The group stumbled through the darkened woods, their breaths heavy, their bodies aching from exhaustion.


    Each step was a struggle, their legs barely carrying them forward.


    Moonlight barely pierced through the dense canopy above, casting eerie shadows that twisted and danced across the ground.


    The wind howled through the branches, whispering like unseen spirits mourning the fallen.


    Humans, orcs, and elves—once enemies, now bound by the same fate—had somehow escaped death.


    But the victory was hollow.


    The weight of their retreat clung to them like a curse.


    They had lost Marquis Hector.


    They had lost their fortress.


    And now, they had nowhere left to run.


    Only when the distant roars of pursuing monsters finally faded into silence did they allow themselves to stop.


    Some collapsed against the trees, gripping their wounds, their ragged breaths echoing through the night.


    Others stood motionless, staring at the ground as if trying to wake from a nightmare.


    No one spoke.


    The silence was suffocating, pressing down on them like an unseen force.


    Then, a voice—small, weak—broke through.


    "What… what should we do next?"


    Anne’s voice trembled, her exhaustion bleeding into every word.


    She looked up, her face pale, her eyes searching for an answer, for something—anything—to hold onto.


    The helplessness in her voice sent a sharp pain through Asael’s chest.


    But he couldn’t falter. Not now.


    His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms.


    The sting barely registered.


    "We need to finish Movok."


    His voice was steady, but beneath it burned raw determination.


    "It’s our only chance."


    The group exchanged wary glances.


    Even the orcs and elves—warriors who had fought countless battles—hesitated.


    Movok was a monster in both body and mind.


    A beast that had slaughtered their strongest warrior like a mere insect.


    "You’re right," Giren finally said, his usual composure shadowed by the weight of the night.


    "But we need a plan. A reckless fight will only get us killed."


    For a moment, no one spoke.


    Then, another voice—hesitant, uncertain—cut through the stillness.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "I… I have an idea."


    Sam swallowed hard, his hands trembling at his sides.


    "I don’t know if it’s a good one, but…"


    "Speak."


    Steven’s voice was sharp, but not out of anger—only urgency.


    All eyes turned to Sam, waiting.


    With his heart hammering against his ribs, he took a deep breath and began to explain.


    ---


    Time went by a little and two days.


    Morning arrived and sun rose up.


    Light shining over the fortress.


    In the main chamber of fortress, Movok was seated.


    His greatsword lay beside him, the blade still stained with Hector’s blood.


    The metallic scent lingered in the damp air, mixing with the earthy musk of the forest.


    A group of lizardmen stood before him, their postures rigid, their gazes lowered in deference.


    "Did you prepare the resources for the next ritual?"


    Movok’s voice was low, guttural, thick with the weight of a warlord who had carved his name into history through bloodshed.


    "Yes, my lord," one of the lizardmen responded, bowing deeply.


    Movok’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before shifting to the others.


    "Good. Deliver them properly."


    The lizardman bowed again, then quickly stepped back.


    Movok’s lips curled into a smirk.


    Human sacrifice.


    A ritual of strength and offering.


    One that had been performed countless times.


    The victims were already chosen.


    The preparations had been made.


    Soon, more blood would flow.


    But before the lizardmen could leave, another presence approached.


    Heavy footsteps.


    The undergrowth rustled as a towering figure emerged from the shadows.


    Greg, the barbarian chief.


    His scarred face twisted into a grin, his massive axe slung over his shoulder like a resting beast.


    "My lord," he said, bowing his head slightly.


    But his eyes—wild, eager—betrayed his excitement.


    Movok narrowed his gaze.


    "We found the humans," Greg continued.


    A slow smile spread across Movok’s lips, his reptilian eyes gleaming with anticipation.


    "Hmm… good. Let’s go."


    Greg’s grin widened.


    "Shall we bring the others?"


    A lizardman stepped forward hesitantly.


    "Should we also come, my lord?"


    Movok’s expression darkened for a moment.


    Then, with a dismissive wave of his clawed hand, he made his decision.


    "No. Stay here. Focus on the delivery."


    "As you command."


    The lizardmen bowed once more before retreating into the darkness.


    Movok rolled his shoulders, stretching his massive arms.


    The pain from the previous battle still pulsed beneath his scales, but it didn’t matter.


    He was far from done.


    Turning to Greg, he gave a single nod.


    "Come."


    And with a small group of monsters at their backs, they set out—marching toward the scent of their prey.


