"After the war," Giren continued, his fingers tightening around a loose thread in his tunic, "we finally became a kingdom."


    For the first time in our history, orcs were no longer just warriors, no longer raiders or conquerors.


    We had built something greater—homes with sturdy walls, markets filled with laughter, roads that stretched beyond the horizon.


    We learned from the humans.


    Trade flourished. Education spread.


    The days of endless bloodshed faded into distant memories.


    And for ten years, we believed we had left the past behind.


    For ten years, we thought we had won.


    But victory was an illusion.


    "Then," Giren whispered, his fists trembling, "the Demon King emerged."


    At first, we ignored the rumors.


    His war was not ours—it was the humans'' burden to bear.


    But when my brother stood before us, his expression grim, his voice like steel, I knew the choice had been made.


    He ordered me to fight.


    And there, in the depths of a shadowed forest, I met him again.


    Movok.


    "I thought he was dead," Giren admitted, his voice barely above a breath.


    I thought we had finished him.


    But as he stood before me, taller, stronger, his green eyes burning like a cursed flame, I realized how wrong we had been.


    "I fought him again."


    "And again, I lost."


    Even after years of battle, after war had carved scars into my skin and fire had forged me into steel, I still wasn’t enough.


    But once more, he let me live.


    He loomed over me, his blade coated in the blood of my allies, and spoke the words that still haunt me.


    "Go back. Tell your brother. Tell him I’m coming."


    And then, just like before, he vanished into the forest.


    I should have warned them.


    I should have prepared.


    But nothing could have stopped what came next.


    Months later, ashe had said he came.


    He and his army of monsters descended upon our kingdom like a storm rolling across the mountains—unstoppable, merciless, all-consuming.


    The air burned with the stench of blood and fire.


    The screams…


    I still hear them in the quiet hours of the night.


    We fought.


    We fought with everything we had.


    And still, it wasn’t enough.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    He tore through our armies like a beast unleashed, his greatsword carving through warriors as if they were nothing more than paper.


    The earth trembled beneath his rage.


    But the worst wound of all?


    The betrayal.


    Orcs turned on orcs.


    Desperation and fear twisted the hearts of my people, breaking what even war could not.


    Many had already forsaken their loyalty, kneeling before the Demon King’s power like beaten dogs.


    And among them was…


    My closest friend.


    "I had to kill him with my own hands," Giren whispered, his voice frayed at the edges, cracking like old leather.


    His eyes were distant, staring at something only he could see—a past he could never change.


    "And still, it wasn’t enough."


    At the very end, my brother stood alone.


    The kingdom lay in ruins.


    Our people—scattered, enslaved, or slaughtered.


    I tried to fight, tried to stand beside him, but—


    He shoved me away.


    He knew.


    He knew someone had to survive.


    And so, he stayed behind.


    Buying me time.


    Buying me a future I never wanted.


    "I escaped," Giren murmured, the word barely making it past his lips.


    Coward.


    The word had followed me like a shadow for years.


    I ran while my brother died.


    I ran while everything we had built turned to dust.


    I hid in the forests, moving from one place to another, until…


    "One day, Marquis Hector and Lily found me."


    They took me in.


    They gave me shelter.


    They gave me a reason to live again.


    And in them, I found something I thought I had lost—


    Hope.


    Giren exhaled sharply, turning to Asael.


    The firelight reflected in Asael’s eyes, but there was something stronger there—determination, unwavering and unbreakable.


    "If anyone can stop him," Giren said, his voice steady, "it’s marquis Hector."


    Asael met his gaze, unflinching.


    "Don’t worry," he said, placing a firm hand on Giren’s shoulder.


    "We’ll stop him before he causes more destruction."


    Giren let out a slow breath, something easing in his chest for the first time in years.


    "Yeah."


    The night had fully settled, the stars glimmering above like silent witnesses.


    "It’s getting late," he muttered. "Let’s go back."


    And together, they rose, walking toward the flickering lights of the resistance camp—toward the battle that awaited them.


    -----


    The deepest part of the forest lay cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the heavy breaths and restless shifting of the gathered monsters.


    Goblins, trolls, gnolls, ogres—battle-hardened and scarred—stood waiting, their usual savage confidence replaced by uncertainty.


    The air was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth and dried blood clinging to the cold night breeze.


    Before them loomed a cavern, its entrance jagged like the gaping maw of a beast.


    Shadows danced along the rough stone walls as torchlight flickered, casting the inside in a dim, hellish glow.


    At the heart of the cavern, upon a throne of carved stone and bones, sat Movok.


