With a war hammer towering above him, Rabiot, the indomitable beta plus-level dwarf king, charged into the heart of the orc horde, a force of nature amidst the chaos of battle. Each swing of his formidable weapon sent shockwaves through the enemy ranks, none able to withstand the relentless fury of the dwarf monarch. Even the largest orcs, towering the size of 2 m, crumbled like mere children beneath the onslaught of the 1.5-m tall Rabiot, none surviving more than a single breath under his mighty hammer.

Yet, despite his ferocity, Rabiot bore the visible marks of recent struggle, his pale lips betraying the exhaustion that weighed upon him. The chains of magic suppression, from which he had only just broken free, had sapped his strength, leaving him far from his full power. But fueled by the burning fire of vengeance that raged within him, Rabiot pushed aside his weariness, refusing to yield to the physical toll exacted upon him.

However, his moment of triumph was shattered by the ominous words of Masi 'Barbarian Hammer', who approached with a grave message. The army that descended upon the orcs was not their long-awaited reinforcement but a force far more sinister – vampires. At the mention of these dark creatures, Rabiot's expression darkened with concern and confusion. Vampires? Why would they be involved in this conflict?

Though questions swirled within his mind, Rabiot knew that there was no time to dwell on them. The terror of vampires was well-known to him, their dark powers capable of wreaking havoc upon even the mightiest of foes. Yet, with his dwarf tribe weakened and fractured from years of enslavement, they stood no chance against such formidable adversaries. Realizing the gravity of the situation, Rabiot made the difficult decision to retreat, knowing that his people's survival depended on it.

"Notify all our people," he commanded with a heavy heart, "leave immediately through the secret passage." Though he longed for revenge against their oppressors, Rabiot understood that his people were too vulnerable to withstand the onslaught of vampires and their minions. Alone, he might have fought to the death, but he could not bear the thought of his people, including the elderly and children, being sacrificed in a futile battle.

"Yes, chief." As Masi turned to leave, Rabiot's blood ran cold. A monstrous silhouette blotted out the firelight, followed by hundreds more. The air vibrated with the beat of leathery wings – vampire bats, colossal and nightmarish. Rabiot's gut twisted. He knew their power, their unholy resilience. Normally, he'd relish the challenge, but now, his dwarves were defenseless, forced to watch as the 10 m wingspans cast a pall of fear over them.

Frustration gnawed at him. He had to retreat, to survive, but leaving his people behind was an agonizing decision. He saw the confusion in the eyes of his warriors as the bats, once allies, now turned against them, scattering the dwarven ranks.

Hope flickered as more dwarves rallied to his side, their number swelling to over three hundred. For a moment, their formation held strong against the orcish horde. Then, the bats descended, a whirlwind of claws and fangs, tearing at the dwarves, driving them back from their king.

Despair threatened to engulf Rabiot, but he wouldn't yield. "My people! Form ranks! We return for our brothers! Dwarves never retreat!"

"Never retreat!" The mountains echoed with their defiant roar. The fire in their eyes mirrored his own – a burning oath of vengeance.

As they prepared to charge back into the city, a tremor shook the ground, followed by a bone-chilling roar that ripped through the night sky. The dragon. Masi, his face etched with worry, looked to Rabiot, his determination unwavering.

"Chief Rabiot, the dragon comes! We must leave!"

"No! Our brothers are still within!" Rabiot's voice resonated with the conflict tearing him apart.

"Chief!" Masi's desperation clawed at him. "If we stay, we die in vain! We live to fight another day! With the Copper Hammer at our side, these orcs and their vampire masters will become the hunted!"

The weight of his responsibility pressed down on Rabiot. He looked back at the burning city, then at his remaining warriors, their faces grim but resolute. A decision had to be made.

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Rabiot's heart pounded against his ribs, a drum echoing the urgency in his ears. He met the gaze of his lieutenant, a silent conversation passing between them - the weight of their people's future heavy on their shoulders. With a curt nod, Rabiot turned and led the three hundred dwarves, their faces etched with fear and determination, away from the city's edge. Each step through the secret valley passage towards their ancestral home was a step further from the clutches of the blood clan, each breath a prayer for escape.

