The day of war dawned heavy. The camp was alive long before the sun reached its peak. Orc soldiers clashed weapons together in ritual, their cries echoing into the morning sky. The smell of iron, sweat, and oil hung thick as they sharpened axes and spears against whetstones, sparks spitting into the dirt. Armor was strapped tight with rawhide cords, painted with streaks of red ochre that marked each warrior's clan.
Shamans shuffled between the squads, grinding herbs into ash and pressing it into wounds both old and new. Some muttered curses of protection, others carved runes of despair into crude wooden charms. Kimpa herself moved calmly, her hands never trembling even as she painted runes of warding across Himmel's breastplate. "This will not stop death," she told him, voice low and firm, "but it will slow its hand. That is all the blessing I can give."
Drummers pounded war beats, steady at first, then rising into a rhythm that mimicked the pounding of the warriors' hearts. The ground vibrated with every strike. Around the fires, younger Orcs sang blood songs, their voices hoarse, their eyes wide with both fear and savage joy.
Even the herd was prepared. The horses were brushed and armored with whatever scraps the smiths could forge in time—thin plates tied with leather straps, protection more symbolic than practical. Riaz stood taller than the rest, snorting steam, her eyes reflecting the firelight like molten gold. Himmel stroked her mane before stepping away, whispering, "I'll come back. We all will."
Texan and Abbot were sent out, taking a long curve toward the denser forest near the enemy's village. Branches cracked under their boots, the damp smell of moss and soil clung to their nostrils, and in the distance the thrum of war drums echoed like a heartbeat.
Meanwhile, Himmel and the full army stood at the ready. The battlefield stretched wide before them—scarred dirt, broken stumps, and the haze of smoke already rising from burning torches.
"Damn," Himmel muttered under his breath, "it's really about to happen. I really might die." His voice was swallowed by the growing roar of hundreds preparing for slaughter.
Rumbleback's command tore through the din. The veteran chief barked orders with the force of thunder, his scarred voice cutting over clattering armor. Squads broke off into formation, shields clashing as they formed a deadly arrow-tip wedge. Dust rose with every stomp, the earth itself trembling beneath the weight of Orcs readying for blood.
On the enemy's side, distant across the plains, torches flared like stars against the gloom. Horns blared, low and dreadful, carrying their challenge across the no man's land. From the ridge, silhouettes moved—shields locking together, pikes bristling, the dark outline of a disciplined horde waiting to crash down like a storm. Himmel's heart sank when he saw the largest of them—his father's unmistakable shape, towering and broad, and beside him the smaller, poised figure of his mother, her staff already glowing faintly with power.
Rumbleback stepped forward, his scarred frame wrapped in iron and leather, his voice a thunderclap. "Form ranks! Squads to your chiefs—arrow-tip formation!" The soldiers moved with discipline, squads tightening, shields and blades ready. The wedge shape took form, a spear aimed straight at the enemy's chest.
Then he turned to Himmel, eyes cold but fierce. "Alright, kid. They'll underestimate you. Take advantage of that."
Himmel pulled his helmet on, the iron cool against his sweating brow, and drew in one long, steady breath.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Himmel looked up, and the darkening sky stared back—grey clouds swirling as if even the heavens awaited the clash. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Then the ground shook. A low rumble rose to a roar—the enemy charge. War cries tore through the silence, raw and bestial, each one promising death. Heat radiated from the mass of bodies slamming together, the battlefield itself burning with fury.
The war had begun.
"Ok, they started fighting, let's move," Abbot said, signaling to Texan.
Texan nodded, grabbing the siege ladder alongside five other Orcs. Their small unit had strength: one level 5, ten level 4s, and thirty-nine level 3s. Enough to strike hard and fast.
The level 5 charged first, a walking tank of muscle and steel. Guards crumpled before him like dry twigs, bodies hurled into walls as his weapon carved arcs of death. Level 4s swept through the rest, tearing apart defenses like paper.
