Chapter - 1 Survival of the fittest

Agaroth. A continent of boundless power and untold mysteries, where every corner was shaped by the forces of nature, the will of its people, and the echoes of ancient magic. The land was vast, filled with kingdoms, tribes, and territories, each with its own struggles, triumphs, and secrets waiting to be uncovered.

To the west lay the Barren Wild Lands, a harsh and unforgiving expanse, home to the Orcs—a brutal and fierce race whose way of life was shaped by strength and survival. The Orcs ruled this desolate land, living in tightly-knit tribes where power was earned through battle and conquest. Their chieftains rose to power not by birthright but by the blood spilled in brutal combat, and the land echoed with the sounds of constant conflict. This was a land of few resources, where only the strongest thrived. The Orcs' raids were frequent, their hunger for war unyielding, and the other kingdoms looked to the Wild Lands with both fear and contempt.

To the east, the majestic Forestland flourished—an area of verdant beauty and ancient power, where the Elves had woven their society in deep harmony with nature. The Elves were masters of both magic and agility, their connection to the spiritual world manifesting in their every breath. Their society was built around balance, and they were adept in using the very energies of the land to fuel their powers. The trees whispered of ancient secrets, and the air itself seemed charged with untapped magic. Yet, the Elves were not isolated in their paradise, for the world beyond their borders often beckoned with threats and opportunities alike.

To the south, the towering mountains stood like silent guardians. The Dwarves lived deep within these peaks, their cities carved into the very stone of the earth. The Dwarves were renowned for their craftsmanship, creating weapons and tools of unmatched quality. Beneath the mountains, vast forges blazed day and night, shaping the treasures of the earth into mighty creations. Their strength and resilience were the foundation of their people, and their culture was defined by honor, family, and unshakable pride. The mountains were rich with ores and precious metals, a treasure trove the Dwarves mined with skill and determination.

In the north, the Cold Ice Lands stretched into an endless expanse of snow and ice. Here, the Beastmen, creatures of both man and beast, ruled with primal strength. These tribes were made up of wolves, bears, and other savage creatures, their bonds with the land and their instincts guiding their every action. Life here was dictated by the harsh environment, where only the toughest survived. The Beastmen were fierce and respected by all, their cultures rooted in their brutal connection to nature, and they had no room for weakness. The cold, unyielding landscape mirrored their spirit—untamed and relentless.

At the heart of the continent lay the Central Green Land, a fertile region where the Human Kingdoms had flourished. Three kingdoms dominated this region: Valdarith, Albidian, and Grista.

Valdarith, located in the northern-western part of the Green Land, was a kingdom constantly under siege. Situated on the front lines of the Orcish invasions, it was a land of rugged warriors and desperate battles. The people of Valdarith were hardened by constant conflict, and the kingdom was in a perpetual state of war with the Orcs. Its landscape was a mix of dense forests and rolling hills, and despite the constant turmoil, the kingdom had held its ground, its people resolute and determined to protect their homeland.

Albidian, the largest and most prosperous of the Human Kingdoms, sat to the east. It was a land of abundance, with fertile fields, bustling cities, and a thriving economy. Its people enjoyed relative peace compared to their western counterparts, yet the prosperity of Albidian made it a tempting target for those who sought to seize its wealth and resources. Despite its size and wealth, Albidian was not invulnerable, and its borders were often threatened by external forces seeking to exploit its riches.

In the south-west, Grista lay in ruins—a kingdom torn apart by internal conflict and strife. Its people were no strangers to war, and the kingdom had been embroiled in constant civil unrest for generations. Political factions vied for power, while skirmishes between rival factions were an everyday occurrence. The land was scarred by the violence that had taken root within its borders. Once a land of great potential, Grista was now a fractured kingdom, struggling to hold itself together in the face of unrelenting discord.

Agaroth was a continent of contrasts—each kingdom, each race, and each land carried its own story. The Orcs, the Elves, the Dwarves, the Beastmen, and the Humans all played their part in this grand tapestry, their destinies intertwined with the fate of the land. A continent on the brink of change, where ancient powers stirred, new alliances were forged, and battles were fought for survival, power, and glory.

*****

The battlefield was silent.

