Drutneg knew it was time to leave.

He gathered his few belongings and packed them into a worn leather bag. Each item he chose held a memory—his old battle-worn axe, the one he had used to lead countless charges; a small, dented helmet given to him by a fallen comrade; and a tattered map of the lands beyond Thungrem, the last of its kind made before the kingdom fully embraced the age of machinery. He strapped the bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of his past as he prepared to step into the unknown.

As he made his way through the winding stone corridors of Thungrem, his steps were heavy with both resolve and a sense of finality. The halls buzzed with activity as always, filled with the sounds of machinery clanking and steam engines hissing. Young dwarves hustled back and forth, their minds focused on engineering projects and innovations that would push the kingdom further into the future.

He passed a group of these younger dwarves, their faces still fresh with youth and vigor, and saw them pause as they noticed him. Their eyes filled with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

“Look, it’s Drutneg,” one of them snickered. “Going on another one of his adventures?”

“He really thinks he's special, I see,” another chimed in with a smirk. “Maybe he thinks he’ll find some orcs to slay out there. Good luck swinging that old axe, old man.”

The group burst into laughter, their mockery echoing down the stone halls. Drutneg felt a familiar sting of anger, but he kept his head held high and his pace steady. He had faced ridicule before and knew it meant nothing compared to the battles he had fought and the friends he had lost.

As he turned a corner, he spotted Bofrim waiting for him by the great iron gates of Thungrem. The young dwarf stood tall, a respectful look on his face as he approached Drutneg.

“Master Drutneg,” Bofrim said quietly, “I heard you were leaving. Is it true?”

Drutneg nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “Aye, lad. I’m leaving. There’s no place for an old warrior like me here anymore.”

Bofrim looked down, his brow furrowed. “But... where will you go?”

Drutneg glanced out toward the distant mountains, where the morning light painted the peaks in hues of gold and rose. “I don’t know yet. But there’s a whole world out there still. A world that hasn’t forgotten the value of a good axe and a strong arm.”

Bofrim hesitated, then reached into his tunic and pulled out a small flask. “Here,” he said, handing it to Drutneg. “For the road. It’s the best ale we’ve got—brewed in secret, just like the old days.”

Drutneg chuckled softly and took the flask, tucking it into his pack. “Thank you, Bofrim. It means a lot.”

Bofrim’s eyes shone with admiration and a hint of sadness. “You know, Master Drutneg, not all of us have forgotten. Some of us still remember the stories, still honor the old ways. We’ll keep your memory alive here, even if you leave.”

Drutneg’s heart swelled with a mix of pride and sorrow. He placed a heavy hand on Bofrim’s shoulder. “That’s all I could ever ask for, lad. Thank you.”

Just then, the heavy iron gates creaked open, revealing the path that stretched out beyond Thungrem. Drutneg took a deep breath, feeling the crisp morning air fill his lungs. He knew this was his moment, the beginning of a new journey, one that he hoped would bring him a sense of purpose once more.

He turned back to Bofrim one last time. “Farewell, my friend. Take care of this place for me aye?”

With those final words, Drutneg stepped through the gates, leaving behind the kingdom that had been his home for so many years. He could hear the faint echoes of laughter from the younger dwarves still lingering in the air, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were focused on the road ahead, on the adventures yet to come.

As Drutneg trekked through the rugged terrain, the air grew colder, and the mountains loomed tall around him. The path was steep and winding, with loose stones that shifted beneath his boots. Despite his age, Drutneg’s stride was strong and sure, his grip firm on the handle of his old, trusty axe. He could feel the fire of his youth reigniting in his chest, the thrill of adventure coursing through his veins.

Several hours into his journey, Drutneg noticed something up ahead—a plume of smoke rising above the trees. His instincts flared to life. He knew what that smoke meant: an orc camp. His pulse quickened with anticipation, a familiar sensation from his days in the Dwarf-Orc War.

He adjusted his grip on his axe and marched forward with purpose, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. The sounds of gruff voices and guttural laughter soon reached his ears. He pushed through the dense underbrush and emerged into a small clearing where a group of orcs had set up camp.

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There were at least a dozen of them, their greenish skin glistening with sweat as they crowded around a fire, sharpening their crude weapons and gnawing on raw meat. Their makeshift camp was littered with bones and discarded scraps, a foul stench hanging in the air.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Drutneg let out a battle cry that echoed through the trees. The orcs turned, their eyes widening in surprise at the sight of a lone dwarf charging toward them, axe raised high.

“For Thungrem!” Drutneg roared, his voice booming like thunder as he charged into the midst of the orcs.

The nearest orc barely had time to raise his weapon before Drutneg’s axe crashed down on his skull, splitting it open with a sickening crunch. The orc dropped like a stone, his lifeless body crumpling to the ground.

The other orcs scrambled to their feet, weapons in hand, their faces contorted with rage and confusion. They weren’t used to being attacked, especially not by a single dwarf. But Drutneg was no ordinary dwarf. He was a warrior—a force of nature with a lifetime of battle experience.