Above them, Morgen circled on his bone dragon, fury simmering beneath his cold exterior. His prey, the dwarf king, had slipped through his fingers and into the labyrinthine depths of an abandoned mine. Stanley, his lieutenant, pulsed with the thrill of the hunt. "Ancestor," he began, his voice laced with bloodlust, "should we pursue?"

But before the words could leave his lips, the earth convulsed. A thunderous roar echoed through the valley as the mine entrance crumbled, sealed shut by the dwarves' desperate use of alchemical bombs. Morgen's lips curled into a sneer; even in their retreat, the dwarves dared to defy him. "No need," he hissed, his voice like the grating of stone. "Cleanse the battlefield. Leave none of the orcs alive. The dwarves are our spoils - do not harm them... yet."

His orders unleashed a torrent of dark fury. Over a hundred blood clan members, their eyes burning with the thrill of carnage, descended upon the remaining orcs. A symphony of screams and the metallic tang of blood filled the air. The orcs, leaderless and lost, were lambs to the slaughter, their superior numbers no match for the blood clan's ruthless efficiency.

In the heart of the carnage, Stanley reveled, his fangs bared in a savage grin. Each fallen orc brought him closer to the ultimate prize - the dwarf king's head. He would find a way into that mine, and when he did, Rabiot would pay for his defiance.

This war, like all wars, was a brutal dance of survival. It was a canvas painted with the crimson hues of desperation and dominance, where lives were mere brushstrokes in the grand scheme of conquest. And in this dance, the blood clan had taken the lead, their hunger for power echoing in the dying gasps of their enemies.

The blood clan shouted to the dwarves, “We are allies here to rescue the dwarves. As long as the dwarves don’t attack the Holy Light Blood Clan, we won’t harm them.” The panicked dwarves didn’t believe it at first, and fierce battles ensued. But then they realized the vampires didn’t attack them and even helped when they were in danger.

Although the dwarves didn’t fully trust the blood clan, they no longer attacked them as they did the orcs. One day, two days, time passed quickly. In the night, the valley witnessed its most brutal scene. Slaughter was the main theme, death the hymn of the night. Every second, lives were lost. No breath, pale faces, bodies everywhere. Blood stained every inch of the land.

The blood clan’s main enemies had lost the will to resist. Countless orcs dropped their weapons and armor, running madly out of the dwarf valley. The blood clan couldn’t stop them; there were too many, and they were too few.

The battle lasted from midnight to dawn. When the first light pierced the clouds over the dwarf valley, the brutal racial war ended. By then, the dwarf city was half-destroyed, tall buildings collapsed on the streets, beams and stones scattered, blocking most roads.

The spire of the street corner cross clock was shattered, leaning against another four-story gray stone house, the clock hitting the wall in the wind with a ‘duangduang’ sound. Streets were destroyed, and under some collapsed houses, pale arms stretched out from the rubble, blood seeping out, life always cheap in war.

Rubble filled every street, all telling of war’s cruelty and indifference. But that’s for the losers. The victors get all the sweetness.

Morgen stood on a street in the dwarf city, not completely destroyed, looking at the half-collapsed city with a calm expression. As if all this had nothing to do with him, the instigator. The bats in the sky still hunted, preventing enemies from returning, and the blood clan tied up the surviving orc prisoners.

This is war, Morgen thought, complex emotions in his deep eyes. Though he’d been through several wars, such destruction still moved him. “Maybe this is sentimental, mmp, winning but still mourning…” Morgen criticized himself.

“Ancestor, the orc king is awake, and the dwarves also seek an audience with you.” Nearby, Stanley approached with excitement, his eyes full of admiration for Morgen. Under the Ancestor’s command, they’d won a great victory, unprecedented. They’d wiped out an orc tribe with tens of thousands of soldiers in one night and captured a powerful beta-level werewolf and an beta plus-level orc king.

If word got out, they’d be praised by everyone in Green City, and tonight’s war would be sung by minstrels. And all credit goes to the great Ancestor. Without his decisive orders, none of this would’ve happened.

Morgen didn’t know his blood kin had silently given him all the credit. If he knew, he’d be pleased, “You want to praise me?” He nodded at the news. “See the dwarves first, and as for the orc king… this lion warrior is our prisoner now, just keep him alive.”

Then he looked meaningfully at the hundreds of dwarves in the distance. This meat was indeed fat.