The northern wind carried the stench of mud, sweat, and fifty thousand marching Greenskins. Trolls and goblins trampled the earth, a relentless tide surging toward the quiet human settlement of Oakhaven.
Then, the horde ground to a confused halt.
Standing alone in the trampled dirt of their path was an old man. His white and purple robes snapped in the wind, and a simple wooden staff rested in his gnarled hands. Mugai scanned the sea of green skin and rusted armor, letting out a heavy, tired breath.
"No orcs, then," he murmured, a hint of dry relief in his voice. "Suppose that spares me some effort."
He planted his staff into the earth. "Turn back," he called out, his voice carrying an impossible weight that cut through the horde's chaotic din. "Go home. There is nothing but death waiting for you here."
A ripple of cruel, jagged laughter echoed across the frontline. One goblin, bolder and hungrier than the rest, shrieked and charged. Its rusted blade swung in a vicious arc—and stopped dead, inches from Mugai's face, striking an invisible wall with a dull thud.
Mugai didn't flinch. He raised a single finger. A sharp crack of lightning illuminated the overcast sky, and the goblin dropped lifeless to the mud.
The laughter died. For a fleeting second, uncertainty passed through the horde. Then, driven by pure bloodlust, they rushed him all at once.
"So be it," Mugai sighed, the profound exhaustion of a long life bleeding into his words.
With a subtle shift of his mana, the earth groaned. Four towering golems of rock and soil tore themselves from the ground, throwing massive stone fists into the oncoming wave. Simultaneously, Mugai swept his hand in a wide arc, expanding his invisible barrier until it corralled the bulk of the shrieking goblin vanguard into a tight, inescapable ring. He glanced over his shoulder at the handful of stragglers slipping past the perimeter.
The humans can handle those, he thought, turning his attention back to the slaughter.
He stood motionless as goblin mages hurled desperate, sputtering magic at his golems, inadvertently hardening the stone constructs with their elemental heat. Trolls battered themselves against the golems' legs, their crude clubs shattering into splinters.
Mugai watched the futile violence, a deep melancholy washing over him. "Century after century," he murmured to the empty air. "The faces change, but the blood is always the same."
Eventually, beneath the sheer, crushing numbers of the horde, the four golems crumbled back into dust.
Mugai simply floated upward, rising above the battlefield. "Long enough," he whispered.
The sky above the trapped goblins tore open. A barrage of blazing meteors rained down, painting the clouds orange and red. The goblin mages threw up weak, trembling shields that shattered the moment the skyfire touched them. Against one of the most powerful mages breathing, they never stood a chance.
When the deafening roar finally faded and the choking smoke cleared, nothing remained but a vast, scorched crater. With a tired wave of his hand, Mugai smoothed the earth over, sealing the crater and erasing the ashes of an army from existence.
He adjusted his grip on his staff, his eyes already looking southward. "Done. Now... to the Elven Domain."
The Elven Domain
Hundreds of miles away, the cold stone of the High Prison offered no comfort to Commander Carric. Stripped of his rank, condemned by the very people he had spent centuries protecting, he sat quietly in the dark.
The heavy iron door groaned open. A young elf slipped inside, his face pale and streaked with tears. It was Elian, his trusted aide.
"Commander," the boy choked out, gripping the iron bars. "The rumors... they're saying they are planning the execution."
Carric didn't move from his spot on the stone floor. "I know, Elian."
"I can get the keys," the boy rushed out, his words tumbling over each other in desperate panic. "I can get you out. Let me take your place! I don't matter, my lord. I have no special skills, no great destiny. The kingdom needs you. Please, let me do this."
Carric stood, stepping into the sliver of moonlight to look at the boy the child he had found abandoned in the woods, the boy he had raised as his own. His heart ached at the raw devotion in Elian's eyes.
"Listen to me, my boy," Carric said, his voice soft, like a father calming a frightened child. "You do have gifts; you just haven't discovered them yet. I have walked this earth for thousands of years. I've fought in countless wars, explored far and wide, and lived a full life. You... you've barely hatched from your shell. You have a whole world to see. I won't let you throw your life away for an old soldier whose war is over."
"Time's up!" a harsh voice barked. Two heavily armored elven guards marched in, grabbing Elian by the shoulders.
"No! Please!" Elian sobbed, digging his heels in, terrified of leaving his commander to die alone.
Annoyed by the struggle, one of the guards sneered and delivered a brutal kick to the boy's ribs. Elian gasped, crumbling to the floor.
In that instant, Carric's serene acceptance vanished.
A blinding, golden-green aura erupted from the commander. The sheer force of his rage made the solid stone of the prison tremble like leaves in a storm. The air grew thick, suffocating beneath the weight of his murderous intent.
The guards scrambled backward in terror, shouting for the wardens. Mages poured into the corridor, frantically weaving containment spells, but Carric's fury was a tidal wave crashing against a dam of twigs. It took the agonizing, synchronized effort of two hundred mages pushing their mana cores to the absolute brink of exhaustion to weave a spell strong enough to finally force the commander's eyes shut.
But just before the magical sleep overtook him, Carric slammed his fists against the bars, his voice a monstrous, echoing roar that chilled every soul in the prison:
"If anything happens to that boy, I will kill every single elf in the Highlands!"
The Human Village
The fires in Oakhaven had finally died down to a smoldering glow. The sharp copper scent of blood mingled with the smoke.
Kent leaned heavily against his greatsword, his chest heaving as he surveyed the battered, soot-stained faces of the survivors.
"Give it to me straight, Vane," Kent said, his voice rough. "How many did we lose?"
Vane, the village elder, looked down at his bloodied hands. He looked as though he had aged ten years in a single night. "Out of the ninety men who stood... thirty won't be going home. The four mages made it through, gods bless them. But... it was a heavy toll."
Kent closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. A familiar, suffocating guilt gripped his chest. "Damn it," he muttered. "I should have gotten here faster."
Krag, a burly militiaman nursing a deeply bandaged arm, stepped forward. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Kent's shoulder.
"Don't do that, my lord," Krag said softly. "You got here when it counted. Besides, we can't always depend on you. You won't be here forever. We have to learn to hold our own."
Kent looked at the bruised, resilient faces of the villagers around him. Despite the loss, their eyes held a quiet strength. The sight pulled a small, weary chuckle from his lips.
"I suppose that's exactly the mindset I want you to have," Kent said, his voice softening with genuine affection. "But don't forget—whenever you find yourselves in trouble, just hold the line and think of me. I will be there to save you. Just do me a favor and don't die before I arrive, alright?"
A few tired smiles rippled through the remaining men. Kent clapped Krag on the shoulder and pulled his sword from the mud, sliding it onto his back. He turned toward the faint, pulsing blue light of the village's teleportation circle.
"There is only one day left before the summit," Kent called out over his shoulder. "I'm heading to the Capital. I will send medical supplies and rations back as soon as I arrive. Sit tight, heal up, and mourn our brothers. I'll see you all soon."