The sun hung low, bleeding into the horizon, its dying light casting long shadows across the training ground.


    The sky burned in hues of orange and crimson, a silent witness to the weight of the tale unfolding between two warriors.


    The air carried the scent of earth and steel, thick with unspoken sorrow.


    Giren sat with his legs sprawled, fingers digging into the dirt as if searching for something lost in the soil.


    Asael remained beside him, silent, listening, waiting.


    The atmosphere between them was heavy—thick with regret, a tale begging to be spoken yet carrying the burden of memory too painful to relive.


    "After we had expanded our lands, after we had claimed the resources of other species, my father and the other chieftains made a decision," Giren began, his voice rough, edged with something deeper than just age—something worn and scarred by time.


    He exhaled slowly, his green eyes fixed on the blood-red sky as though it held the ghosts of his past.


    "They wanted to be more than tribes—to form a true kingdom of orcs."


    His lips curled into a bitter smirk, but there was no amusement in it.


    "And so, we became conquerors."


    At first, they fought those who opposed them, those who had clashed with them before.


    But then…


    "We turned our weapons against those who had done nothing to us."


    Orcs, once a race of warriors who fought for survival, became something else—a force of unrelenting conquest.


    The neutral species, the ones who had kept to themselves, who sought neither war nor dominion—


    they crushed them too.


    Asael’s expression darkened.


    He already knew what was coming, but he asked anyway. "Was Movok one of them?"


    Giren nodded, his tusks glinting in the fading light. "Yes. The lizardmen of Marshall Swamp were one of those species."


    He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the memory alone had weight enough to drag him under.


    "They were a peaceful people," he murmured. "They kept to themselves, lived deep within the swamps, and rarely—if ever—struck first."


    His fists clenched. "But we still decided to take what was theirs."


    The orcs struck swiftly.


    At first, it was easy.


    A few lizardmen tribes fell before the might of the orc horde, their villages burned, their homes razed to the ground.


    Victory seemed inevitable.


    But then, one day, they came.


    A group of lizardmen appeared in the orc war camp, moving through the sea of warriors like ghosts.


    But there was one among them who stood apart.


    Giren’s voice took on a different edge, tinged with something unreadable. "Among them was a lizardman unlike any other."


    He inhaled sharply, as if the image of that warrior still haunted him.


    "He was massive. Larger than any orc, his body built like a living fortress—muscle upon muscle, scales harder than steel."


    Even standing amidst an army, he had been unshaken.


    "He introduced himself as Movok, chief of the strongest lizardmen tribe. His voice was deep, calm—but filled with warning."


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    One word. One final plea.


    "Leave."


    Giren’s eyes flickered, reflecting the weight of a mistake that could never be undone.


    "He told us to stop. To turn back while we could."


    Asael’s grip tightened. "And you didn’t?"


    Giren let out a slow breath. "No. We didn’t listen. Perhaps we should have."


    Movok left.


    For a while, nothing happened.


    The orcs continued celebrating, drinking, feasting, reveling in their victories. They had no reason to fear.


    Then—


    The fires began.


    "At first, we thought it was an accident," Giren murmured. "A stray ember, a mistake by our own men."


    But the flames spread too quickly.


    The entire camp was in chaos, warriors scrambling to put out the fire, their supplies and shelters devoured by the hungry blaze.


    And then—


    He returned.


    Through the choking smoke, Movok emerged, his golden eyes burning like embers in the dark.


    "He didn’t come alone."


    Shadows moved behind him. Lizardmen warriors, silent and swift, emerged from the swamp, their blades glinting in the fire’s glow.


    "But he led the charge himself."


    Giren’s golden eyes were distant now, his voice a ghost of itself.


    "He wielded a greatsword—not like the crude weapons of other lizardmen. It was massive, longer than a man, forged of black metal that gleamed like obsidian."


    He clenched his jaw. "And he butchered us."


    Movok was unstoppable.


    One moment, an orc raised his axe—the next, his body was bisected, cut clean in half like a log split by a lumberjack.


    Another tried to run—but Movok’s sword pierced through his back, the blade erupting from his chest in a spray of crimson.


    The fire’s glow painted his scaly body in hellish red, his golden eyes gleaming with cold fury.


    Orc warriors who had once laughed at the idea of lizardmen being weak—


    died screaming at his feet.


    "He cut through dozens," Giren whispered, his hands shaking. "One by one. It didn’t matter how strong we were—he was faster, deadlier."


    He swallowed hard. "And worst of all?"


    His voice dropped to a hushed, haunted whisper.


    "He was calm the entire time."


    The fire raged around us, devouring everything in its path.


    But Movok didn’t burn.


    His blackened scales shimmered like obsidian armor, reflecting the flames, untouched by the searing heat, untouched by the destruction consuming our world.


    We fought. We bled. We died.


    And through it all, he remained unshaken.


