The air inside the fortress was thick with exhaustion, relief, and the lingering stench of blood that clung to their armor like a second skin.


    Every breath carried the iron tang of war, a reminder that even though the battle had ended, its echoes still remained.


    The defenders gathered in the war room, their bodies battered but their spirits unbroken.


    The walls flickered with the glow of torches, their flames casting long shadows over the weary warriors.


    The room was filled with the scent of sweat, damp leather, and faint traces of healing salves.


    Asael found himself standing among his friends, each of them alive but marked by battle.


    Dirt and dried blood streaked their faces, their eyes still sharp despite the weight of fatigue.


    "Are you alright?" Anne asked, her golden hair damp with sweat, worry clear in her emerald eyes.


    Asael forced a small smile, though his body ached with every movement.


    "Yes, I''m fine now," he said, though even as he spoke, he felt the raw pain in his limbs.


    "Well, you''re lucky," Sam muttered, arms crossed over his chest.


    His tone was sharp, but beneath it lay relief.


    "If not for your divine power, you’d be nothing more than another corpse in the forest."


    Asael exhaled softly, looking away.


    "But I’m here, aren’t I?" His voice carried no arrogance, only quiet certainty.


    Then, his expression hardened. "Anyways, you said this is a regular thing here. Why? What makes this fortress so important?"


    Sam let out a slow breath, as if steadying himself for words he had spoken too many times before.


    "This place… is perhaps the last resistance left," he said at last.


    "We are the only thing standing between them and complete domination. So they throw everything they have at us—again and again—until we finally break."


    A heavy silence followed, the weight of his words settling deep in their chests.


    The silence was broken by Steven, his voice cutting through like a blade.


    "Do you know where Movok can be found?"


    Sam’s brows furrowed as he regarded him cautiously. "Yes, I do. But why are you asking?"


    Steven’s blue eyes burned with cold determination.


    "We should go and end him. If we kill him, this war ends."


    His words landed like a thunderclap. The room seemed to shrink, the tension rising like a tide.


    Then, a deep voice rumbled from the corner of the room.


    "Do you think it’s that easy?"


    Giren, the towering orc warrior, stepped forward, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths.


    His muscles, still tense from battle, flexed beneath his scarred armor.


    The torchlight glowed against his dark skin, highlighting the hardened lines of his face.


    "Do you have any idea how strong he is?" Giren asked, his voice low and firm.


    "I do," Steven replied. "It will be hard—maybe even impossible. But we won’t know unless we try."


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    Giren''s expression darkened. "And what if you die in the process?"


    "Then at least I would have tried," Steven said without hesitation.


    His gaze was unwavering as he added, "What about you? Are you afraid of him?"


    A sharp silence fell between them.


    Then, a low growl.


    Giren’s fists clenched at his sides, his tusks bared slightly.


    "Me? Scared?" His voice was dangerously low, laced with something raw and unyielding.


    His gaze locked onto Steven’s, filled with the kind of rage that time had not dulled—only sharpened.


    "Do you have any idea," he said slowly, "how much I wish to kill him?"


    "I do," Steven replied, his voice turning cold. "You were the only one left alive—while he butchered your father and your brother."


    Giren’s eyes flared with something dangerous, something primal.


    "And you?" The orc stepped closer, looming over Steven like a storm cloud ready to break.


    His voice dipped into a growl.


    "Your family is dead too—and yet you’re still breathing."


    The room grew deathly still.


    The air itself seemed to tighten, thick with unspoken grief and fury.


    Steven’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his blade.


    "You—"


    A single step forward, and they would have clashed.


    "Enough."


    The voice was sharp, cutting through the air like steel.


    Marquis Hector stepped forward, his piercing gaze sweeping over them.


    Though he did not raise his voice, the weight of his authority demanded immediate obedience.


    "This is not the time for fighting amongst ourselves," he said, his tone edged with warning.


    Giren and Steven did not break eye contact, their fury still simmering beneath the surface, but neither made a move.


    "For now," Hector continued, his voice calm but unyielding, "we have to focus on defense. Even if we wanted to strike at Movok, we''d have to wade through an ocean of monsters just to reach him."


    His words were final, like the closing of a door.


    The tension in the room lingered, but no one spoke.


    Steven exhaled sharply and turned away, his shoulders tight with frustration.


    Giren let out a deep grunt, stepping back, though his glare did not soften.


    The fire between them had not been extinguished—only buried beneath duty.


    And so, the meeting ended.


    But the war was far from over.


    -----


    The training ground lay silent beneath the fading light of dusk, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel.


    Alone in the clearing, a lone warrior moved like a force of nature, his massive frame shifting with the practiced precision of a seasoned fighter.


