Oliver meandered through the clearing, tracing his steps amidst the remnants of the Lost Ones' shattered abode. Once a home, now reduced to a haunting array of burnt canvases, desiccated stains of blood, and vestiges of the battle that had transpired. Despite the disquietude that gripped him in such a place, Oliver recognized its potential as a formidable training ground.
His hand clutched the spear tightly as the eyes of the Lost Ones fixated upon him. Faces he knew well, the loyal comrades of his Terror Troops, who heeded his every command with unwavering belief in his cause. Others had been swayed to his side, lured by whispers promising grandeur and greatness.
Visions of fortresses and the yearning for a true home stirred deep within them. The Lost Ones were society's castaways, thrown into the fire at a tender age. Oliver had offered them something greater, an opportunity to strike back at a world that had forsaken them, a chance to carve out their own slice of existence.
Yet, Oliver understood that they could not remain in this wilderness like rats. The meager number of orcs and Rena's mention of a potentially sealed armory had stoked the flames of hope among the Lost Ones.
Dozia observed from the lofty branches, her legs swaying idly in the breeze as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. She watched Oliver and his teachings unfold. "We can't defeat the orcs through conventional means. They are formidable and brawny."
Rena chimed in, "So, what's our plan? How do we deal with them?"
Oliver nodded, a flicker of determination in his eyes. "That's precisely it. We can't engage them head-on, we can't assail them with weaponry or confront them in direct combat. You see, we need a strategy to overcome them."
Dozia peered down, taking note of the Lost Ones' gazes fixed upon Oliver. Many of them struggled to comprehend his elaborate words, their literacy limited to a mere handful. She observed how some clung to each other, clad in oversized rags, their eyes shining with an unwarranted adoration for Oliver, as though he were a legendary hero.
A revelation began to dawn upon Dozia, the echoes of the old witch's words reverberating within her once more. "Just a bunch of little children, playing war."
She trembled slightly at the realization. In her own peculiar way, the Lost Ones who had rallied behind Oliver's assault on the orcs regarded him with baffled expressions and befuddlement. His Timorem turmae, his Terror Troops, hungrily devoured Oliver's teachings, mirroring his unyielding conviction and unwavering confidence in the forthcoming battle—a battle they believed would be easily won, a quest that would yield untold glory.
Dozia pondered when Oliver had undergone this transformation, when the tribe had subtly shifted. It wasn't an overt metamorphosis, but there was an intangible aura that now permeated the air—a disconcerting sensation she struggled to fathom or articulate.
Oliver directed their attention to the ground, his finger extending to point at his schematics. "The orcs aren't fools; they patrol about a mile or so around the perimeter. We need to eliminate a couple of them," he explained.
His hand tapped the center of the fort. "Most of the orcs haven't been able to breach this place. Rena mentioned that the dwarfs have special locks guarding it, locks only they can open. There's treasure, weapons, who knows what's inside. But I want it."
The Lost Ones' eyes gleamed with a fiery determination. New weapons, armor, and trinkets—an opportunity to strengthen their tribe or sell for greater wealth.
Dozia's gaze shifted to Rena's face, a young girl around Oliver's age, a ratkin. When had she changed?
Dozia had noticed her lingering in the background when Oliver first appeared. She, like many others, had kept her distance, hesitant due to her humanity and skeptical of Oliver's intentions. She had managed to escape during the slavers' raid, but now she had reappeared.
That girl, the young girl who had faded into the shadows, had become a trusted and capable lieutenant to the Deus Imperator. She had undergone a profound transformation, one that Dozia hadn't even realized had taken place.
Now she wielded twin knives, blades she used to carve through monsters and boars. Dozia wondered if Rena and the other terror troops had been awaiting this moment, the true moment to test their skills in battle.
"None of you are strong enough to face an orc in one-on-one combat. Engaging them all at once would be suicide," Oliver remarked, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. "Now, can anyone tell me what sets the Lost Ones apart from the orcs?"
It took a moment, but a gruff voice from a demi-human blurted out, "The orcs don't have the Deus Imperator!"
Laughter and chuckles filled the air as Oliver allowed a small smile to grace his lips. "Alright," he said, waving his hand to quiet the crowd. "No, that's not the right answer. Does anyone else have any ideas?"
Rena stepped forward. "Numbers. The orcs outnumber us ten to one. But the Lost Ones count in the dozens."
"But the orcs' strength lies in their numbers," another member chimed in, his voice carried on the wind. "How do we overcome such strength? Perhaps the powers of the Deus Imperator..."
