A Choice
They stood in the courtyard—one thousand recruits and nearly a hundred orcs.
The recruits, human children like Wes, were between ten and thirteen years old. They stood in formation, rows aligned with discipline, though unease flickered beneath the surface. Some stood tall, stiff-backed, eyes forward. Others shifted slightly, glancing at the orcs above or at the valley beyond, uncertainty creeping in.
They wore dark animal hides, stitched together with thick thread, reinforced at the seams. The fit allowed for movement, built to endure. Their hair had been cut short, their faces impassive, but the tension in their shoulders, the way some clenched their fists, told the truth—they didn't know why they were here.
The fortress was shaped more by the mountain than by its inhabitants. The orcs had only been here for a year, but nature had already carved the walls. Cliffs sealed three sides, ridges rising steep and jagged, turning the courtyard into a natural stronghold. The only way in—or out—was through the valley, where the land narrowed into a winding passage, a place where any force would be funneled, where numbers meant nothing against positioning.
Buildings were few. The barracks, simple and functional, were cut into the rock, their foundations taken from the mountain itself. Higher up, past the ledge where the orcs stood, cavern mouths stretched into the depths—tunnels leading into darkness, their purpose unclear to those who had yet to earn the right to go inside.
Wes stood among the recruits, looking up. Nearly a hundred orcs lined the ledge, their eyes sharp, their presence heavy. They did not speak. They did not explain.
Some recruits stood firm beneath their gaze, straight-backed, silent. Others shifted on their feet, glancing at the ground, at each other.
No one had promised them anything.
They were still waiting to understand why they were here.
Gorrak stood before them, unmoving, his presence undeniable. Though young by orcish standards, his stance held no hesitation. His golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, carried no warmth—only expectation.
His green skin, smooth and unscarred, bore the weight of command. He was no child. Not here.
He wore armor built for endurance—dull white leather, reinforced with thick straps, every stitch meant to hold through war. No polished metal, no embellishments, only function. A warrior's second skin.
And he wore no helmet.
He wanted them to see him. To meet his gaze and understand that his words were not distant commands but something real, something inescapable.
His voice rolled through the courtyard like distant thunder—deep, edged with the rough power of his native tongue.
"Your world has changed."
The words settled over them, heavy and absolute.
"It will only get worse. The invaders. The beasts. And most of all… your own kind."
A ripple of tension passed through the gathered children. Most stood rigid, disciplined. Others tensed, fingers curling into fists.
"Many of you already know."
His golden eyes swept over them, searching the faces of those who had lost, those who had already seen the truth.
"The depths people will sink to when given power. Some have honor. But those who do not—"
He paused.
"They are the worst filth in the universe."
Silence stretched.
Some of the children clenched their jaws. Others trembled, silent tears slipping down their cheeks. Memories stirred—of betrayal, of cruelty, of the things no child should have seen.
But none of them fell.
None of them broke.
The recruits standing in that courtyard had already been shaped by the places they had come from.
Some had suffered worse than others.
But all of them understood.
They stood because there was nothing else left.
"Your world is entering its martial era."
Wes felt those words settle deep in his chest. He already knew.
Mana had rewritten the rules of war.
It had shattered the old world, stripped away what people once relied on. Guns, missiles, war machines—things once feared, now unreliable, now obsolete.
Now, war belonged to those who could wield it.
Swords. Spears. Axes.
Essence. Bloodlines. Void crystal abilities.
The strong would carve out their place.
The weak would be erased.
"You did not choose for mana to come."
"You did not choose to see what happens when the unworthy gain power."
"You did not choose to stand here."
His golden eyes burned—not with anger, not with hate, but something deeper.
Then, his voice shifted.
"But today, you have a choice."
The words cut through the air like steel.
A choice.
It was not something many of them had ever been given.
"Choose to train."
"Choose to follow me."
"Choose to become strong."
"Choose to become Ruh'Kel."
The name settled over them, heavier than the silence that followed.
This was more than survival.
This was purpose.
"Choose to claim the strength to make your own choices."
For the first time, he moved, lifting his arm.
To the left, three tables stood.
Seated behind them, three orcs waited. Each older, their frames lean but hardened. Their deep green skin bore inked patterns winding up their arms—stories of battle, of rank. Their sharp yellow eyes remained steady as they prepared their tools, hands practiced, methodical.
The scent of ink and smoldering oil lingered in the air.
They would mark them.
"You can leave."
"Or you can choose servitude."
No hesitation. No judgment.
The choice was real.
Gorrak's gaze swept the crowd once more, his final words cutting deeper than steel.
"Or you can step forward."
"Take our mark."
"Choose to be strong."
The silence stretched. A presence of its own.
"Some of you will die."
His voice did not soften.
"Some of you will fail. And perhaps, in the end, it will all be for nothing—a nameless death on a forgotten battlefield."
"But at least it will have been your choice."
He let the words settle.
Then, the last that mattered.
"For this is the way."
And then he waited.
Many would fall before they ever earned their place.
But those who survived?
They would shape the fate of every world they set foot on.
And a few—just a few—would ascend, stepping beyond the limits of Earth.
Now, Wes stood among them, staring up at the ledge, waiting.