Where once the clash of steel and the roar of war cries had filled the air, now there was only the crackle of dying fires. The ground, once firm, had turned to mud—soaked in blood, trampled by the weight of men and beasts alike. Broken banners lay twisted among the fallen, their insignias meaningless to the crows that had already begun to gather.

The orcs had been driven back, but it was no victory. The human lines had held—barely. Their shield wall, once an unbreakable bulwark, was now a shattered ruin of splintered wood and corpses. Knights lay strewn in the dirt, their armor rent open like butchered cattle. Foot soldiers clutched at mortal wounds, whispering prayers that no god would answer.

The bodies lay piled high, a grotesque monument to war. Orc and human, knight and savage, friend and foe—all heaped together in death. The stench of rot thickened the air, a foul perfume that drew carrion birds in droves.

This was no victory.

This was the price of it.

And soon, the world would forget their names, but the mountain of corpses would remain—a silent testament to the cost of war.

The battlefield stretched before them, a wasteland of steel and flesh. Smoke curled from burning siege engines, and the wind carried the stench of blood, sweat, and death. The two foot soldiers picked their way through the wreckage, their boots sinking into the churned mud, slick with the fallen.

"Gods..." one of them muttered, gripping his spear tighter. "It's a damn graveyard."

The other, older and battle-worn, said nothing. He had seen fields like this before. He knew what came after—the silence, the scavengers, the slow rot of the dead. But something made him stop.

A sound. Faint. A rasping breath.

He motioned for his companion to follow. Together, they stepped over the twisted bodies, past shattered shields and rusting swords, until they found him.

A man, barely clinging to life, half-buried beneath the corpses. His armor was torn open, his face streaked with blood and dirt. One hand clutched a broken sword; the other pressed weakly against a deep wound in his side. His eyes, hollow and unfocused, flickered open as they approached.

"Help..." The word was barely a whisper.

The younger soldier hesitated. "What do we do?"

The older one knelt beside the man, studying him. His wounds were severe, but not beyond saving. He had seen worse survive—if they had the will.

"Grab his arm," he ordered.

Together, they pulled the man free. He groaned in pain but did not cry out. He was heavier than he looked, his armor slick with mud and blood. They hoisted him onto the older soldier's back, his breath rasping against the man's shoulder.

"This is madness," the younger soldier muttered as they trudged through what remained of their fortress. "He could slow us down. He could die anyway."

The older soldier didn't answer. He had seen too many left to rot on battlefields like this. Too many who could have been saved.

Not this one. Not today, not while I still breathe.

And so, step by step, they carried him toward whatever future still waited beyond the ruins of war.

The weight of the wounded man slowed them, but the older soldier refused to let go. Step by step, they moved through the corpse-littered field, the survivor's breath shallow against his shoulder. The younger soldier kept watch, his grip tight on his spear.

Then he heard it.

A wet cough. A ragged breath that did not belong to any of them.

His heart pounded as he turned—too late.

The orc lunged from a pile of bodies, its flesh torn, its armor dented, but its hatred undimmed. A rusted axe swung toward the younger soldier's head. He barely got his spear up in time—the axe glanced off the shaft, splintering wood. The force knocked him onto his back.

The older soldier dropped to one knee, shifting the wounded man off his shoulder. He reached for his sword, but the orc was already moving.

Blood-matted hair hung over its snarling face, one tusk broken, one eye swollen shut. It had survived the slaughter, just as they had. And now, it would take one last kill before death claimed it.

The younger soldier scrambled back, raising the jagged remains of his spear. The orc roared and raised its axe for the killing blow.

Steel flashed.

The older soldier's sword punched through the orc's ribs. He twisted the blade, feeling it grind against bone. The orc shuddered, choking on its own blood, and staggered back.

The younger soldier didn't hesitate. He drove the splintered shaft of his spear into the orc's throat.

The creature gurgled, its good eye wide with fury and shock. Then, at last, it fell.

For a moment, neither soldier moved, their breaths ragged. The younger one wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing at the orc's corpse. "It was waiting," he muttered. "Playing dead."

The older soldier only nodded.

War didn't end when the battle was over. The dead were not the only ones left behind.

He turned back to the wounded man, still breathing, still alive. "Come on," he said, lifting him again. "We keep moving."

