Oliver had become a vessel devoid of emotion, an empty shell of a man, lost in the depths of his own darkness. The remnants of his humanity flickered faintly within, but the fire had been extinguished, leaving behind only cold ashes.

Once, when he took the life of that slaver, guilt gnawed at his soul. Despite the slaver's despicable deeds, Oliver recognized the undeniable fact that he had taken a human life, a life that had its own tangled web of connections—a family left shattered by his merciless act. Regret crept into Oliver's heart, a lingering echo that still reverberated within him.

The memory of that first kill haunted his thoughts, etching into his mind the visceral brutality he had unleashed—the shattered skull, the torn flesh, the crimson cascade of blood. The metallic tang of blood lingered in his nostrils, a constant reminder of his transgression.

In the aftermath of that initial kill, Oliver had raged against Dozia, the one who callously dismissed his turmoil. She praised his deeds, urging him to wear the Slaver's sword with pride. Such tribalistic instincts were once seen as weak and inhumane, but Oliver had learned the truth.

With his second kill, the werewolf, remorse eluded him. The ferocious beast had wounded him, desperation for survival overriding any trace of emotion. It was different from the slaver, for this creature existed in the realm of animalistic savagery.

It had to be extinguished, its existence sacrificed to illuminate Oliver's darkened path. Killing once felt abominable, an act that sickened his very core. In his eyes, he transformed into a grotesque monster, a wretched creature unworthy of taking another's life.

Yet, the teachings of his father, the witch's enigmatic actions, and Dozia's words gradually unveiled a revelation. This was his destiny, the culmination of all the training, abuse, and turmoil that had punctuated his existence.

The tribal war against the Orcs was his to wage, not just for himself but for the Lost Ones, a dispossessed people in search of a permanent sanctuary in this unforgiving world. The Badlands beckoned, promising a place they could call home.

Acceptance settled in Oliver's soul. He had embraced the undeniable truth—he was a killer, like his father before him. And in this realization, a strange affinity bloomed. He relished the rush, the pounding of his heart as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

The thrill of battle, of cutting down enemies, of leading and fighting, had not dulled his senses or numbed his emotions. It was his duty, his calling, his very creed. Since he was but a young boy, his father had nurtured him in the ways of war, imparting knowledge and shaping him into a formidable warrior.

After his father's demise and the dissolution of their militia, he was cast back into the mundane existence of his mother's small town—a life suffocating with mediocrity, boredom, and solitude. But now, he had returned to where it all began.

Here, on this battlefield, amidst the chaos of war, he found his true home, a sanctuary that resonated deep within his restless spirit. And perhaps, within its blood-soaked soil, he would find solace.

Perhaps that was why the absence of sensation didn't strike Oliver as odd when his spear impaled the Ork's heart. The creature's green skin clenched, blood spewing from its lips and trickling down its chin and neck, while Oliver and the Lost Ones pressed on, unyielding.

The Orc thrashed, its long arms grasping, desperately attempting to snare Oliver, who swiftly evaded its clutches. More spears joined the fray, piercing and slashing at the Orc's green hide, as the horde of Lost Ones surged forward.

Fur, fangs, and scales of diverse races moved in synchronized harmony, descending upon the colossal creature, reminiscent of hyenas or vultures descending upon a weakened prey. They brandished crude spears and horrifically forged blades, wielding stone knives as they descended, a fervent chant filling the air.

"Kill the monster, for the Deus Imperator!" The group advanced, Oliver watching as young boys and girls, some as young as nine, hurled themselves at the beast. Stabbing, slashing, cleaving, their relentless assault causing the Ork's limbs to convulse violently. "Cut its throat... cut its throat!" a voice cried from the center.

The movement of the crowd pulsed like a heartbeat, an unyielding rhythm that propelled their attack. The behemoth of a monster struggled beneath the might of these tribal warriors, the eldest among them a mere thirteen years old. Chants, exhilarating and strange, intermingled with laughter and the sound of flesh being cleaved.

They descended upon the beast with untamed frenzy, while Oliver stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the madness unfolding before him. The words of Dozia, warning of their transformation and loss of self, finally took root within his mind. All he saw now were the glinting white eyes of humanoid monsters, their clawed hands and daggers ripping through their surroundings with sadistic delight.