Texan smirked. "Shit, big man can handle it on his own."
Abbot loosed an arrow, the shaft burying itself in a soldier's skull. "Guess we're just the decoration, huh."
But then Texan spotted it: a half-dead soldier crawling, blood streaming, dragging himself toward the watchtower where a massive horn waited. His face was twisted with conviction—if he could blow that horn, the entire enemy force would be warned.
"Not happening," Texan spat.
The duo darted forward, weaving between falling bodies and the spray of arrows. But a civilian stumbled into their path, fists clenched in desperate defiance.
Abbot drew his bow, voice hard. "Look, man. You don't have to die."
The man ignored him and charged. Texan struck first, feinting with a drunken stagger before landing a wobbling punch that dazed the civilian just long enough. Abbot's arrow flew, clean and merciless, splitting his skull.
Texan exhaled. "Even if he was level 2, he probably never trained. This place is soft. Softer than even the port city." He sprinted up the tower steps, Abbot close behind.
The blood trail of the crawling soldier painted the stairs. At the top, they heard it—breath, ragged and sharp. One breath that could undo everything.
The bowstring snapped. The whistle of an arrow cut through the air, striking the blow point of the horn. The note faltered, dying in the soldier's throat.
Texan lunged, blade flashing, but the wounded Orc dodged with a final surge of strength. The Wobbly Wombat style flowed—Texan feinted right, spun, and caught him with a scorpion kick. Abbot's arrow slammed into the soldier's chest, staggering him back. Texan drove a dizzying punch into the solar plexus. Together, synchronized at last, fist and arrow struck in the same instant. The soldier toppled over the edge of the tower, body falling just as one of Himmel's fireballs exploded across the battlefield below.
Himmel fought like a shadow. His armor blackened by soot, he struck unseen from the chaos—an axe to a back, a stab to a tendon, a fireball bursting through gaps in defenses. Not a hero's duel, but death by disruption. He knew the truth: on a battlefield, a single second of hesitation meant death. If he could buy that second, it was enough.
The tide was shifting. Their side was winning, the enemy's numbers dwindling. But the true main force had yet to move.
And then they did.
Grugalor strode forward, Margot at his side. Her curses rippled outward, breaking squads in an instant, dropping warriors to their knees in despair. Grugalor's great sword swept aside entire ranks, blood spraying like rain. In a mere 3 minutes, fifty of their soldiers were gone. The numbers evened at a brutal cost: one hundred dead on each side.
Rumbleback bellowed and charged, his presence a wall of fury. Kimpa surged forward, her staff glowing with power, curses weaving into shields and counter spells. The chiefs clashed in the center of the battlefield—Orc tradition dictating the duel, the Chief Stance. Neither side moved. Neither yielded. Only death would decide.
Grugalor laughed through it all. "Good! Good! You're a strong Orc! You make this fun!" His voice was savage joy, his blade drenched in blood.
Rumbleback did not answer. His silence was steel and so was his blade.
Himmel fought on the edges of the clash, lungs burning, blood slick in his armor. His mind raced: The flank. Abbot and Texan should be here by now. He remembered his own words, spoken days earlier: "Stay in the fight. Scavenging before the battle is done is how people die."
He raised three fireballs into the sky—signals, desperate beacons begging for reinforcements.
Texan saw them. They stood in the enemy village, surrounded by corpses, civilians bound, guards slaughtered. One Orc urged them: "We finished killing guards. Civilians tied up. Let's go back to war!"
But greed spoke louder than loyalty.
"Eh, they'll be fine. We have time," Texan muttered, ignoring the fireballs streaking through the sky.
Abbot's eyes were fixed on the treasures glittering in the chief's hall. His hand closed around a level 3 bow, his lips twisting into a hungry smile. "What's the point of fighting empty-handed?"
Himmel's warning was forgotten. Or worse—dismissed. They looted with cold conviction. Texan clutched a 4-star martial arts scroll, Abbot strung his new bow, and together they piled wands, bones, relics into their arms while their comrade bled and screamed for aid.
