Ten miles away, hidden deep within the Bailus swamp, a lonely hut stood in eerie silence. Its thatched roof sagged beneath the weight of damp moss, and the walls, made of uneven logs, seemed almost ready to collapse. Yet the inside pulsed with a life of its own. Dim candlelight flickered across the walls, revealing a massive stone totem carved with faces that no living man could recognize—distorted visages with hollow eyes and twisted mouths frozen mid-scream.
Blood pooled thickly at its base, drawn from the corpses scattered around the hut. The remains belonged to more than just orcs. Wolves, bison, and even a Flaming Serpent—the undisputed predator of Bailus Forest—lay broken and discarded like offerings.
The serpent's crimson scales, once radiant, were dulled with death. Its head, crushed beyond recognition, looked more like shattered pottery than bone. For decades, mercenaries and adventurers alike had fled at the mere rumor of its presence. Now, it was nothing but a carcass, one more sacrifice to something far greater.
At the heart of the totem, a dark orb swirled. Blood gathered into its depths, pulsing with a rhythm that mimicked a heartbeat—ominous, slow, unrelenting.
Before it knelt a massive orc draped in ragged furs, his body rippling with muscle even in repose. His tusks jutted upward in jagged arcs, and his eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, fixated on the orb. His lips curled into a cruel sneer.
This was no ordinary warrior.This was the Orc Chief, shaman of the tribe, tyrant of the swamp.
The door burst open. An orc no taller than two meters stumbled inside, his chest heaving, drenched in sweat. At the sight of the chief bowing before the totem, he dropped instantly to his knees. His forehead pressed against the dirt floor, his entire frame trembling as if proximity to the totem alone drained his strength.
The silence stretched unbearably long. Then, at last, the chief rose, towering over the kneeling figure. He spoke in a guttural voice, heavy with power, each word reverberating through the hut like a drumbeat.
"Zola."
The smaller orc flinched at his name. "C-Chief?"
"You wish to speak. Then speak."
Zola swallowed, his throat dry. "The humans march. Their banners… they cross the swamps as we speak. If we wait—"
The chief raised a single finger, silencing him. "I understand your concern. You will take the warriors who are prepared and stall them."
Zola's mouth opened in protest, but the chief's eyes flashed like molten iron, and the words died in his throat.
"Go to the armory," the shaman continued. "Take the scrolls. Use them as needed."
Zola's eyes widened. Scrolls—treasured remnants of stolen magic, capable of turning even an untrained orc into a spellcaster. They were not meant for grunts, nor for skirmishes. Their use was reserved for moments of desperation.
"Chief, those scrolls—"
"Do not question me," the shaman snarled. The totem behind him pulsed with dark light, as if echoing his anger. "Go."
Zola bowed low, his tusks scraping the floor. "I… obey."
He turned to leave when the chief's voice halted him again. "Wait."
Zola froze. Slowly, he turned back.
The chieftain removed a heavy ring from his finger, pressing it into Zola's palm. The cold metal bit against his skin like ice.
"This is my mandate. Show it to the vault keeper. Tell him to bring me the beast core of our ancestors."
Zola stiffened, eyes widening in shock. The beast core was a sacred relic, said to contain the condensed essence of their tribe's greatest champion. It was a symbol of their unity, their strength—a treasure never to be squandered.
"Chief…" Zola whispered. "The core—"
"It will hasten the ritual," the shaman cut him off. His deep voice lowered to a growl. "With the gods' blessing, we will drive the humans from these lands and reclaim what is ours. Now go. Time runs short."
Zola hesitated, his heart pounding. His instincts screamed at him to protest, to plead that this path led only to ruin. Yet among orcs, strength was law. His voice meant nothing against the chief's will.
He nodded. "I will not fail."
The chief's lips curved in a satisfied sneer. "See that you don't."
