Ficool

Chapter 14 - SIDE CHAPTER/ TYR0X

The fire popped and hissed, smoke curling upward into the rafters. The sound of goblins chattering and scurrying about filled the cavernous hall. The walls creaked faintly, built of sturdy, unskilled wood that looked as though it might collapse under its own weight. Above, hanging from the ceiling like an insult, was a chandelier far too regal for this den.

Its light washed the room in a deep, uneven glow, throwing long shadows that made the air feel heavy and sinister.

The hall stretched wide, benches lining both sides of a central walkway. At its end rose a throne; if one could call it that. It was a mess of shapes and jagged angles, chaotic at first glance, but contained within a precise order.

On that throne sat an orc.

Tyrox.

Thirteen feet of hardened flesh, his body plated as if nature itself had forged him armor. His frame didn't sag with fatigue, nor did it tense with alertness. He simply sat, eternal, his posture a warning. His face was frozen in a glare that could've been carved into stone, the only proof of life being the faint red glimmer that flared and dimmed within his eyes.

His horns arched upward, massive, easily capable of skewering prey, though he rarely used them. He disliked the inconvenience of bending his body for such a strike.

Around him, goblins ran about in a frenzy, carrying platters of food and buckets of water, desperate to appease him before he spoke a word. His silence was command enough.

Orcs were not meant to live like this.

Most of their kind shunned crowds and lived in solitude, not because they were mindless brutes, but because they were cursed with intelligence. To be born from goblin blood and sapient flesh was to inherit both awareness and disgust. A creature that thinks like a man, yet walks in the skin of a beast. Most chose exile, seeking the quiet where their own reflection could not shame them.

But not Tyrox.

He had been born of a daemon mother and a goblin father. His earliest years were spent under the yoke of the Volarian Empire, kept in a compound for half-breeds and slaves. His mother remained close, restrained by duty and fear. His father lived in a cage, reduced to little more than livestock. It was only brought out to feed, or to rut.

From an early age, the concept of strength was a shining light in Tyrox's life. Perhaps it was from books or the idle chatter amongst the halfbreeds, telling stories of powerful individuals who were halfbreeds themselves, striking against the chains of prejudice that bound them. The sapients were the ones who put them in these situations, treating them as weapons of war.

Of course, he harbored intense hatred for them.

From then on, he wanted to morph into such an individual. A proud hero.

'I will attain strength, to take revenge on those that would take me as a slave.'

Tyrox had stumbled into the goblin quarters once. He saw his father kill a rat, teeth tearing through sinew until the meat unraveled in bloody strings. Something stirred in the boy as he watched, not revulsion, but recognition.

'I was born from a creature unchained by morals. A beast that takes what it needs. A creature that pursues strength, challenging stronger and stronger opponents, with no regard for its safety.'

Most children like him rejected their goblin blood, running from savagery in favor of thought. But Tyrox… Tyrox looked at his mother, fragile and fearful, living in shame of what others thought of her. And he sneered.

'She limits herself. She bends to the gaze of others. But this world belongs not to the ashamed, it belongs to those who kill, to those who endure. She limits her strength simply because of the false sheets of 'humanity' covering her. This is not strength; she is weak.

That night, his path was set.

Strength. At any cost.

He rejected his sentience, his emotion. He let his beast consume him.

The first act of this new creed was simple. He found a brick. He caved his mother's skull in while she slept.

When morning came, he freed his father and fled into the wilds.

They suffered. They bled. Sometimes his own father would attack him, nearly killing him, but Tyrox believed it was necessary. Each wound was proof of strength earned, of weakness being torn away. He bore it all without complaint, walking beside his father like a shadow of faith.

A higher life form trailing behind a lower one.

However, one day, that shadow of faith had dissipated.

The goblin died screaming, his head torn clean from his shoulders by a kobold alpha he had dared to challenge. All because the beast had taken his kill.

Tyrox stared at the headless corpse, at the blood pooling into the dirt. He felt no sorrow. Only clarity.

'Instinct drove father to this point. There is clearly a threshold one must not cross. What is it?'

