Reoccurrence

Renher clenched his fists, pushing himself up despite the lingering weakness in his limbs. There was no time to waste.

The army had already lost crucial hours.

The Mage Leader still lingered nearby, his sharp gaze analysing every movement, every flicker of expression.

Renher met his stare with a cold, unreadable look.

"If this was a prophecy," the mage began again, his voice smooth yet insistent, "then the implications—"

Renher cut him off. "Enough."

A subtle shift passed through the tent. A command. A warning.

"I will think on it. But for now, we march."

The Mage Leader hesitated but finally inclined his head. His eyes, however, betrayed his thoughts—he was far from satisfied.

Renher dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. "Prepare the army."

The leaders began filing out of the tent, but just before Thymur stepped away, Renher's voice called him back.

"Stay."

Thymur paused, then silently stepped back inside, pulling the flap closed behind him.

With a subtle flick of his fingers, he cast a soundproofing spell, ensuring that no one—not even the Mage Leader—could listen in.

Renher and Thymur, to the world outside, seemed like a king and a general, but in private, they were nothing like that. Behind closed doors, they were simply two lifelong friends who had forged an unbreakable bond since childhood, addressing each other by name without the weight of formality.

Thymur turned to Renher and said, "I have double-checked the surroundings. No presence of magic in the air."

Renher trusted Thymur's judgment so deeply that he never doubted his words. With that assurance, he began to speak.

Renher exhaled, running a hand through his hair before locking eyes with his trusted general.

"You know something," Thymur stated, his tone low.

Renher nodded slowly. "And so does that mage."

Thymur's gaze sharpened. "Do you trust him?"

"No."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Renher inhaled deeply. "What I saw… It wasn't just a dream, Thymur."

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

Thymur remained still, absorbing every word.

"And the object?"

Renher's expression darkened.

"It was unlike anything I've ever seen." His voice was quiet but firm. "A sphere of darkness. Shifting. Whispering. Almost… alive."

A flicker of something passed over Thymur's face, but he remained composed.

"A cursed artifact?" he offered.

Renher shook his head. "No. Something far worse."

He leaned forward. "That place—it shouldn't exist. And yet, I was there."

"I was there. I felt it. The place, the whispers, the pain. The moment I turned my back… I was attacked. And then, I woke up."

Renher skipped the minor details, focusing solely on the most significant parts of his dream as he recounted them to Thymur.

Thymur paced inside the small tent, his brows furrowed in deep contemplation, trying to make sense of the vision Renher had experienced.

Renher, despite knowing Thymur since childhood, could not decipher the look in his eyes.

Once Renher had finished speaking, Thymur stood still, lost in thought. The silence inside the tent stretched for fifteen long minutes, the air growing heavier with unspoken tension.

Then, Thymur's expression darkened—grim as the Reaper himself.

Taking a deep breath, Thymur finally spoke. "Ren, I believe this is a death omen—one sent by the gods."

Renher, upon hearing the word death, remained calm as still water, yet deep within, a sliver of unease took root in his heart.

Thymur continued, "The temple in your dream could symbolize a deity, but the barren land contradicts any gods we know. It suggests something else—something forgotten."

Renher voiced his own thoughts, "Could it be the gods whose religions were destroyed? The ones whose followers were wiped out?"

Thymur nodded but looked uncertain. "I've heard the term 'Forgotten Gods' before—from the Mage Tower Master. But when I tried to learn more, he forbade me from investigating further."

Shaking off the discomfort, he pressed on. "The strange object at the center—it felt ritualistic. And if that's true, then the blood-colored sphere could mean only one thing—sacrifice."

Renher agreed without hesitation. But one question remained: Why was Renher trapped in the dream?

Renher locked eyes with Thymur, his gaze deadly serious. "I think the orcs are up to something, and my dream is connected to them."

Thymur's eyes flickered with realization. He suddenly recalled something about the orcs' Forgotten Gods.

He explained, "Historically, orcs thrived before humanity's rise. Their sheer physical might made them dominant. But when humans developed breathing techniques, they pushed the orcs to near extinction."

