Stride

Ten miles away, hidden deep within the swamp, a thatched hut stood in eerie silence.

Inside, dim light flickered over a massive stone totem, its surface adorned with unrecognizable faces.

Blood pooled at its base, drawn from the surrounding corpses—beasts and orcs alike.

Among the bodies lay remnants of formidable creatures—gray wolves, massive bison, and, most notably, the corpse of a Flaming Serpent.

A beast that had reigned over Bailus Forest for decades, its very presence once enough to send mercenaries fleeing.

Its mere aura had commanded respect. And yet, here it lay, its skull crushed beyond recognition, its body a tapestry of wounds from blades, arrows, and claws alike.

A testament to the overwhelming power of its killer.

At the heart of the totem, a dark orb of blood swirled, absorbing the life essence from the slain. It pulsed, a sinister heartbeat reverberating through the room.

Nearby, an orc knelt before the totem. His massive frame, hunched yet brimming with raw power, was clad in ragged furs. His eyes, gleaming with malice, fixated on the swirling orb.

A cruel sneer twisted his lips.

This was no ordinary orc.

This was their shaman, the tyrant of the orc settlement—the Orc Chief.

An orc, no taller than two meters, came sprinting towards the hut, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath as he entered the dimly lit hall. He halted abruptly upon seeing the orc chief bowing before the totem. Without hesitation, he dropped to the ground, mimicking the chief's reverence.

After a prolonged silence, the orc chief rose, his massive frame moving with eerie composure. He began chanting an incantation, his guttural voice reverberating through the hut. The smaller orc, though impatient, followed suit, knowing better than to interrupt.

Just as he was about to voice his urgency, the chief spoke first. "I understand your concerns. Take the warriors who are prepared and stall the human army."

The smaller orc opened his mouth to protest, but the chief cut him off, his deep voice commanding, "Go to the armoury and take the scrolls. Use them as needed."

Shock flickered across the small orc's face. Scrolls were a rare commodity, imbued with stored magic that could be unleashed with the simplest touch of mana. Any orc, regardless of magical prowess, could wield them.

Realization dawned on him. They were at a crucial moment in the ritual. Soon, the gods who had forsaken them would grant them their blessing.

With nothing more to say, he turned on his heel and sprinted toward the armoury. Just as he reached the doorway, the chief's voice rang out once more.

He turned to see the chief gesturing him closer. Swallowing his apprehension, he hurried forward, his small frame dwarfed by the chieftain's sheer bulk.

The chief removed a ring from his massive fingers and pressed it into the orc's palm. "Zola," he said, his voice grave, "this ring is my mandate. Show it to the vault keeper. Also, tell him to bring me the beast core of our ancestors."

Zola stiffened. His eyes widened in disbelief. The beast core was more than a relic—it was the heart of their history, a symbol of the tribe's former glory, its unity, its strength. To request its use was unthinkable.

The chief's expression remained impassive. "It will hasten the ritual. With the gods' blessing, we will drive the humans from these lands and reclaim what is rightfully ours."

Zola hesitated, but he knew better than to argue. He nodded. "I will not fail."

The chief gave a single, approving nod. "Go. Time is of the essence."

Zola dashed toward the armoury, his mind racing. Despite his obedience, he had always questioned the chief's relentless thirst for conquest.

While Zola longed for peace, for a place to call home, the chief desired only domination. Negotiation was a weakness. Power was absolute.

But among orcs, the strong ruled, and the weak followed.

The armoury loomed ahead. He presented the ring to the gatekeeper, who wordlessly retrieved the scrolls.

As for the beast core, the keeper insisted on delivering it himself. It was too precious to be entrusted to anyone else.

Zola, without protest, distributed the scrolls among the warriors. A part of him ached to see the core, to study it, but he knew every second wasted meant more of his kin would die on the battlefield.

Back in the hut, the chief took the core from the gatekeeper and placed it near the swirling sphere of blood forming atop the totem.