    Giren''s axe carved through the air in sweeping arcs, each swing carrying the weight of battles long past.


    The rhythmic whoosh of metal slicing through space filled the empty training yard, but his mind was elsewhere—lost in a storm of memories, echoes of voices he would never hear again.


    Then—footsteps.


    They were light, deliberate.


    Not the heavy, clanking steps of an armored knight, nor the careless shuffling of a weary soldier.


    A voice followed, steady and calm. "You are Giren, right?"


    The orc paused mid-swing, his grip tightening on the haft of his axe before lowering it to his side.


    He turned, his golden eyes flickering with curiosity as they settled on the young man standing before him.


    Asael met his gaze, his expression unreadable—something caught between youth and the weariness of a warrior who had already seen too much.


    "Yes," Giren rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "And you must be the hero."


    "Asael," the young man corrected with a slight nod. "Just call me Asael."


    A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Giren’s lips.


    "Well then, Asael," he said, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his muscles shifting like a beast shaking off fatigue. "How about a practice fight?"


    For the first time since arriving, Asael''s face brightened with something close to amusement.


    "Sounds like a good way to kill some time."


    The first strike came fast—too fast.


    Asael barely had time to twist out of the way as Giren’s axe cleaved downward, the sheer force of it splitting the dirt where he had stood moments before.


    He countered, his blade flashing in a swift arc toward the orc’s side, but Giren was faster than he looked.


    A massive forearm deflected the blow, sending Asael skidding backward.


    They moved in a deadly dance, neither yielding. Asael’s attacks were quick, calculated, his divine power subtly guiding him—but against Giren, it wasn’t enough.


    The orc’s movements were like an unstoppable tide, raw strength meeting honed skill, forcing Asael onto the defensive.


    Each time he lunged, his blade met the unshakable resistance of an axe that deflected every strike.


    Each time Giren attacked, Asael had to summon every ounce of speed he possessed just to avoid being crushed under the sheer force of those monstrous swings.


    The duel stretched on, sweat soaking their clothes, breath coming in sharp gasps.


    They had long since lost track of time—lost in the rhythm of combat, in the unspoken respect exchanged through steel and sweat.


    Then, at last, exhaustion caught up.


    With a final clash, both warriors stepped back, muscles burning, lungs heaving.


    Asael dropped onto the cool, hard ground, wiping the sweat from his brow.


    He let out a short, breathless chuckle.


    "You’re strong," he admitted, tilting his head to look at Giren.


    The orc sat beside him, exhaling slowly. His tusks glinted in the dimming light as he stretched out his legs.


    "You should learn to control your power quickly," he said. "Then you’ll be stronger than me."


    Asael gave a small, thoughtful nod before glancing up at the evening sky.


    "Hmm… by the way, can I ask you something?"


    Giren turned his head slightly, his golden eyes unreadable. "Go ahead."


    "Can you tell me what happened?" Asael hesitated for only a moment before finishing. "About your family… and Movok?"


    A heavy silence fell between them.


    It stretched long enough that Asael wondered if Giren would even answer.


    Then, finally, the orc spoke—his voice lower now, roughened by something deeper than exhaustion.


    "What Movok is today…" Giren started, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the horizon.


    "Perhaps we, the orcs and humans, are both to blame."


    Asael frowned, shifting slightly. "What do you mean?"


    Giren exhaled, his fingers curling into the dirt as though trying to anchor himself against the pull of old memories.


    "Orcs have always been a large race—more numbers mean more mouths to feed. When our population reached a certain point, our resources began to dwindle."


    His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face.


    "My father, the chief of all orc tribes, made a choice. A desperate one. He united the scattered clans and led them to war—not against humans, not against elves… but against the monsters that surrounded us."


    He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing the weight of his own words.


    "It was never about power," he said, his voice quieter now. "It was about survival. We fought because we had to."


    The battles had been brutal.


    Monsters of every kind—trolls, ogres, goblins, gnolls, spiders, etc—fought desperately to keep their land.


    "But they were no match for my father… nor my elder brother."


    Giren’s fingers tightened around the haft of his axe, his knuckles white.


    "And soon, we became the strongest in the region."


    Victory should have meant peace.


    They had won.


    They had taken what they needed—enough resources, enough land to sustain the orcs for generations.


    But it didn’t stop there.


    "Then, soon the fight for survival," Giren murmured bitterly, "became a fight for power."


    He closed his eyes briefly, his expression darkening.


    "We had enough. More than enough. But my father… he didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn''t."


    His voice was hollow now, filled with something Asael could not quite place.


    "We should have stopped."


    He inhaled slowly, steadying himself.


    "But we didn’t."


    Giren’s green eyes flickered, haunted by the ghosts of the past.