And they did.

As long as they still stood, the war was not yet finished.

"Is it over?" The younger soldier asked.

The older soldier adjusted the weight of the wounded man on his back. His muscles burned, his body begged for rest, but he ignored it. "For now."

They moved forward, step by step, leaving behind the ruins of battle. Smoke still curled in the distance where the siege fires smoldered. Somewhere beyond the hills, the remnants of their army—if any still lived—would be regrouping.

The younger soldier glanced back at the ruined fortress one last time. The battlefield was silent now, nothing left but death and the crows that would feast on it.

"We should have died with them," he murmured.

The older soldier didn't stop walking. "Then we live for them instead."

The younger man hesitated, then nodded. Without another word, he fell into step beside him.

They didn't know what awaited them beyond the ruins of war. But as long as they still drew breath, they would fight. They would endure.

Because that was the price of survival.

And they had already paid too much to stop now.

*****

The two soldiers trudged forward, their bodies aching, their minds numb. The wounded man slumped against the older soldier's back, his breathing shallow but steady now.

Then he coughed—a wet, painful sound that made both soldiers tense.

The older man shifted his grip, steadying him. "Stay with us," he muttered. "You're not dying yet."

Another ragged breath. Then, barely above a whisper:

"Dorian…"

The soldiers exchanged a glance.

The younger one frowned. "What?"

"My name…" the injured man rasped. "Dorian Blackfrost..."

The name meant nothing to the younger soldier. But the older one froze. His grip on the wounded man tightened for just a moment.

He knew that name.

The Blackfrost family hailed from the cold, rugged northern reaches of the Kingdom of Valdarith, a region known for its harsh winters and isolation. The family was never powerful or influential in the grand politics of the kingdom, but they carved out a niche for themselves as hardy, stoic warriors and skilled hunters, surviving the unforgiving winters of the north.

In the far northern reaches of the Kingdom of Valdarith, where the land is perpetually locked in winter's grip and the winds howl through barren forests, the Blackfrost family endured, their name whispered among the few who dared live in the frozen wilds. Unlike the grand families or the noble houses of the central kingdom, the Blackfrosts were a modest, isolated family—barely more than a clan, yet one whose name remained tied to survival, secrecy, and frost.

Their role in the kingdom was not one of politics or wealth, but one of necessity. The Blackfrosts were often hired as mercenaries or scouts during the kingdom's northern skirmishes, though they rarely fought for glory. Their battles were often against raiders from the mountains, rival clans, and the occasional beast that wandered too far south. They were trusted because of their reputation for surviving what no one else could: the frigid north.

But they were no more than history after their leader was killed by the rival houses ten years ago. Only a few still remembered that name.

And now, here he was, saving a descendent of Blackfrost out of nowhere in the western battlefield. The older soldier swallowed whatever questions burned in his throat.

Answers could wait.

"Alright, Dorian," he said, shifting his weight and continuing forward. "Let's get you out of here."

The younger soldier frowned but said nothing, following in silence.

The battlefield faded behind them, the crows left to pick at the dead.

Ahead, the road stretched long and uncertain.

And none of them knew what awaited them next.

*****

The road ahead was long and uncertain, stretching out like an endless scar across the bleak landscape. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the bitter scent of blood and ash. Smoke from the smoldering ruins of the battlefield still curled in the distance, as if the earth itself was mourning the lives lost.

Dorian's breathing had grown steadier in the older soldier's arms, though his body still felt like dead weight, a burden he couldn't escape. His vision swam in and out of focus, the sharp sting of pain in his side barely noticeable as exhaustion crept in.

The younger soldier—whom Dorian had yet to fully notice—kept his distance, eyes constantly scanning the horizon. His grip on his spear remained tight, and though his body was exhausted, he moved with a quiet intensity, ready for whatever might come.

"Damn fool," the younger soldier muttered, his words barely audible over the howling wind. "We could've just left you there. Let nature take its course." His voice carried the bitterness of one who had seen too much, lost too much, and now faced the impossible task of survival.

"Shut up," the older soldier replied, his voice gruff and worn, but there was a steel in it that left no room for argument. "We keep moving."

The younger soldier scoffed, but he followed nonetheless.

