Morning broke over the rugged hills, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold. The lone surviving orc from the ill-fated ambush stirred weakly, his body trembling from the blood he'd lost. The spear wound on his side had clotted poorly, and every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body. But pain was secondary—survival was paramount. Clutching the remnants of his torn tunic against the wound, he dragged himself through the wilderness, every step driven by sheer will.

By mid-morning, he reached the orc encampment nestled in a craggy valley, hidden from prying eyes. A pair of young orc guards spotted him stumbling toward the camp and rushed to his side, their expressions shifting from concern to alarm as they took in his battered state.

"By the ancestors, what happened to you?" one of them exclaimed as they carried him to a crude healer's tent.

The orc winced, gritting his teeth as he was laid down on a straw mat. "Ambushed... by a damn high elf," he muttered, his voice a rasp. "He killed them all. Grok, Darrin, even our leader. He fought like a demon... I barely got away."

The healer worked quickly, pressing herbal poultices against his wound to staunch the bleeding. A murmur rippled through the camp as word of the massacre spread. Orcs gathered outside the tent, whispering to one another in hushed tones.

At the edge of the camp, Rukar sat beneath a gnarled tree. His massive greatsword—a weapon so large it bordered on impractical—rested against the trunk beside him. The blade's width and length made it more akin to a slab of iron than a sword but no less sharp, a testament to the strength of the one who wielded it. Rukar himself was a towering figure, his frame scarred from countless battles, and his face marred by a jagged scar running across one side.

When a scout approached, Rukar opened one eye lazily. "Speak," he growled, his deep voice carrying the weight of command.

The scout hesitated before blurting out, "It's your brother. He and his gang... they're dead. A high elf killed them. One barely survived and told us everything."

Rukar froze. For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Slowly, he rose to his full height, towering over the scout. His hands clenched into fists as he processed the news.

"Dead?" His voice was low, dangerous, and filled with venom. "That damned elf butchered my brother and left his body to rot?"

"Yes," the scout confirmed. "But the elf was alone. No doubt sent on some mission by the High Priestess."

Rukar's eyes blazed. "High elves," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Those Self-righteous Bastereds Always acting so high and mighty. They enslaved us for centuries, used us as tools, and when we broke free, they cried foul." His fists tightened further. "My grandfather fought for our freedom. He died with a hundred arrows and spears in his chest and back, bathed in his own blood. I watched him fall, the last of my family, before I took my brother in."

He paused, his breath heaving. "I swore then that no elf would ever raise a hand against my people again. And now this? A high elf kills my brother, and they expect me to do nothing?"

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Rukar stormed into the center of the camp, his presence drawing a crowd. "Listen up!" he roared. "That elf murdered my brother. I'll have his head."

Murmurs of discontent spread through the group. An elder stepped forward, leaning on a cane. "Rukar, we sympathize with your loss, but revenge against the high elves will only bring ruin upon us. Their armies outnumber us, and the High Priestess won't hesitate to crush us if we provoke her."

"And you would have me sit idle?" Rukar barked. "Let them think they can kill us without consequence? My brother deserves justice!"

Another voice chimed in. "Your brother was a bandit, Rukar. He wasn't innocent."

Rukar glared, his lips curling into a snarl. "He may have been no saint, but he was my brother. And he wasn't a murderer. That elf butchered him like an animal. If none of you have the stomach for revenge, I'll go alone!"

An elder stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. "Rukar, we understand your grief, but vengeance will only bring ruin upon us. The high elves won't stand idle if you kill one of their own, especially one sent on a mission for the High Priestess."

Others murmured in agreement, their faces uneasy. "They'll send an army," another orc said. "We can't afford to provoke them."

Rukar's lip curled into a snarl. "So you'd have me sit by while my brother's killer walks free? My grandfather didn't fight and die for us to cower like frightened children. If none of you will stand with me, I'll go alone!"

"You can't," one of the warriors said firmly, stepping forward. "We won't let you throw your life away for something that could doom us all."

Rukar's eyes darkened. "You would stop me?"

"We will if we have to," the warrior replied, his voice resolute.

A heavy silence fell over the camp. Then, with terrifying speed, Rukar unsheathed his greatsword from his back. The massive blade glinted in the sunlight as he swung it in a brutal arc, cleaving through the warrior before he could even raise his weapon. Blood sprayed across the dirt as the body fell in two halves.

The camp erupted into chaos. Another orc lunged at Rukar, his axe raised high, but the enraged leader parried with ease. With a single, bone-crushing blow, he brought his greatsword down, shattering the orc's skull.

The third attacker hesitated, fear flickering in his eyes. "You'll doom us all!" he shouted before charging. Rukar met him head-on, his greatsword carving through flesh and bone with horrifying ease.

The survivors stared in shock as Rukar wiped the blood from his blade and turned to face them. His eyes burned with unyielding fury. "I will not be stopped," he growled. "Not by you. Not by anyone."

That evening, Rukar stood at the edge of the camp, his greatsword strapped to his back, and a small satchel of provisions slung over his shoulder. Before he departed, he paid a visit to a young elf he had kept imprisoned a week ago—a dark elf spy who masqueraded as a high elf. The elf, lounging casually in his makeshift cell, raised an eyebrow as Rukar approached.

"Here to gloat?" the elf asked.

"No," Rukar said, tossing a pouch of gold onto the ground and a key to his chains. "I need information."

The elf smirked, pocketing the gold and holding the key in his hand. "What do you want to know?"

"Where is that high elf going?" Rukar demanded. "The one who killed my brother."

The elf smirked, "Word is your elf killer's on a some sort of mission of high important for the High Priestess. She was seen near Eryndor not long ago. If he's smart, he'll stick close to her."

Rukar nodded. "Good. That's all I needed."

As he stepped out of the cell, the elf called after him, "You know, Rukar, you're walking a dangerous path. Killing a high elf on their sacred ground? You might as well paint a target on your back."

Rukar didn't respond. He had no time for politics or warnings. His path was clear, and his rage was unrelenting. If he had to cut down every elf in Eryndor to avenge his brother, so be it.

With the moon high above, he left the camp behind, his heart burning with a hatred that eclipsed reason. The hunt had begun.