The War of Four Races: A Tale of Struggle and Survival

The battlefield was a field of chaos and death. Thousands of warriors clashed in a sea of steel and flesh, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. The once fertile plains of Altheria were burned to ash and mud under the trampling boots of men and the clawed feet of orcs. Smoke flew into the sky, covering out the sun.

King Edric of Altheria stood at the frontline of his army, his golden armor battered and stained with blood. His sword gleamed, its edge crimson from countless strikes. Around him, his knights fought desperately to hold the line, their shields locking together as the orc horde crashed into them like a tidal wave.

On the other side of the battlefield, Grask Thorne, warlord of the Morgathar Wastes, roared commands in his guttural tongue. His voice carried over the clamor, rallying his warriors as they pushed deeper into the human ranks. The massive orc towered over his soldiers, his swinging axe cutting through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.

Edric parried a strike from a snarling orc, driving his sword through the creature's chest. He spun, raising his shield just in time to deflect another attack. Around him, his knights fell one by one, their battle cries giving way to screams of pain.

"Hold the line!" Edric roared, his voice roar. "For Altheria!"

The knights rallied briefly, their swords rising in defiance, but it was clear they were losing. The orcs' sheer numbers were overwhelming.

Then, through the chaos, Edric saw him. Grask Thorne. The orc warlord stood at the heart of the battle, his crimson eyes locked onto Edric. With a roar, Grask pointed his axe toward the human king, issuing a challenge that needed no words.

Edric tightened his grip on his sword. "So, it's to be you and me, then," he muttered, knowing humanity can never win again orc army, the only way to win this war is killing the orc warlord himself, stepping forward. He motioned for his men to hold back. "Stay your ground. This fight is mine."

Grask charged, the earth shaking under his massive frame. He swung his axe in a wide arc, aiming to cleave Edric in two. The king dodged, the blade whistling past him, and countered with a precise thrust. His sword glanced off Grask's armor, leaving a shallow cut.

The two leaders circled each other, their weapons gleaming in the dim light. Grask snarled, barking a string of harsh words in his guttural language. Edric didn't understand, but the meaning was clear, you will died human

Grask lunged again, his axe descending like a thunderbolt. Edric raised his shield, the impact knocking him off his feet. He staggered back, swinging his sword to keep the orc at bay.

The duel was brutal, each strike met with a counter, each blow pushing them closer to the breaking point. Around them, the battle raged on, but the eyes of both armies were drawn to their leaders.

Grask's strength was monstrous, his attacks relentless. Edric fought valiantly, using his agility to evade the orc's crushing blows. But the weight of the battle, the exhaustion, and the despair of seeing his men fall around him began to take its toll.

Grask feinted left and swung low, his axe catching Edric's leg. The king cried out as he fell to one knee, his sword slipping from his grasp. Blood poured from the wound, pooling in the mud beneath him.

Grask loomed over him, his crimson eyes blazing with triumph. He raised his axe high, letting out a roar that shook the battlefield.

Edric looked up, his vision blurring. He forced himself to his feet, grabbing his sword with trembling hands. "Do it," he spat, his voice defiant to the end. "Kill me, but know this, humanity will never fall"

Grask growled something unintelligible and brought his axe down saperating the king head from its body.

The battlefield fell silent for a moment, the humans staring in shock as their king's head and body fall to the ground. Then, the orcs roared, their voices a deafening chorus of victory.

The line broke. The humans fled, their ranks shattered. The orc horde surged forward, sweeping across the plains and advancing deep into Altherian territory. Villages were burned, fortresses fell, and the proud banners of Altheria were torn down, replaced by the black and red sigils of the Morgathar Wastes.

Grask stood atop a hill, his axe resting on his shoulder. He looked out over the land, his victory complete. But his crimson eyes burned with hunger, this was not the end. The orcs would not stop until all of Altheria was theirs.

And in the ashes of their defeat, the humans whispered a name with fear and hatred, Grask Thorne, the King slayer.

Years passed, and the memory of King Edric's death became a faded legend, a whispered tale among the elders of Redwillow, a small village far from the ruins of the old war. Every night, around a crackling fire, the village children gathered to listen to the old bard, a wanderer who had seen the world's bloodiest battles.

"…And so fell King Edric of Altheria," the bard crooned, his voice weathered and cracked, the echo of a hundred stories carried on his tongue. "Struck down by the orc warlord Grask Thorne on the fields of what was once our kingdom's pride. The orcs surged forward, their bloodlust unending, and claimed the lands of men for their own. Villages burned. Cities crumbled. Hope itself seemed lost."

The children sat in stunned silence, their small faces pale. Even the older boys, who had initially laughed at the bard's tales, now sat rigid, their knuckles white as they gripped their knees. The younger ones clung to their mothers, their wide eyes fixed on the old man, their imagination painting images of the dark, terrifying world that once existed.

Finally, a small voice broke the silence.

"What happened after that?"

The bard's eyes turned toward the boy who had asked. His weathered face smiled faintly, though there was little warmth in it. The bard continue, his voice softening. "The orcs' victory did not last forever. Greed has a way of undoing even the mightiest of conquerors."

The children leaned in closer, their fear mingled with curiosity.

"You see," the bard continued, his fingers resuming their mournful tune. "The orcs were not content with the lands of men. Their hunger for power drove them to war against the elves in the forest and the dwarves of mountain. The forests burned, and the mountains shook with battle. But the orcs' arrogance blinded them to the truth, they had awakened enemies they could not defeat alone."

The boy's eyes widened. "What did the elves and dwarves do?"

"They did what the humans could not," the bard said, his voice now a teacher's calm. "They set aside their differences. The elves, with their sharp eyes and deadly bows. The dwarves, with their unbreakable armor and axes that could cleave stone. And even the remnants of humanity, broken but unbowed, joined the cause. Together, the three races formed an army unlike any the world had seen."

The children exchanged glances, their terror now giving way to awe.

"It was not an easy war," the bard admitted, his gaze distant as if he could see the battles playing out in the flames. "The orcs fought fiercely, their warbands striking with the fury of storms. But for all their strength, they were outmatched. The alliance drove them back, step by bloody step, until at last, the orcs were forced to retreat to the blasted wastelands they called home. The Orc warlord himself fell in the final battle, slain by the combined might of elf, dwarf, and man."

For a moment, there was silence, save for the crackle of the fire. Then the boy spoke again, his voice hesitant. "wh.. what happen next?"

The bard chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "The scars of war never fade so easily. The lands of men were ruined, and the alliance of the three races was one born of necessity, not trust. Old grudges remain, and the orcs still dwell in the Morgathar Wastes, nursing their hatred. The world may seem quiet now, but the embers of conflict stil there. One day, perhaps, they will ignite again."

The children shivered, though the fire burned brightly.

The bard stood, his joints creaking audibly. "And that, my young friends, is why we must never forget the past. For if we do, we are doomed to repeat it."

The boy then sat quietly at the edge of the campfire, his face illuminated by the flickering flames. His name was Lennox, and his curiosity had always driven him to seek out stories of the past. He had grown up hearing tales of war, of heroes, and of kings, yet none had captivated him as much as the one the old bard had just told.

Lennox had many questions. But for now, he held his tongue.

His journey was about to begin. Little did he know, In near future, everything will turn upside down.