"Their temples were destroyed, their faith in the gods shattered."

Renher's dream now made more sense. The unknowns that once clouded his mind were now beginning to clear.

Thymur exhaled through his nose.

Finally, he spoke. "We keep this between us. For now."

Renher nodded. "Agreed."

Thymur lifted the soundproofing spell and straightened his stance. "Then let's move. The army is waiting."

Renher stood, his strength fully returning.

With a final glance at the tent around him, he grabbed his sword and strapped it to his waist.

The mystery of the temple, the whispers, and the sphere—it would have to wait.

As Thymur exited the tent, he moved swiftly from one leader's tent to the next, issuing the same orders.

Inside the mage tent, the Mage Team Leader stood among his scholars, instructing them to be vigilant.

While speaking, his keen senses tingled, alerting him to an approaching presence. Instinctively, he fell silent and turned toward the entrance.

Though he bore no ill will toward the empire, he also refused to lose any of his mages—each one was a rare gem, carefully nurtured by the Tower.

Just then, Thymur stormed into the tent without warning. No knocking. No pleasantries.

A tense silence followed as Thymur's gaze swept over the mages. "We march at a moment's notice. Pack only the essentials."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and left.

The Mage Leader stood frozen, perplexed by the abruptness of the order. Had he done something wrong to deserve such treatment?

But there was no time to dwell on it. Orders were orders. The march was imminent.

Renher sat in meditation inside his tent, circulating his mana, refining both body and mind to their peak state.

Thymur's warning had put him on edge. He feared nothing more than a meaningless death.

"There is no valor in dying for nothing."

Yet, this prophecy—vague and ominous—unsettled him.

As he stepped out of the tent, Horus, his loyal falcon, perched proudly on his shoulder, scanning the surroundings with piercing eyes.

The army stood fully prepared, weapons gleaming under the golden morning sun. Their morale was like a sharpened blade, their focus unbreakable.

With Renher at the front, flanked by lancers, the mages and archers positioned behind the swordsmen, they began their march.

The morning stood at the threshold of noon, bathed in a golden glow. The sky, a vast expanse of pale blue, stretched overhead, with only a few wisps of white clouds drifting lazily.

It did not take long to reach the valley where the orcs had taken residence.

Horus took flight, scouting ahead before the army arrived.

The valley, nestled between rolling hills, spread like a shallow basin, its gentle slopes offering both sanctuary and peril.

Yet, the hills bore the scars of history—old trenches, remnants of barricades, and the silent echoes of forgotten battles.

Horus returned swiftly, circling overhead in frantic loops.

Renher immediately recognized the signal. Danger.

Spinning on his heel, he roared, "All units—DEFENSIVE FORMATION!"

The army obeyed instantly, shields locking into place. Moments later, a blackened sky of arrows rained down from behind the hill.

The sheer number of them darkened the bright sky, like a storm of death descending upon them.

Then—

A towering wall of mud erupted from the earth, shielding the army in the nick of time.

The mages' mastery had nullified what could have been a catastrophic ambush.

A triumphant cry erupted from the ranks. Their spirits soared. With the mages backing them, they had nothing to fear.

Meanwhile, atop the hill, the orcs stood in shock.

This ambush was supposed to devastate the humans. They had developed a special contraption—one capable of firing multiple arrows simultaneously.

It was a closely guarded secret, even among their own kind. And yet, the humans had countered it effortlessly.

The army surged forward, marching up the incline, every footstep crushing the grass beneath them.

The orcs at the hilltop knew their duty—to hold the humans back for as long as possible.

If they succeeded, the ritual to awaken their forgotten gods would be completed.

For that dream of vengeance, for liberation, they were willing to die.

The lancers charged at full speed; their spears poised to pierce any foe that dared stand before them.

Behind them, mages followed closely, prepared to eliminate any threats beyond the lancers' reach.

At the rear, Renher watched the battlefield, poised and ready to intervene where his strength was most needed.

The battle had begun. The battle which would determine the fate of either race and potentially of others also.