And so, the Orc continued down his path, chasing the shape of strength. As years crawled past, his body swelled, growing thicker and harder, flesh molding into armor until he looked less like a man and more like a fortress given form. He no longer resembled a humanoid, only the echo of one remained. His face, once full of emotion molded into a form resembling a faceplate.

Perhaps ten, maybe twenty years into his wandering, Tyrox found himself in an Umbral valley, facing a beast twice his size, a two-headed monstrosity that fought with tooth and claw.

The battle was long, far too long. His armor cracked, blood spilled freely, yet at last his club shattered one head from its shoulders. Finally, the creature staggered, weakened.

Victory was in sight as the Orc raised his club above the final head.

But he paused.

A human settlement lingered not far from this valley. Untouchable. Guarded by two Severant users and a Thaumite, their might was beyond even him. If he were to lay a siege on them, he would have surely been executed swiftly. Half breeds were known to have no aptitude when it came to analyzing the pattern, only capable of utilizing their monstrous abilities.

He looked down at the crippled beast. Its strength was raw, untamed. Perhaps…if harnessed…. It was enough to crush those humans.

He lowered his club. From his satchel he drew a slab of meat, meant for himself, and cast it before the monster. It devoured the offering in seconds.

Days passed before it bent to his will, but bend it did.

When the time came, Tyrox and the beast fell upon the human compound. It was slaughter. Screams split the air, steel clashed against bone, and the walls of man crumbled like rotten wood. He bludgeoned down warriors, women, children alike, their blood spraying the dirt as his pet ripped through bodies like straw.

And in the midst of carnage, revelation struck him.

'This is strength,' he thought, as his club crashed down on a man's head, blood splattering against his form, painting him crimson red. 'To wield the beast with the mind of the sapient. To use savagery, but never drown in it. To command, not to fall.'

It was not instinct. It was not reason. It was both, chained together into something higher.

From that day forward, Tyrox never fought alone. He did not throw himself into battles blindly. He bent others to his will, beasts and goblins alike, grinding them into tools to carve out his survival. Strength was no longer just his body.

Strength was control.

Now, in the present, the Orc sat upon his throne of jagged order, lifting one massive hand. His fingers snapped. The crack resounded through the hall like thunder, and the goblins froze. In moments, one shuffled forward, trembling violently from the opposing demon sitting above him. A dagger clung to his side, pitiful against the mountain before him.

Tyrox's glare bored into him. His voice rolled out, a deep growl that shook the air.

"Has there been word from the Orthrus?"

The goblin swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "N-no, my lord. Nothing yet."

The Orc leaned back, exhaling through the two holes present on his 'face', his disdain heavy enough to choke the air. Rage seeped into the room, though he didn't move a muscle.

Kyros.

The vermin had been exiled, yes, but Tyrox had never once underestimated him. That goblin had changed too much in the valley. His cunning, his spark. it was dangerous. That was why Lyros, the Orthrus, had been dispatched.

To tear out Kyros's throat before the thought of return could even form. It should have taken hours. Days had passed. The silence was too loud.

"Send archers to the borders," Tyrox growled. "Kill anything that moves. Do what you want with the scraps."

The goblin scurried away, vanishing into the shadows. It had left with such speed that it was considered surprising, even by the standards of goblins. Tyrox was left alone with his thoughts, massive hands gripping the arms of his throne.

"Damned goblins," he muttered. "You're nothing but vermin. You should rot at the bottom of my ranks. Yet here I am, forced to make you my hands and eyes."

His trust lay only in Lyros, his beast. The goblins' famed recon meant nothing to him; they were too clever, too soft, too easily swayed. Now Lyros was gone, or dead, and Tyrox felt the edges of control slipping.

So he resolved. If the goblins grew too civilized, too bold, he would strip them of it. He would burn their homes, break their shelters, drive them back into the dirt until survival was all they knew. Civilization would be crushed out of them until they remembered what they were meant to be: animals.

And if Kyros survived? If the rat still breathed?

Tyrox's teeth bared as he snarled.

"Damned goblin."

More Chapters