The ritual quickened. A sinister energy pulsed through the air. Alone in the room, the chief knelt and whispered to the totem, "Great gods, grant us your power. Shower us in your grace. Show us the way."

The totem trembled violently. The chief pressed his forehead to the ground in reverence, unaware of the wisp of black smoke that slithered from the totem and went into the surrounding air.

On the Human Side

The evening had crept upon them, but despite exhaustion, Renher refused to halt their advance. "We march through the night," he declared. "We will strike at dawn."

A restless feeling gnawed at him. Horus, too, had returned with an unusual unease. Something was amiss.

Though reluctant, the commanders obeyed. Even the mages, though visibly irritated, did not object.

As the final orders were given, the army packed up. Supplies were left behind for the rear guard, but the main force pressed on.

At the swamp's edge, Renher stood at the front alongside the mages, their staffs aimed at the murky terrain.

With a nod, the mages began their work. The air hummed with magic as they chanted Geomend, reshaping the land beneath them. The swamp shifted, its sluggish mud hardening into solid ground, paving the way forward.

Silently, the army marched, their steps muffled against the earth. They moved like chiroptera—swift, silent, deadly.

The process repeated in intervals. The swamp was vast, and the mages strained to maintain their spell work. By the time they reached the final stretch, exhaustion had taken its toll. Even the most seasoned spellcasters were sluggish, their faces pale with fatigue.

Despite the gruelling march, no attacks came. No ambushes. No resistance.

Renher frowned. It was unnatural.

Upon reaching solid ground, the army set up a temporary encampment. Watches were assigned through the usual means—gambling, debts, or sheer brute force. Renher, however, had no part in it.

He retired to his tent, Horus at his side. His body was weary, but his mind refused to rest.

Tomorrow, battle awaited.

Renher woke up to a strange murmuring noise coming from nearby. His mind was sluggish, and his body felt deprived of the strength he had always been so proud of.

Upon opening his eyes, he found himself in a strange environment, completely unfamiliar. The atmosphere around him was nothing like his tent, where he had fallen asleep. Darkness loomed, carrying a sense of danger lurking nearby.

It was like a parched desert, but instead of sand and heat, there was only darkness—vast and consuming.

His mind snapped fully awake, still trying to make sense of his surroundings. Suddenly, he heard a faint noise coming from behind him.

Renher spun around, his hands instinctively reaching for his sword—only to grasp at nothing but air. His weapon was gone. Immediately, he shifted into a combat stance, ready to disengage at a moment's notice.

But the moment he turned, the sight before him baffled him beyond words. Even with all his experience, he wasn't sure if something on this scale could truly exist in the world.

His eyes traced the magnificent yet ominous structure that stood in the distance. A chilling silence followed the faint noise he had heard.

That temple… it was the embodiment of darkness itself. It felt like a place where the seven sins of the world had gathered, waiting to be unleashed upon all of humanity.

And yet, despite its overwhelming aura of dread, its structure was crafted with such intricate detail that it looked almost otherworldly.

The building stood as a monument to the darkest corners of the human imagination, a place where the whispers of evil had echoed through the ages. Its towering form rose from the earth, a testament to the power of darkness dwelling within.

Its architecture was a grotesque parody of Gothic design—twisted spires clawed at the sky, their points piercing the clouds like malicious fingers. The walls, carved from obsidian black stone, seemed to absorb the very light that dared to touch them, while the narrow windows cast long, skeletal shadows across the barren ground.

This was not a structure meant for any mortal realm.

Renher swallowed hard, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, yet his body refused to obey. He mustered his courage, forcing his feet to move forward. It wasn't the darkness or the temple's eerie aura that unnerved him—it was the unknown.

Renher had never feared death, nor had he ever feared pain. But not knowing what would kill him—that thought filled him with a dread unlike any other.

The silence around him was unnatural. In this moment, he dared not call out for his generals or even Horus.