The night had turned into running.
Grey didn't know how long it had been since they fled, only that midnight was close. The forest stretched on without end, and each step grew heavier than the last.
One of the ten-year-olds had fallen behind, too weak to keep up, so Grey carried him instead. The child's limp weight pressed against his chest with every stride.
Branches slapped his arms as he ran, and their tips scraped against him like claws.
Every few minutes, another grown-up stayed behind. They fought to open a path—to buy the rest a few more seconds. Nothing more.
Each time an orc caught up, one villager turned to face it. They all knew what that meant. Even if a man could match an orc one-on-one, he'd be overrun before he could swing a second time.
Behind them, the forest roared with distant screams. Each time the sound faded, another adult was gone.
The first to leave the group was Ray. He was the strongest among the villagers, so even though his leadership was important, stalling the orcs coming from the west would have been impossible for others. He was probably still alive—at least Grey hoped so.
The last to fall behind was Taek.
"I wish I could see your Art," he said, and then disappeared into the dark.
Grey ran harder after that because stopping meant looking back.
The words hurt more than he expected, but he didn't have the strength to feel it. He just kept running—for the children, for Elaine, for the promise that someone had to live.
The forest began to thin. The trees grew smaller and the air colder. The scent of open night slipped through the branches, sharp with frost. Hope stirred—small, fragile, and wrong.
Please, he thought. Just let this be enough. No more orcs. Not now.
They broke through the treeline.A clearing opened before them, washed in silver moonlight.
And standing in that light was something too large to be real.
For a heartbeat, Grey thought it was another orc. Then the truth hit: the creature's skin was mapped with scars, its tusks chipped and dark, its shadow so wide it seemed carved from the earth itself.
"The Orc Chieftain!" Lana's voice cracked. The words carried like a verdict.
Grey felt the air shift. Every breath behind him faltered at once. They'd made too much noise. The beast had been waiting.
So this was the end.
"I'll hold him off!" Lana shouted, raising her bow.
Before she could move, Grey turned toward her and set the child in her arms. She caught him out of reflex.
"No," he said. "I'll handle him."
Her eyes widened. "Grey, stop it. I'm the grown-up—"
"No." His voice came sharper than he intended. "Look at the moon. It's midnight. I'm a grown-up now too. And I'm sorry, but you won't last long enough to stall him."
The truth silenced her. An archer couldn't buy time—not against that thing.
The horses were gone, slaughtered near the carts. They had no speed now—only distance. Whoever stayed behind had to make that distance count.
Lana's throat tightened. She said nothing, only held the child and looked at Grey the way people look at something they're about to lose.
Behind her, Elaine froze. When Grey glanced back, her eyes were wet and wide.
"Grey—"
He didn't let her speak. He sprinted toward the Chieftain and shouted, "Run!"
No one moved.
"Run!" he roared. "That's an order!"
This time, Lana obeyed. Tears glinted on her cheeks as she turned. "I'm sorry, Grey! I'm sorry!"
She was slow with the boy in her arms, but she didn't stop. She grabbed Elaine's hand and pulled her forward.
Elaine stumbled, sobbing, then caught herself. She gripped the hands of the younger ones. "Come on! Go!"
Their footsteps faded into the trees, swallowed by the dark.
Grey exhaled and tightened his grip on the axe. "So it's just us," he murmured. "You and me."
The Chieftain's head tilted, almost curious. The expression bent into a grotesque grin.
He was massive—three meters tall, maybe more—and held what looked like an iron bar torn from a wagon frame. The metal was rusted, dented, and heavy enough to shatter stone. Grey had wished for a tree trunk; at least wood could splinter.
He knew he couldn't win. But he could delay.
"Even if I die," he whispered, "someone will finish what I started."
The Chieftain moved.
The first swing tore through the air with a shriek. Grey dove aside as the bar slammed into the ground, throwing up soil and shards of rock. The impact rattled his bones and filled his mouth with the taste of dirt.
The beast moved like the others—broad, heavy arcs—but the power behind each strike made every dodge slower than the last.
He couldn't parry. One hit on his axe would splinter the blade—and him next. He kept moving instead, sidestepping and rolling to stay alive. The world narrowed to breath and timing.
Still, the Chieftain wasn't impossibly fast. Grey slipped away again and again, relying on movement more than strength. Adrenaline masked the ache in his legs, and fear lent him speed. For now, that was enough.
The monster swung repeatedly. Each miss gouged the earth deeper. Grey's lungs burned and his vision blurred with sweat. He dodged by instinct now, nothing else.
But the Chieftain didn't tire.
Grey lost count of the attacks before he noticed the rhythm change. The playfulness was gone. The monster was angry now.
It braced both feet and shifted its grip on the bar like a hammer. Its stance—unnervingly familiar—looked like a batter winding up for the final swing of a game.
Grey's gut clenched. There was no dodging that.
He pushed everything into his legs and leapt sideways just as the bar came down.
The world split open. The strike clipped his arm, and pain flared bright and sharp. His body twisted in the air, slammed against a tree, and dropped hard onto the roots below. Bark scraped his skin where he hit.
"Ugh—" The sound escaped before he could stop it.
He tried to stand, but his body refused. His arm hung useless, and his breath caught in his throat.
The Chieftain approached slowly, each step sinking into the earth. Grey's axe lay just out of reach. He stretched for it, fingers scraping the dirt. Too far.
So this was it. At least he'd taken one of them with him once.
The monster loomed over him. Its grin was almost satisfied. It raised the bar for the final blow.
Then—
THUD!
A sharp crack echoed across the clearing. Something struck the Chieftain's head and bounced away—a single arrow.
Grey blinked and followed the line it had come from.
Elaine stood at the treeline, bow trembling in her hands and eyes bright with tears.
"Elaine! Why are you here?" His voice was barely audible, more breath than words.
She heard him anyway. "I came back to help you!" she shouted, choking on the words.
"What are you doing? Leave!" Grey's voice rose, raw. But the Chieftain had already turned toward her.
He abandoned Grey without hesitation. She was moving—alive—and that was all that mattered to the Chieftain. She looked more dangerous than Grey, who couldn't move.
"Elaine, run!" Grey forced the words out, but she didn't. The Chieftain charged.
Grey tried to move. Nothing responded. He forced his legs, his hands—nothing. Pain locked everything in place. He searched the ground for anything—a stone, a branch—but the forest offered nothing.
His gaze lifted.
The tree behind him leaned, cracked where he'd hit it. Through the broken branches, he saw the moon—clear, bright, full.
Midnight.
The thought came unbidden, quiet and detached, as if it belonged to someone else.
And then a voice echoed inside him, calm and absolute.
[Art of Creation has been unlocked. The system is active.]