"My powers aren't meant to lighten the burden for the Lost Ones; they're not meant to be a crutch that pushes you forward," Oliver interjected firmly.
His voice silenced them, rising from the ground as he turned toward them all. The entire group stared into his dark blue eyes. "Now, I will show you what I have planned for you," he declared, casting his gaze over the crowd. "Rena, Jasper, Damien, Finn, and Zeal, grab your spears and follow me to the center."
They obeyed his command. Oliver, spear in hand, guided them with his movements. "Now, I need you all to form a circle," he instructed.
The Lost Ones complied, extending their spears around Oliver as he stood at the center. Their eyes fixated on the tips of their weapons, their hesitance giving way to closeness as they moved into the circle.
"Good," Oliver said. "Now, here's the plan. The orcs may be strong, but Rena has informed me of their weaknesses. Their skin is tougher than ours, but if we attack from all sides..."
"We'll make them bleed, weaken them with each blow... and they'll fall beneath our might," Rena interjected.
Oliver nodded, turning to address the rest of the Lost Ones. "That's how we'll deal with the orcs. We may be young and not as strong, but..." He raised his hands into fists, and the Lost Ones stared at him, their eyes widening. "We have the numbers, and after this conquest... we'll only grow in power."
Deep down, Oliver knew the Lost Ones were far from an impressive warband. His father would have scoffed at them, dismissed them as pathetic. But Oliver didn't care. He would shape them into a force to be reckoned with. They would claim their stake in this world, carrying out the will of the god who had sent the Imposters.
"My Terror Troops, like Rena, have a different objective. They'll execute a pincer attack on the orcs, striking with surprise. But they must complete their dirty work swiftly," he instructed, turning his gaze to Rena. "Rena, you'll lead this ambush."
Rena smiled, but her expression faltered instantly as a sudden voice cut through the air. "A ratkin, and a woman at that!" it exclaimed.
Oliver snapped his head to the side, his eyes landing on a towering demi-human, a wolfkin with thick gray and black hair covering his body. His wolf-like eyes shifted between Oliver and Rena. "Are you kidding me? You're letting a woman lead this warband?" he sneered.
"Yes," Oliver replied calmly, his gaze scanning the crowd.
He tried to keep his composure, but his widened eyes betrayed his surprise. This was not what he had expected.
The Lost Ones were a diverse mix of races and beliefs. It should have been an advantage. Each race possessed unique gifts bestowed upon them by their heritage, even after they lost their magical powers. The ratkin's immunity to toxins, the wolfkin's acute sense of smell, the elves' innate connection with spirits, and the dwarves' expertise in identifying and working with metals.
In theory, it was a goldmine. But Oliver's father had taught him that tribal civilizations were both potent and perilous. They clung to certain practices, dogmas, and religious beliefs, often rejecting advancements. Even Thomas, an elf renowned for his brilliance, had seen Oliver's victory as dishonorable, believing he should have engaged the werewolf in fair combat.
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Rena possessed remarkable talent—undeniably so. She had embraced Oliver's skills with a religious fervor. A skilled knife wielder, a proficient tracker, she had gradually become one of Oliver's most trusted lieutenants. Trusted enough to lead this crucial ambush. But were the Lost Ones so entrenched in their backward ways that they couldn't accept this?
Oliver scanned the members, his gaze sweeping over the Lost Ones and his Terror Troops. Among them, some vigorously nodded in agreement, while a few others fumed with anger at the disrespectful remark. He was relieved to see that his Terror Troops didn't succumb to such prejudices. But was it because of his teachings or simply because he was the Deus Imperator, and his word held sway?
He despised that feeling. These men and women he would lead into battle—would they follow him out of their own volition or blind faith alone? How terrifying and isolating it was.
Footsteps approached. "You, Rick," Rena called out, her eyes fixed on the wolfkin. Rick pushed through his friends, his disappointment evident in his gaze. Did Dozia really want to make him feel like that?
"Rick, I don't need to remind you of what we discussed, about women and the different races within the Lost Ones," Rena said. Rick averted his gaze, his mouth parting slightly to reveal his fangs. "What, you got something to say?"
"Yes, I do," he spat. "Rena is a Ratkin. One of the species that the Empires deemed fit... even before the great theft, the Ratkin were proud slaves and servants to their human masters. Why should she have the honor of leading us in battle?"