    "My father was the strongest warrior of our people," Giren whispered, his voice hollow, stripped of all life.


    His hands trembled as they curled into fists, his knuckles white against the dim firelight.


    "He conquered countless enemies, crushed entire armies beneath his axe." His breath hitched, the weight of memory pressing against his chest.


    "But against Movok?"


    He exhaled slowly, a sharp, uneven breath.


    "He was nothing."


    The memory burned behind his eyes—his father’s massive axe cleaving through the air, the sheer force of his blows colliding against the unyielding steel of Movok’s greatsword.


    For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if they were equals, their weapons clashing with thunderous force, sending shockwaves through the battlefield.


    But Movok never faltered.


    His strikes remained precise, relentless, like the rhythm of a war drum echoing through the night.


    With every clash, with every exchange, Giren’s father slowed.


    And then—


    The moment came.


    A single, perfect strike.


    Movok’s blade tore through his chest, splitting flesh, bone, and sinew as if cutting through water.


    There was no cry of pain, no final roar of defiance.


    He simply… fell.


    Giren saw the light fade from his father’s eyes, saw the blood spill across the burning ground.


    And in that moment, something inside him snapped.


    "I charged at him," Giren admitted, his voice laced with bitter rage.


    "As fast as I could. As strong as I could."


    He let out a hollow chuckle, humorless and cold.


    "It didn’t matter."


    Movok’s green eyes met his—calm, indifferent.


    And in a single motion, he struck.


    Giren barely registered the movement before his body hit the dirt, pain exploding through his ribs like lightning cracking through a dying tree.


    He gasped, the world spinning as he struggled to rise, but Movok was already standing over him.


    A strong hand clamped around his jaw, forcing his head up.


    The green gaze bore into him, stripping him bare.


    Then came the sound.


    A sharp, sickening crack.


    Pain ripped through his skull as his tusk shattered, fragments of bone falling to the bloodstained ground.


    It wasn’t just an injury.


    It was humiliation.


    It was a message.


    Live with what you’ve done.


    Movok turned away, his blade still slick with the blood of Giren’s father.


    He had won.


    And he didn’t even care.


    The orc chieftains lay dead.


    Their warriors broken.


    The survivors ran.


    Movok let them.


    "He let us go," Giren whispered, his voice raw, his throat tightening.


    "But that was only the beginning."


    "As orcs, we should have learned from that defeat," Giren muttered, staring down at his calloused hands, as if they held the weight of his people’s downfall.


    "But my brother… he was like my father."


    His gaze darkened, shadowed by old wounds that had never truly healed.


    "Instead of rebuilding, instead of stopping the bloodshed—he made a deal."


    Asael remained silent, waiting.


    "The humans offered us something," Giren continued, his voice steady but distant.


    "They promised us a kingdom. A future. Power beyond what we had ever known."


    The price?


    "We had to stop the forest monsters from attacking them."


    A long silence stretched between them.


    "So you accepted," Asael finally murmured.


    Giren nodded.


    "We had no choice."


    With human steel, human magic, human tactics, the orcs became stronger than ever before.


    And then, inevitably—


    They returned to war with the lizardmen.


    The battles were bloodier than ever.


    This time, the orcs were not alone.


    They fought alongside armored knights, fire-wielding mages, archers who rained death from above.


    Together, they tore through the lizardmen tribes, leaving only ruin in their wake.


    "It was a massacre," Giren admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.


    "And yet… Movok never stopped fighting."


    Even when they outnumbered him.


    Even when their blades found his flesh.


    Even when his entire race was collapsing around him—


    He never stopped.


    "He killed hundreds," Giren whispered, staring into the fire, as if he could see the ghosts of that battlefield within the flames.


    "Orcs, humans—it didn’t matter."


    Every time they thought he had fallen, he rose again.


    His green eyes burned with something far beyond rage, beyond vengeance.


    His greatsword dripped with the blood of his enemies.


    They thought he was a beast, an unstoppable force of nature.


    But looking back—


    "He was just a man watching his people die," Giren murmured.


    It took everything to bring him down.


    "He fought for days," Giren said, his voice quiet, as if he feared the walls themselves were listening.


    "But even he… even he grew tired."


    Even he bled.


    Even he collapsed.


    "His body was riddled with spears, arrows—so many that he looked like a dying beast impaled on a hunter’s trap."


    His blood soaked the battlefield.


    His warriors lay motionless, their bodies piled like discarded dolls.


    His family…


    His entire tribe…


    Gone.


    And yet, when the moment came, when it was finally his turn to die—


    "He vanished into the swamp," Giren murmured.


    No one followed him.


    "We were too tired, too injured," Giren admitted.


    "And after seeing him take so much punishment—after watching him fight with his body full of blades—"


    They made a choice.


    They thought he was finished.


    No one could survive that.


    No one.


    "Perhaps," Giren muttered, his voice haunted,


    "We should have checked."