But Oliver shook off the distraction. Not now. Stay focused. His gaze fell upon a fallen spear, which he grasped firmly with both hands. He scanned his surroundings, observing the unfolding events. There were other Orcs, some already fallen, while members of the Lost Ones rushed to aid their comrades engaged in combat with the remaining Orcs.

But Oliver's eyes came to a halt. His heart pounded in his chest as he moved forward, disbelief and horror etched across his face. "No, oh God..." he muttered, his eyes fixated on a lifeless figure. Two Lost Ones tenderly draping a blanket over it, paying their respects before returning to battle.

Oliver's hands trembled, his body spasmed, his eyes transfixed on the motionless shape beneath the covering. He dropped to his knees, his gaze locked upon the figure, his breath faltering as it reverberated within his eardrums.

His spear hand momentarily froze, his heartbeat echoing through his entire being. He felt compelled to reach out, to touch, but before he could, a voice pierced through his anguish.

"Oliver, what are you doing?" Dozia's voice sliced through the air, her hand firmly gripping his shoulder as she forcibly turned him around. Her eyes met his, but he wrenched himself away, refusing to acknowledge her.

She observed the lifeless form, inhaling deeply before lowering her spear. With a gesture, she signaled the others to forge ahead, to lend aid to their comrades.

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The mission was on the verge of success, and now they had to face the aftermath—dealing with the fallen Orcs and, more painfully, their own losses.

Dozia's grip on Oliver tightened, her voice laced with urgency. "What are you doing, Oliver?" she demanded. "Get up. Your behavior will only breed despair and inaction if people see you like this."

She attempted to pull him to his feet, clutching his arms, but he sagged, nearly dragging her down with him. "It's my fault," he whispered, his voice heavy with guilt. "They're dead because of me."

"No, they're not," she insisted, her tone firm.

Dozia turned, surveying the battlefield strewn with lifeless Orc bodies. The plans and training had paid off, but the casualties were a painful reality. To establish their place, to flourish and grow stronger, sacrifices had to be made.

Her gaze fell upon Oliver, his eyes vacant as they fixed upon a fallen comrade, and a sense of unease gripped her. "I thought you understood," she murmured to herself.

She gripped his shoulders with such force that he felt her nails dig into his flesh. "Listen, Oliver. You're right. This was your mission, your operation, your campaign. Lives have been lost, and others are injured because of your pursuit of a new home."

Oliver's features contorted with turmoil. "It wasn't just me, don't you see, Dozia?" he snapped, rising to his feet and locking eyes with her. "We needed a new home. A place where the Lost Ones wouldn't forever skulk in the dark like rats. We needed a place to grow and become stronger."

"Then take responsibility," she snapped, jabbing her finger at his chest. "This was your decision. We had already agreed to sell the supplies and wait..."

"Wait for what?" he screamed. "There was nothing coming. We had to take action..."

"Perhaps," she conceded, her tone softening. "But that doesn't change the fact that you went against the council. This was your mission, and Oliver... you are the Deus Imperator. That name alone will inspire followers and allies who will not only fight for you but also die for you."

Oliver took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze as Dozia grabbed hold of him, spinning him around to face the numerous skirmishes between the Lost Ones and the Orcs.

"Look around, observe, Oliver!" she shouted, only to pause a moment later. "All these men and women, the entire tribe of the Lost Ones, are following you not just because you're an imposter, but because they believe you are the Deus Imperator. The one who will reclaim what was unjustly taken."

She thrust him back towards her, her wild, sweat-soaked red hair clinging to her features. "I understand, Oliver. Our ways are different to you, our whole world is foreign. I can barely fathom the dread and horror you experienced being transported to a world where you have no roots, a place you can never call home."

Amidst the clashing of steel, the ripping of flesh, the battle raged on. Dozia was no fool; Oliver couldn't afford to surrender. They had to emerge victorious. If Oliver lost his resolve and surrendered, there would be no chance for another operation.

The seeds of doubt threatened to permeate the ranks of the Lost Ones. They would view him as a false prophet, a man of empty promises. If Oliver succumbed to despair and withdrew into isolation, his grand purpose would crumble into nothingness.

"I warned you, Oliver," Dozia reminded him, her voice edged with conviction. "I told you that trials would come, that your path would be strewn with challenges..." Oliver's gaze snapped to hers.

"...and I told you, on that day, I would be prepared."

