wrath.

Now, another problem had crawled into his lap like a festering wound.

His warriors—his hunters—were being slaughtered.

By humans.

He spun toward the messenger.

"Where are these humans now?"

The orc hesitated.

"By now… they should be inside Lyshar."

Fran’s jaw tightened.

That wasn't good.

Lyshar was ruins now, a place of broken stone and the lingering ghosts of war.

But Lyshar wasn’t empty.

His voice turned cold.

"Which part of Lyshar?"

A flicker of fear crossed the messenger’s face.

His fingers twitched, his lips parted as if unsure whether to speak.

And then—

He muttered the words Fran did not want to hear.

"My guess is… they have entered his territory."

Silence.

Fran’s blood ran cold.

Then—

"Damn it! Nothing is going right!"

His roar shook the tent, his fist slamming into the wooden table, splintering it into pieces.

The messenger took a step back, his legs trembling.

But then, he gathered what little courage he had left.

"Chief… we may need to ask for his help."

The tent went deathly quiet.

Fran’s face twisted in disgust.

His tusks bared.

His fury boiling over.

"What? You expect me to crawl to that dog-like bastard for help?!"

His voice was thunder, his eyes burning with rage.

The messenger swallowed hard.

"There’s no other way, my lord."

Fran’s hands trembled, his rage barely contained.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He needed his help.

A creature he loathed.

A creature that disgusted him.

A creature he despised with every fiber of his being.

Leimer.

A gnoll.

A hyena-faced schemer.

Unlike orcs, who believed in strength and domination, gnolls were cunning, deceptive, and thrived on trickery.

And Leimer was their worst.

A master manipulator, a snake in the skin of a beast.

His territory stretched beyond Lyshar, reaching Norvik and the Forest Path—places Fran would need to pass through if he wanted to crush these humans himself.

But they hated each other.

Fran saw Leimer as a cowardly schemer, unworthy of true power.

Leimer, in turn, mocked Fran as a muscle-brained fool, easy to control if the right bait was set.

To ask for his help would be to owe him a favor.

And Leimer never let debts go unpaid.

Fran’s fists trembled.

He hated this.

He hated it.

But he had no choice.

His gaze darkened, his teeth grinding together.

Finally—

He spoke through clenched teeth.

"Send a messenger to Leimer. Tell him we need to talk."

The messenger bowed and rushed out of the tent, leaving the Fran alone in the dark.

His fury burned like wildfire.

But this was only the beginning.