Refugees on the Border
On the weary road between the Kingdom of Loth and the Kiswell Kingdom, nearly a hundred refugees dragged their feet forward. Their faces were thin and yellowed, their bodies weak, and their eyes held no light of hope.
They had once lived in small villages, poor but peaceful, until orc raiders came and destroyed everything. Fathers, brothers, and sons were cut down in front of them, while wives, daughters, and sisters were taken away to face horrors they could not even name.
Now, all they carried was sorrow and hate, and the will to keep walking.
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The Arrival of a Strange Truck
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a deep metallic rumble. The refugees lifted their heads in alarm, and what they saw shocked them—
A khaki-painted steel truck stood on the road ahead. To these villagers it was like a monster of iron, but it carried men who looked nothing like ordinary militia.
Soldiers in neat uniforms stepped down, eyes full of pity for the broken people before them. From the vehicle came an officer dressed in a black military uniform and a wide-brimmed hat, his presence commanding and calm.
He asked where they were going. Trembling, an old refugee replied, "Ahead is Meka Village, and behind that lies Fort Dillon."
The officer nodded, then declared:
> "We are soldiers of the Kingdom of Ross. We march to expel the orcs. If you follow us, you may enter our lands. In Ross, you will find food, shelter, and work. Our kingdom is building again—come, and live."
Hope, long dead in their hearts, flickered alive. Mothers whispered, "Food?" Children cried, "A home?" The line of broken villagers stirred with excitement, their numb eyes wet with sudden tears.
Whether the officer lied or not did not matter—his words gave them reason to keep walking.
---
A Marching Army of Salvation
Not long after, the road shook again. This time it was not a truck, but the thunder of thousands of boots.
From beyond the hills came the marching army of Ross, their steel helmets gleaming, their banners waving proudly.
Soldiers sang loud and fierce songs as they advanced:
"We will bring salvation!"
"Come to the Kingdom of Ross!"
"You will be our brothers and sisters!"
Mounted officers rode among the refugees, and instead of scorn, they handed out belts of dried meat and bread. The starving peasants clutched the food and fell to the ground weeping, their grief spilling out at last.
Behind the rows of infantry rolled massive machines of war—iron giants pulling cannons and armored wagons, unlike anything the refugees had seen before. Awe mixed with fear in their hearts, but hope drowned the fear.
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The Song of Refuge and Hope
The sight of the Ross army lit a fire in the hearts of those who had lost everything. They lifted their heads and began to sing the soldiers' marching songs themselves.
"Go to the Kingdom of Ross!"
"There is no hunger, no pain!"
"They will drive out the orcs!"
"We shall live in peace again!"
Soon, the voices of peasants, serfs, and farmers joined in chorus with the army, the sound echoing across the fields.
For them, the Kingdom of Ross became a holy land, a place almost divine. People who had once seen Ross City spread tales—how the city never slept, how it glowed with light, where no one suffered or starved. To the desperate, Ross City became equal to the City of the Gods in old myths.
---
In the Orc-Occupied Capital
But far away, in the captured capital of Loth, the truth of orc rule was painted in fire and blood.
The orcs had filled the streets with massacres and brutality, killing for sport and enslaving survivors. Within the palace halls, General Dargan, a hulking commander with a cruel smile, sat drinking heavily.
When he heard whispers of Ross, he laughed.
> "Ross? A small human kingdom dares to rise against us? Pathetic!"
One of his lieutenants added, "They say Ross's king is great. With only thousands, he once defeated a hundred thousand human troops."
Dargan scoffed. "A hundred thousand human weaklings? I could do the same before breakfast! Humans are nothing but soft-legged shrimp."
But when told that Ross's soldiers were already marching into Loth and had become the spiritual pillar of nearby humans, Dargan's expression hardened.
> "Then I will shatter their illusions. I will crush their faith. Humans will remain slaves forever!"
With a roar, he slammed his fist into the table, shattering the wood and the goblet in his hand.
---
A Fragile Peace Before the Storm
Meanwhile, the refugees rested under the care of Ross soldiers. Fires were lit, food was shared, and blankets handed out. Some slept for the first time without fear in weeks. Children clutched bread to their chests like treasure.
For one night, hope felt real.
But in the orc camps, war horns already sounded. Scouts prepared to ride, and raiding parties sharpened blades. General Dargan's plan was simple—
> Strike hard. Strike fast. Break Ross before it becomes more than a dream.
As dawn neared, the refugees dreamed of Ross City's shining streets. Yet the shadow of orc hatred was already on its way. Tomorrow would decide if hope survived—or if the refugees would once more be left with nothing but ashes.
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