    ----


    Movok and his group ventured deeper into the forest, their footsteps sinking into the damp earth.


    Twisted roots coiled like serpents beneath them, waiting to ensnare the unwary.


    The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the damp, mossy aroma of the ancient trees.


    A chorus of unseen creatures whispered in the shadows, their distant eyes gleaming like dying embers.


    The echoes of past battles lingered in the stillness, a silent requiem for the fallen.


    The dense canopy slowly parted, revealing a clearing bathed in cold, yellow morning sunlight.


    Shadows stretched long and jagged across the ground, weaving between patches of upturned earth and broken branches.


    In the heart of that clearing, three figures stood unmoving.


    Asael, Steven, and Giren, their forms statuesque, their weapons gleaming in the sun..


    Their gazes locked onto Movok, sharp as blades, unyielding as stone.


    A few steps behind them, Lily and Anne stood with rigid shoulders, their fingers curled tightly around the hilts of their bow and staff.


    Their expressions were unreadable, but their stance spoke volumes.


    The air between them carried an unbearable weight, thick with unsaid words and unrelenting resolve.


    Movok narrowed his reptilian eyes, the faint glow of their golden hue cutting through the dense forest.


    A slow smirk spread across his bloodstained lips, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs.


    "So, this is where you''ve been hiding?" His deep, guttural voice rumbled like distant thunder, sending a shiver through the silence.


    Asael stepped forward, his sword glinting as it caught the sun’s light.


    His movements were slow, deliberate—there was no hesitation in his stance.


    "No," he said, his voice steady, unwavering. "We were waiting for you. Today will be your last."


    Movok let out a low chuckle, a sound thick with amusement and something far more sinister.


    His claws flexed over the grip of his greatsword, the massive weapon an extension of his very being.


    The scars that laced his scaled arms seemed to pulse with the memory of a thousand battles.


    "Bold words," he murmured.


    His warriors tensed, claws twitching, fangs bared, ready to spill blood at his command.


    And then, in an instant, chaos erupted.


    Screams splintered the air like the crack of a whip.


    Movok turned sharply, his keen eyes darting across the battlefield—only to see his own soldiers being slaughtered.


    An ogre emerged from the veil of darkness, its monstrous hand wrapped around the throat of a struggling lizardman.


    With a sickening crunch, the ogre snapped the creature’s neck and cast the limp body aside like a discarded doll.


    From the treeline, two barbarians roared, their axes gleaming as they cleaved into another lizardman, splitting him apart in a violent spray of dark blood.


    More figures rushed forth from the shadows. Goblins, gnolls, creatures that had once stood beside Movok now turned their weapons against his forces.


    Their eyes burned with something raw, something unshackled—betrayal.


    Movok’s breath came in short, measured bursts. His mind raced, piecing together the unfathomable.


    "What is the meaning of this?!" he snarled, his voice sharp with disbelief, his fury rolling in waves.


    Greg stepped forward from the carnage.


    His grip on his axe tightened, his knuckles white with pressure.


    He lifted his weapon high and roared, "It’s your end, Movok!"


    The cry was echoed by the others, a deafening war cry that drowned out the screams of the dying.


    Their weapons, once raised in his name, now pointed at him.


    Movok stood motionless.


    The battlefield swirled around him, a maelstrom of steel, fire, and treachery.


    His own kind, the monsters he had once led, had turned on him.


    The realization settled over him like a suffocating weight.


    He had been betrayed.


    And yet—he laughed.


    A slow, deep chuckle that rumbled through his chest, dark and mirthless.


    His head tilted slightly, rolling his shoulders as though shedding an invisible burden.


    The greatsword in his grasp felt lighter, almost welcoming the chaos.


    "So," he muttered, his voice like a low growl. "You’ve all decided to go against me."


    To his left, the humans who had sworn vengeance.


    To his right, the beasts who had once followed him.


    Enemies from every side, blades drawn, eyes burning with the hunger to see him fall.


    Any other warrior would have felt fear.


    Any other commander would have faltered beneath the weight of his own downfall.


    But Movok?


    He grinned.


    With a single, fluid motion, he raised his greatsword, the blood of countless foes still fresh upon its edge.


    His muscles coiled beneath his thick, scaled hide, his stance as immovable as the mountain itself.


    "Come at me, then," he said.


    His voice rang through the battlefield—not as a plea, not as a warning, but as a challenge.


    Because no matter how many stood against him…


    Movok feared no one.