"That day," she continued, "is today. Life itself is a trial. You must carry the burden of guilt and keep forging ahead. Succumbing to this path will only lead you into darkness. Failure is not an option, Oliver!" She thrust his spear into his chest with such force that he staggered backward, gripping it tightly with both hands. Dozia stared at him, perceiving the gears turning in his mind through his eyes.

A peculiar mix of sadness and anger emanated from him, she observed. Perhaps the sadness stemmed from the losses they had suffered, while the anger was directed at her. But she cared not for his anger. Oliver was no fool, and in time, he would grasp the weight of her words. That anger would serve him well in fulfilling his mission.

"Never surrender," he murmured, his voice laden with determination. "My father always said that. He died because he refused to surrender, and a part of me wished to die with him that day. Dying in battle, it's honorable." Dozia nodded in understanding.

"Vivat gladio, mori gladio," she uttered. Oliver nodded in agreement. "Whoever lives by the sword, dies by the sword," he replied, a smirk forming on his lips. "There is honor in such things." Now it was Dozia's turn to smirk. She playfully slapped his arm before turning her gaze back to the battlefield. Throwing back the words she had spoken to him on the day he slew that slaver, she declared,

"They will be buried with honors. For they died for the Deus Imperator," Oliver mused. Dozia nodded in agreement, a feverish gleam in Oliver's eyes indicating that he had not fully returned, but it was enough. They moved as one, swift and decisive. Striking, slashing, issuing orders.

Advancing with unwavering resolve as the simple-minded Orcs, armed with their crude weapons, crumbled under the unified might of the Lost Ones. He witnessed his comrades fall, boys and girls of similar age to him, but he pressed forward.

He knew that hesitation or surrender would spell doom for the tribe. In this world, the tribe was their only refuge. His spear pierced through the fleshy arm of an Orc as a fellow Lost One darted along the creature's back.

A terror troop member, the knife in his hand struck with rapid precision, finding its mark on the Orc's face. Nose, eyes, cheeks, until it embedded deep into the skull, a gruesome trophy. The Lost One leaped off just in time, narrowly evading the Orc's crushing fall.

Oliver flung himself onto the Orc's stomach, triumphantly pumping his fist in the air. A primal scream erupted from his lips, and the horde of Lost Ones followed suit. Oliver and Dozia led the charge, relentless in their pursuit as...

They had fallen. The final gurgles of breath escaped the Orcs, reverberating in Dozia and Oliver's ears. Both of them paused in their advance, their clothes drenched in a macabre mixture of demi and Orc blood. They surveyed their surroundings. Was it... over?

Excitement and relief rippled through the groups. The Lost Ones erupted in cheers, their voices echoing across the field. They gazed upon the aftermath, where the corpses of Orcs lay strewn about like discarded playthings. A band of children playing at war had triumphed over a formidable enemy. Lives had been lost, but the tribe had grown stronger. The fallen would be honored and laid to rest, their tale etched into the annals of the tribe's legends.

It marked the first conquest and battle of the Lost Ones, the inaugural clash of Oliver, the Deus Imperator, and his Terror Troops. A battle destined to be recounted in campfire stories, eventually weaving itself into the fabric of legend.

Yet, a dreadful sound shattered the jubilant air. The ground beneath them grinded and cracked, sending tremors through their bodies. The Lost Ones instinctively flung themselves aside as the earth fractured beneath their feet.

Oliver, Dozia, and Thomas craned their necks upward, their gazes fixed on the monstrous shadow. But it wasn't merely a beast...

Its once-green skin had withered away, replaced by the pallor of a creature long confined underground. It bore neither armor nor garments, possessing no weapons. Its fangs were grotesque, on the verge of falling off, as the Lost Ones recoiled.

Beady eyes glared at them as the creature took an unsteady step forward, dwarfing even the largest Orc. Yet, amidst the gut-wrenching cry and the chilling, desperate wail, Oliver recognized the sound of sheer terror—a child's scream.

"Albino Feral Orc!"

Three words hung in the air, extinguishing the once-lively and exultant spirit of the Lost Ones. Their screams were stifled, replaced by a collective gasp. The Orc's massive hands descended in a sweeping arc, its elongated nails—or rather, fangs—slicing through the air, chilling it to the bone and tousling their hair.

The group that stood before Dozia, Oliver, and James was there one moment, and gone the next. Their weapons and limbs spun through the air in a deadly glimmer of deep crimson. The scent of blood grew heavier, and now it was the blood of their own Lost Ones.