On the battlefield, Himmel felt it. The absence. The silence where their arrows and fists should have been. The betrayal that cut deeper than his wounds.
The battlefield trembled as the tide of Orc blood pooled into the dirt. For a moment, the din of combat thinned to one terrible center: the clash of chiefs. Rumbleback, his armor scarred and smeared with gore, squared himself before Grugalor. Behind them, Margot—Himmel's mother—stood like a shadow, her curses dripping over the battlefield, turning brave warriors into husks of despair.
Himmel darted between corpses, his sword coated in soot and blood, doing all he could to weaken soldiers with quick strikes and limited fire bursts. Every tendon cut, every joint scorched, bought seconds for his comrades. But seconds bled into minutes, and the enemy's shamans grew bolder.
Steel met steel, sparks showering like fireflies. Blow after blow, Grugalor pressed forward, his blade wide and savage, his laughter booming like a storm. Rumbleback blocked, countered, slashed with precision born of discipline and scars. The onlookers, even mid-battle, slowed to watch—the old tradition had gripped them all.
Himmel weaved through the melee, his chest pounding. He knew this was the time. Rumbleback, as if sensing his intent, gave him a chance. With a sudden feint, Rumbleback broke the stance, stepping back a pace. The watching Orcs gasped—sacrilege! Grugalor roared:
"DISHONOR! You're not a chief. You fake Orc!"
Rumbleback only smirked, voice sharp with disdain:"The way you talk dishonors me. Why do you speak like a caveman?"
The insult landed. Grugalor, teeth gnashing, raised his massive blade and all of sudden a shout rang.
"DEATH SLASH!!"
A wave of raw magic tore forward, screaming across the battlefield. Himmel darted into the chaos, his small figure nearly invisible among corpses. And in that sliver of an opening, he struck.
His sword bit into Grugalor's back, cutting across the already wounded flesh Rumbleback had opened. Grugalor felt every little bit of the power, and it would grow stronger with each death on the battle field. Blood sprayed, hot and steaming. For a heartbeat, Himmel thought he'd done it—that they had cracked the tyrant's hide.
Then the world shattered.
Grugalor's backhand caught Himmel square, sending him crashing into the mud. His bones cracked, ribs shattering, blood bubbling in his throat. Through blurred vision, Himmel saw Rumbleback surge forward and slash again, widening the wound. Grugalor staggered, then fell silent.
And then… sand. Sand flung into Rumbleback's eyes. A curse—Margot's curse further increased the blindness.
Before he could recover, agony bloomed in his left arm. Flesh ripped, blood gushed, and his arm hit the ground with a wet thud. Rumbleback roared, but his strength faltered.
Kimpa's voice cut through the chaos, weaving spells as fast as her lips could move, slowing Grugalor by precious seconds. But even slowed, the chieftain's blows were titanic. Orc after Orc was cleaved apart as his rampage began.
Bodies piled. Blood ran like rivers.
Himmel desperately drank one of his few health potions. Barely being able to get back to his feet he began contemplating. "Where the fuck are they, no way in hell could they be taking this long. Either they fucking died or something went terribly wrong, fuck it."
Himmel then shouted at Grugalor, "Hey you dumb Orc chief, did ya realize that we're missing a few bodies from the field?" Grugalor barely gave a slight glance at Himmel. "What about you shaman BITCH!" Himmel then raised his sword towards the enemy village, in a taunting voice, "Your gwaurd go bye bye, youre pweople go bye bye." Margot saw the dimmed lights of the village his words were true. With no choice Margot sent a few soldier back to the village to make sure and kill any intruders. Himmel slightly wondered why she did that as we are winning in numbers.
The battlefield tilted. Rumbleback, one arm gone, staggered in his own blood. Grugalor loomed, lips twisted in a grin that showed nothing but hate. With a final heaving slash, the enemy chief cleaved Rumbleback in half.