Zola fled the hut, clutching the ring tightly. His mind churned as he raced toward the armory. Though he obeyed, unease gnawed at his core. He did not lust for conquest as the chief did. He longed for a home, for stability, for an end to this endless bloodshed. But the chief—he craved domination. Power. War eternal.
And among orcs, such a vision always prevailed.
The Human Side
The evening sun dipped low, staining the sky with hues of orange and crimson. Yet the army did not halt. At Renher's command, they marched still.
"We move through the night," he declared, his voice carrying effortlessly across the lines. "At dawn, we strike."
Grumbles passed through the ranks—some subtle, some not. Lancers exchanged weary looks. Archers tugged at bowstrings, muttering under their breath. Even the mages, cloaked in embroidered robes, cast irritated glances his way. But none dared voice their discontent aloud.
Thymur, however, did. "Pushing men through a swamp at night, Renher?" His tone was sharp, but not disrespectful. "You'll break their legs before we reach the enemy."
Renher glanced at him from atop his steed. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes betrayed the unease gnawing at him.
"The silence of this forest unsettles me," he said quietly. "No beasts. No ambushes. Nothing. The orcs are planning something, and I will not give them the luxury of time."
Thymur grunted, but he didn't argue further. He knew Renher too well. When the general wore that look, there was no swaying him.
As the march continued, Renher's falcon, Horus, returned from the skies above, perching on his armored shoulder. The bird shifted uneasily, its sharp eyes scanning the dark horizon. Even the beast sensed the tension in the air.
At the swamp's edge, Renher raised a hand. The mages stepped forward, staffs glowing faintly in the gloom.
"Geomend," Renher ordered.
The incantations began, their voices rising in practiced unison. The air shimmered as the mud and muck of the swamp hardened, solidifying into a makeshift path. It stretched slowly before them, allowing the soldiers to cross.
One archer muttered, "I'd rather fight a hundred orcs than sleep in this cursed place."
His companion smirked, jabbing him with an elbow. "Careful what you wish for. Renher might hear you and arrange it."
The first soldier grimaced. "If he does, you're going first."
Their banter drew a few chuckles, easing the tension, if only for a moment.
The army moved forward in silence, broken only by the rhythmic chants of the mages. The swamp stretched endlessly, forcing them to halt often so the spellcasters could rest. Sweat trickled down their brows; their faces grew pale from exhaustion.
By the time they reached solid ground, many were dragging their feet. Yet still, no enemy appeared. No resistance.
Renher frowned deeply. His instincts screamed that this was wrong. The orcs never left their enemies unharassed.
That night, the army camped. Watch duties were settled through the usual means—gambling, debts, or brute intimidation. Renher took no part in it. He retired to his tent, Horus perched nearby, but rest eluded him. His body was weary, yet his mind churned ceaselessly.
Something was coming. He could feel it.
Renher woke with a start. A strange murmuring filled the air, low and alien. His body felt heavy, drained of strength. His eyes opened to darkness—not the fabric of his tent, but an unfamiliar void stretching endlessly around him.
The ground beneath his feet was barren and gray, like ash. The air was thick, suffocating, and carried no scent of earth, fire, or life. Only emptiness.
His hand shot to his side, reaching for his sword—only to find nothing. His scabbard was gone. His heart hammered, but he steadied his stance, instincts honed by countless battles taking over.
A sound echoed behind him.
Renher spun around—and froze.
In the distance loomed a structure unlike anything he had ever seen. A temple, if it could be called such, rising high into the void.
Its spires clawed at the sky, jagged and twisted, as if the stone itself had been bent by hatred. Walls of obsidian drank in the dim light, casting shadows darker than the void itself. Narrow windows glowed faintly, like eyes watching him from afar.
The silence pressed in on him. The weight of dread settled on his chest like chains. Yet his feet moved of their own accord, carrying him forward.
Renher had never feared death. He had never feared pain. But to face something unknown, something beyond comprehension—that stirred a terror unlike any wound ever had.
Still, he pressed on.
Because turning back was not an option.