Drutneg swung his axe in wide, powerful arcs, cutting through the orcs with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed and limbs flew as he moved through their ranks, each strike fueled by the pent-up frustration and longing for battle that had been building within him for years.

But as the battle raged on, Drutneg felt a twinge in his shoulder, a sharp reminder of his age. He ignored it, driving his axe into the chest of an oncoming orc, but the pain flared again, more insistent this time. He gritted his teeth and fought through it, but doubt began to creep into his mind. Was he getting too old for this? Had the years finally caught up with him?

As he fought, a large shadow loomed over him. Drutneg turned just in time to see a massive orc, easily twice his size, stomping toward him. This orc was different from the others. His muscles bulged beneath his rough skin, and his eyes gleamed with a cunning intelligence. In his hands, he wielded a huge, jagged cleaver that looked more like a slab of iron than a weapon.

The big orc snarled, baring his yellowed teeth. He swung the cleaver down at Drutneg with all his might. Drutneg barely managed to sidestep the blow, the blade crashing into the ground with enough force to send up a spray of dirt and stones. He felt the shockwave of the impact travel up his legs and into his spine.

Drutneg retaliated with a quick slash of his axe, aiming for the orc's side, but the orc moved with surprising speed for his size. He dodged the blow and swung his cleaver horizontally, catching Drutneg across the chest and sending him sprawling to the ground. The air was knocked out of him, and pain exploded in his ribs. He tried to get up, but the big orc was already on him, kicking him hard in the side.

Drutneg rolled over, gasping for breath, his vision swimming. The big orc loomed over him, grinning as he raised his cleaver for a finishing blow. For a moment, Drutneg wondered if this was the end. He had been defeated before, but never like this, never with such raw power and ferocity.

As the orc's cleaver came down, Drutneg managed to roll out of the way at the last second, the blade slamming into the ground where his head had been. He grabbed his axe and scrambled to his feet, but the pain in his chest and shoulder was agonizing. He could feel his strength waning, his body betraying him. The big orc swung again, and this time, Drutneg was too slow to dodge. The blade caught him across the back, ripping through his armor and flesh. He cried out in pain, dropping to one knee.

The orc laughed, a deep, guttural sound that sent chills down Drutneg's spine. "Old dwarf," the orc growled, his voice thick with contempt. "You should have stayed in your cave."

Drutneg's mind raced. For the first time in his life, he found himself doubting his abilities. Was he really too old for this? Had the world moved on without him? He thought of the machinery back in Thungrem, the new weapons that were being forged with steam and gears. Would they have been more effective against this brute? Had he become obsolete?

The orc swung again, and Drutneg barely managed to block the blow with his axe. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his arms, but he held on, refusing to let go. He couldn't give up. Not now. Not ever.

With a roar of defiance, Drutneg pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his body. He swung his axe in a wide arc, catching the orc on the side of the head. The orc staggered back, blood streaming from a deep gash on his scalp. But he didn't fall. He snarled and charged at Drutneg, his cleaver raised high.

Drutneg braced himself, his muscles coiling with tension. As the orc brought his cleaver down, Drutneg sidestepped and swung his axe with all his might, aiming for the orc's midsection. The blade bit deep into the orc's abdomen, slicing through muscle and bone.

The orc let out a howl of pain, his eyes wide with shock, but he didn't go down. With a roar of fury, he swung his cleaver down at Drutneg's head. Drutneg raised his axe just in time to block the blow, the force of the impact sending a jolt of pain through his arms.

The two combatants locked weapons, their faces inches apart, their muscles straining as they pushed against each other. Drutneg could feel his strength waning, his muscles burning with exhaustion. The orc’s breath was hot and foul against his skin, his eyes blazing with rage and determination.

With a roar of his own, Drutneg summoned every ounce of strength left in his body and shoved the orc back, breaking the deadlock. The orc stumbled, off-balance, and Drutneg seized the moment. He swung his axe in a wide, sweeping arc, the blade slicing through the orc’s midsection with a wet, tearing sound.

The orc’s eyes went wide with shock as his entrails spilled out onto the ground, steam rising from the blood in the cold air. He dropped his cleaver and staggered back, his hands clutching at his ruined stomach, trying to hold in his guts. He let out a low, guttural moan before collapsing to his knees, his life draining away.

Drutneg didn’t wait for him to recover. With a final, powerful swing, he brought his axe down on the orc’s neck, severing his head from his body. The orc’s headless corpse toppled forward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Breathing heavily, Drutneg stood over the fallen orc, his chest heaving, his axe dripping with blood. His body ached from the fight, and he could feel the sting of several cuts and bruises, but he felt a deep sense of satisfaction, a fierce pride in his victory. He had faced the big orc head-on and emerged victorious. He was still a warrior, still a force to be reckoned with.

He wiped his axe clean on the grass and took a moment to catch his breath, surveying the aftermath of the battle. The orc camp was silent now, save for the crackling of the dying fire and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. He then stood up and continued on his way. Where? He would see as he walked on.