There was no roar of victory from Grugalor. No savoring. Only silence—then the storm of his rage, cutting into squads of Orcs, tearing their lines apart.
After their infiltration they weren't left without any casualties, 3 level 4's died and 20 level 3's died. Although the had perfect initiation, the field advantage was in favor for the enemy. 40 Orcs were running home, out manned Texan offered to run. "Hey, look I think we should let the level 5 die here as we leave with the time he will save us." Abbot, looking straight at Texans eyes said, "No, lets fight, we can win."
Being reluctant, Texan agreed. The counter siege began quickly, one by one our Orcs were dying. Every 1 that we killed 3 of ours died. With Abbot and Texan being in the back they went with Texan original plan. They ran away and as they jumped over the gates Himmel was in a desperate fight. More and more soldiers were dying, 500 total bodies were lying on the ground.
Himmel dragged himself up, every breath agony. His sword cracked, his body broken drinking his final potion for any semblance of strength. Yet still he fought, weaving his final flames into the air, raising walls of fire to hold the enemy back. "Stay together!" he screamed, herding survivors behind his last defenses.
But he was alone. The flank never came. His allies never returned. Over the fires Grugalor pounced, with his great sword swinging over his head he aimed to kill as many as possible. In the perfect timing Himmel jumped from the back of a soldier and shouted, "DEATH SLASH!!!"
A loud piercing sound rung through the battle field. Slamming into his fathers weapons the ringing shatter of the weapons was heard through the battle field. With his weapon shattered he hoped his father was at least stunned. If he were, 30 Orcs were going to stab, claw, bite and what ever the hell else to kill this Chief. But, there he stood holding the hilt of his broken sword. The army was stunned in fear and Grugalor aimed for me.
Everything was silent, my father dropped his broken blade, he gripped his fist with all of his might. In my entire life I have never seen my father so angry, that was the sword his father gifted him and the sword he would've gifted me. His fist came towards me, everything was slow and I accepted my death.
Clop,Clop,Clop
A figure got in the way, who was this, it couldn't be an Orc, maybe my mom noticed it was me and decided to stop my dad. I opened my eyes to see very familiar stripes, they began curved, like waves. They splashed like tundra throwing themselves everywhere, the ground moved further away as well.
Oh its the sky now too, the stars truly are beautiful. Ouch, I think I landed on something, awe its warm, its like a warm bed sheet. Wait something is pulling me away from it, no come back! Awe my ears they fucking hurt jeez whats going on right now.
"H--, H-i-m---l. W-a-- -p, h_Y W-Ke Up, WAKE UP." Madam Kimpa shook him awake giving him her health potion to him. Himmel slowly regained himself, he scanned around and saw a body on the floor. He looked it up and down and as his slight slowly recovered he recognized the eyes. But, they were different.
Something changed about these eyes, they looked lifeless, unintelligent. "R-ri-RIAZZZZ!!!" NOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Shouting obscenities Himmel no longer made sense. "Himmel get yourself together you need to make a decision." Himmel gave a dead panned stare at Kimpa, if it weren't her, he couldn't have cared less.
She pressed her last potion to his lips, forcing life into him. His vision cleared just enough to see her face, streaked with tears and blood.
Behind her, the herd stood in silence—watching, waiting. Their eyes, calm but resolute, met Himmel's. They were ready to die. Ready to avenge.
Kimpa cupped his cheeks, her voice steady despite the ruin around them."Riaz is gone. She was the most meaningful beast I have ever seen. But listen to me, child—I need you to do me one last favor. Let me use the lives of the herd. They want this. They're ready."
Himmel's lips trembled. His voice broke. In an agonizing decision "Do it."
Kimpa kissed his forehead gently, like a mother's blessing. "Cherish your friends. They will save you, one day."
In an instant he was looking at the village, where they came marching from. Himmel turned around quickly and saw a light, at first it seemed like the sun but it got bigger and bigger. And it slowly faded as the night came again.