    His yellow reptilian eyes burned coldly, distant yet piercing, like twin stars in an abyss.


    The faint light reflected off the scales lining his massive arms, each one etched with the marks of countless battles.


    His grip tightened on the throne’s armrests, claws scratching against the stone with a slow, deliberate screech.


    Beside him stood Magnum, his most trusted warrior.


    His body covered in his robe.


    He stood with his arms crossed, silent and watchful.


    At the foot of the throne, the leaders of the monster horde knelt in uneasy silence.


    Among them, Greg—a towering barbarian with a scarred chest and fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white—took a slow, steady breath before daring to step forward.


    Movok’s gaze settled on Greg like a blade pressing against flesh.


    His expression remained unreadable, but the weight of his presence was suffocating.


    “What happened? Did you all succeeded?”


    His voice was deep, steady, yet laced with an undercurrent of quiet menace.


    The cave walls seemed to close in, the flickering torches casting twisted shadows that swayed like specters.


    Greg swallowed hard.


    The words felt heavy on his tongue, as if speaking them would shatter what little dignity remained.


    “No. We failed.”


    The cavern darkened, as though the very air recoiled from the admission.


    Movok’s fingers dug into the stone of his throne, his claws carving fresh grooves into its ancient surface.


    “How… stupid of you all.”


    His voice was quiet, but each word dripped with venom.


    The weight of his disappointment settled over the gathered warriors like an unbearable force.


    “You had an army at your disposal,” he said, his voice rising, “yet you return in disgrace?”


    The cavern trembled.


    The gathered monsters lowered their heads, their shoulders tense, their shame hanging over them like a noose.


    Greg forced himself to keep his gaze level, though his breath came shallow. “But there were strong ones.”


    Movok leaned forward, his emerald eyes flashing dangerously. “Stronger than you?”


    Silence. The answer was clear, but no one dared to voice it aloud. Greg exhaled, his pride crumbling like dust in his chest, and nodded.


    “Yes… some of them were.”


    A stillness settled over the cave, deeper than before.


    The flickering torchlight cast long, distorted shadows, stretching the space between Movok and his kneeling warriors.


    Movok’s expression remained unreadable, but his presence became heavier, his aura pressing down on them like a crushing weight.


    When he finally spoke, his voice was softer—calm, emotionless, yet razor-sharp.


    “Have you already forgotten what happened to your father?”


    Greg flinched.


    The memory struck like a hammer.


    His father’s severed head rolling across the dirt, eyes frozen in shock, lifeless and empty.


    Movok standing over the broken body, his greatsword slick with blood.


    The lesson he had carved into Greg’s soul that day—


    If you are not strong, you are not needed.


    The words echoed in his skull.


    His body, massive and battle-worn, suddenly felt small beneath the weight of them.


    Greg dropped to his knees, his heart hammering in his chest.


    “Please!” His voice cracked with desperation. “Give us one more chance!”


    The other monster leaders followed suit, their voices overlapping in frantic pleas.


    The cavern filled with the sound of warriors begging for redemption.


    Movok let out a low, guttural growl.


    “Useless.”


    He rose from his throne, his towering frame casting a suffocating shadow over them.


    His hand moved to the greatsword resting beside him, its massive edge catching the firelight.


    The dried blood that caked its blade told countless stories of slaughter.


    Greg’s breath hitched. His body tensed, every muscle bracing for the inevitable.


    “There’s no need for that, my lord!”


    A voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.


    Movok’s piercing gaze snapped toward Magnum.


    The green-skinned warrior stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calm, almost amused.


    There was no fear in his eyes, only calculated confidence.


    Movok’s fingers loosened slightly against the hilt of his greatsword. “You have a plan?”


    Magnum nodded, the smirk never leaving his face.


    “Yes.” His voice was smooth, carrying an air of certainty that settled over the cavern like a steady drumbeat.


    “I will take command of the battlefield next time. If you allow me to lead, this war will end in our favor—swiftly and efficiently.”


    Movok studied him for a long, silent moment. The torches crackled.


    The air remained heavy, thick with the unspoken threat of what would happen should Magnum fail.


    Then, Movok exhaled.


    Slowly, his fingers uncurled from the grip of his sword, releasing the tension that had held the room captive.


    “Fine.” His voice carried the weight of final judgment, a decree that could mean salvation or execution.


    “But finish this quickly.”


    Magnum bowed deeply, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. “As you command, my lord.”


    Movok turned away, his massive frame vanishing into the darkness beyond the throne.


    Outside, the gathered monsters stood in uneasy silence.


    They knew the truth written in their master’s eyes.


    Should Magnum fail, there would be no second chances.