Dozia chuckled, her arms wrapped around herself as she narrowed her eyes at Rick. "Well, then. Who do you propose should lead them into battle?"
"Me," Rick declared.
Oliver noticed it. The gradual ebbing of the crowd, their confusion mingled with a sense of bewilderment as they regarded Rick. Oliver had no doubt that Rick had taken lives before, perhaps even been part of a hunting party. But the Lost Ones and his Terror Troops understood, even the most tribalistic among them understood that they couldn't win this battle with blind fury alone. They couldn't hurl themselves recklessly at the orcs or charge in a blaze of glory... that would only lead to meaningless and agonizing deaths.
"Really? And why should you be the one?" Dozia questioned, clapping her hands as she paced around the crowd. "You, the one who turned your back when I revealed the truth about the Deus Imperator. You, who isn't even a member of Oliver's personal troops... why should you receive the honor of leading such a crucial mission?"
Rick sneered. "The will of the Deus Imperator was to be determined. Even Rena herself didn't believe in him. And let's not forget Thomas, who dismissed the legends as mere tales of prophecies and messiahs, holding no significance in reality."
There was a faint nodding from the crowd. "I believe I was mistaken. Oliver's will has proven itself... us Wolfkin have served many Imposters in battle, and we should..."
"Ah, so you think it's your race that grants you the right to fight alongside the Deus Imperator," Dozia interrupted.
Rick nodded. "It was within the Wolfkin's blood that the Imposters of old found soldiers, mercenaries, and warbands. We fought alongside them and against them, and within our blood rage..."
Dozia sneered. "Ah, yes, the blood rage," she said, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Listen, comrades, Rick believes that his blood rage entitles him to leadership. I bet he even thinks that if his race still possessed the blood rage, he would be an even greater leader."
"The blood rage?" Oliver questioned.
"Before the great theft, the blood rage was an innate power that the Wolfkin possessed," Dozia explained. The faces of the wolfkin twisted in response. Some held looks of valor and courage, while others regarded the words with disgust and sorrow. "When they tasted blood, much of the race would be consumed by a berserker-like frenzy. There are even legends of a Wolfkin under the blood rage defeating and killing an Imposter."
"Do you see? My race is made up of natural warriors and..."
Dozia's gaze silenced him. "Yes, indeed. A race filled with mindless bloodthirsty warriors who, due to their limited abilities, refuse to progress," she snapped her head back to the crowd. "That's why the Wolfkin don't care, because centuries have passed and hardly anything has changed."
"Enough..." Oliver interjected.
But Dozia continued. "The Wolfkin embraced a culture of blood. Slaughtering, pillaging, raping. Once these beasts tasted blood... they lost control. I've heard tales of Imposters attempting to quell the blood rage, but the Wolfkin only responded with hostility. Can you believe it, Oliver? Rick speaks of loyalties, yet his people cast away salvation and progress."
She turned her attention to the Lost Ones. "Is this what you desire? To be reduced to such savagery? A tribe without advancement, a tribe that fails to realize its true potential," she then directed her gaze towards Rena. "I have my reservations about what has transpired. But Rena has always been a skilled fighter, and if Oliver believes she is ready... then she deserves your support, rather, she has earned it."
A numbing silence settled over the crowd, and Rick once again retreated into the masses. Rena, wearing a well-placed smile, stood at the center. Even Oliver found himself standing there in stunned disbelief. As he scratched his head, contemplating various possibilities, a thought crossed his mind: perhaps if Rena were to defeat Rick, that might be a better solution. It was his father's way; violence was the answer.
If blood demanded blood, then it must be met with blood. But Dozia had accomplished something extraordinary here... something Oliver had only glimpsed and struggled to comprehend. Not a single punch had been thrown, yet Rick stood defeated.
Oliver cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to him. He delved into the intricacies of tactics, formations, and the plans they would execute. From sunrise to sunset, they trained relentlessly, refining their skills until Oliver deemed it time for a break.
The Lost Ones were a resilient bunch, and they had performed admirably today. Maybe that would suffice. Of course, he would repeat the instructions until they were ingrained in their minds, but for now, they had earned their respite.
Dozia stood beside him, observing as the Lost Ones receded into the mountains, becoming mere silhouettes against the fading light.
"Thank you, Dozia," Oliver expressed his gratitude.
Dozia nodded in acknowledgment, her arms still wrapped around herself, her fiery red hair dancing in the breeze.
"I didn't know what to expect, honestly," Oliver chuckled, turning toward her. "I never even realized that Rick harbored such sexist views. Rena is a formidable fighter; assigning her to menial tasks would have been a waste of her skills."
Dozia let out a sigh, taking measured steps forward as Oliver redirected his gaze back to her. "Oi, what's the matter?" he asked, rushing in front of her, extending his arms to halt her progress. "What's troubling you?"
Dozia peered into his eyes, the brilliance of his dark blue irises locking with her own. His tousled black hair cascaded down his neck, and through their hunting sessions, he had grown stronger, almost... taller.
There was a wildness about him now, an enigmatic aura that she couldn't quite comprehend. It was akin to staring at a feral wolf compared to a once-domesticated lapdog. It was as if he had gone native.
She sighed. "You betrayed me, Oliver," Dozia spoke plainly, and his arms fell limply by his sides as he stared at her.
"The council had made its decision. We were to salvage the monster's remains and trade them for medicine and supplies," she continued.
Oliver shook his head. "No, that's not what happened. I decided to scout the fortress and devise a better..."
"No," she interrupted sharply. "You went to the fortress, nearly getting caught... Lena told me, by the way. And afterward, you, Rena, and your terror troops divulged the information to the Lost Ones, claiming this battle was foolproof!"
Placing her hands on her hips, she scolded, "What were you thinking?"
"I don't understand what your issue is, Dozia," Oliver retorted. "I scouted and planned this assault. We can emerge victorious and seize the spoils of war. We can..."
Dozia facepalmed in frustration. "That's not what I'm saying, Oliver. You're not even listening to me. It's as if it goes in one ear and out the other."
She withdrew her hand, her gaze fixed on his dark blue eyes once again. "We held a vote, Oliver. The Lost Ones had a say... and you undermined me, the council, and everyone else who wanted their voices to be heard."
Oliver turned away. "I don't need to hear this, especially not from you. Didn't you and that Witch have discussions about what's to come? If this king comes after us, we'll need every advantage to defeat him!"
"I understand," she replied. "But I want you to grasp the gravity of what you've done, to take responsibility."
He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head. "I'm not going to take responsibility. I know Thomas, he doesn't like me."
"Are you kidding me, Oliver?" Dozia flared up. "Thomas may be a fool at times, stuck in his tribal ways, but he has never put his personal desires above the tribe... he has never jeopardized us or taken reckless risks."
"This wasn't a risk. What I did was secure a permanent home for us," he retorted. "We can have it, Dozia. Beds, four walls, a roof... a safe place for the Little Ones to grow up."
His features contorted, his eyes narrowing as his piercing glare bore into Dozia's vision. "We'll reclaim it all. The lands, the people, everything. These forests are ours, and we are warriors now. No one will unjustly take what is rightfully ours ever again."
Dozia studied him for a moment, her eyes wavering as the conflicting features of two boys clashed within him—the old Oliver and this new version. But her mind drifted back to the witch's teachings, the words about his father, the monster who created another monster. Was it truly worth it?
Would the Deus Imperator, the great being who would restore what was stolen, be reduced to a hideous marauder consumed by violence and war?
"You speak of yourself and the Lost Ones as if you're a warlord now," she remarked.
Oliver turned his gaze away from her. "We do what we must... we become what we must, Dozia," he said. "That was my father's mantra. Those who delve too deeply into darkness become the darkness."
Dozia's eyes widened. "You are not your father, Oliver," she spat, causing a flicker of pain to pass across his features. He shook his head, turning away from her as he slowly rejoined the remaining members of the Lost Ones. Yet, he couldn't escape the sound of her voice.
"People are going to die, Oliver. No matter how perfect the plan may seem, lives will be caught in the crossfire," she sighed. "There's no going back after this. People will die, and you'll have to live with that."
"I won't send people to their deaths."
"You know exactly what I mean," she said, her voice filled with a mix of weariness and concern. "People will always follow you, Oliver. You have that natural ability to lead."
A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she continued walking, her back now turned to him. Oliver's eyes fixated on the back of her head, a turbulent swirl of emotions churning within him. He knew she was right. The weight of his choices and their consequences would rest upon his shoulders.
"Just remember, Ollie," she said, her voice carrying a subtle edge of caution. "You'll have to carry this burden, but don't let it break you."
Her words hung in the air, lingering like an ominous warning. Oliver remained there, silently contemplating the weight of his newfound leadership and the impact it would have on the lives of those who followed him. It was a responsibility he couldn't escape, a path he had chosen, and now he had to face the consequences head-on.