Dorian's head sagged forward, his eyes fluttering closed. The last thing he remembered was the cold. The cold that never let go, that gnawed at his bones like the fangs of some ancient predator. The Blackfrosts were used to it. He had been born into it, raised in it, until war had dragged him away from the bitter lands of the north.

But even in the heat of battle, in the fury of war, the cold was always there, lurking, whispering in the dark corners of his mind. A reminder of everything he had lost.

"Don't waste your time," Dorian muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if it was directed at the soldiers or to himself. "There's nothing left."

"What's that?" The younger soldier's voice cut through the fog of Dorian's mind, his tone sharp, questioning.

Dorian didn't respond immediately. He couldn't. Instead, he let out a slow, pained breath. "Nothing," he said quietly, staring straight ahead. "Just... tired."

The older soldier glanced back at him. "We'll stop soon. You'll rest."

Dorian didn't answer, though a faint nod was all he could muster. His eyelids grew heavy, but he fought the urge to close them. There was too much left unsaid. Too much left unanswered. His name, the Blackfrost name—it meant nothing now. It was nothing but a ghost of a past life.

The younger soldier let out a quiet grunt, his eyes scanning the horizon as they trudged on. "We're not far from some ruined houses," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many days like this. "Maybe we can rest there for the night."

Dorian barely heard him. His mind was a haze, and his body—though it had stopped shaking—felt weaker with every step.

They reached the ruined houses just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The place was desolate, the remnants of what once had been homes now reduced to crumbling stone and rotting timber. Roofs had caved in, walls had collapsed, and the air smelled of mold and decay. But it was shelter, and for tonight, that would have to be enough.

The older soldier laid Dorian down on a pile of broken wood near a collapsed wall, his movements slow but deliberate. He checked the man's wounds, but there was little to be done for the worst of them. Dorian's body had taken more than enough damage, but he was still alive. Barely.

The younger soldier stood near the doorway of one of the ruined houses, his posture tense. "He's from the north," he said, though his words weren't directed at anyone in particular. "Don't know how, but he's got that look. The cold. The way he carries himself."

The older soldier grunted. "Doesn't matter where he's from. He's breathing. That's all that matters."

Dorian couldn't find the energy to argue. His mind was elsewhere, swirling in a fog of memories and half-forgotten thoughts. He didn't want to think about the north. He didn't want to think about the family he had once had. About the cold, the snow, and the endless silence of a life left behind.

But the past refused to stay buried. For a moment, he felt a strange tug—a flicker of longing for something that was no longer his. But it was fleeting, and he pushed it away with a sigh.

"I don't belong here," Dorian muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

The older soldier didn't answer. He simply reached into his pack and pulled out a piece of dried meat, offering it to Dorian. "Eat. You'll need your strength."

Dorian took it without a word, chewing slowly. His appetite had long since vanished, but it was better than nothing.

Night settled over them like a thick blanket, and the wind howled outside, rattling the walls of the ruined houses. But inside, it was quiet—save for the crackling fire and the occasional cough from the younger soldier, who paced restlessly near the doorway.

Dorian closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. He didn't know what lay ahead.

And for a moment, just a brief moment, he let himself forget. He let the weight of the past slip away, just enough to breathe.

Tomorrow would come, as it always did. And when it did, he would move forward.

He had no other choice.

*****

The morning after they had settled in the ruins, the sounds of the wind howling against the walls were replaced by the faint clatter of hooves. Dorian awoke with a start, his mind still foggy, his body sore from the night. But the noise—the sound of movement, the stir of men—it was enough to pull him from the depths of his exhaustion.

The older soldier had already gathered his pack and was peering through a crack in the wall, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The younger soldier, likewise, stood at attention near the door, his expression alert.

"They're here," the older soldier muttered, turning to Dorian. "Stay quiet."

Dorian, too weary to protest, just nodded and struggled to sit up, leaning against the cold wall. His breath was shallow, his side throbbing. The distant sounds of shouting reached them as the soldiers outside began to gather, the unmistakable clamor of a group forming.

The younger soldier slipped out the door, leaving Dorian behind. Moments later, he returned, a grim look on his face. "Survivors," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "They've regrouped. The rest of the army's pulling back. We need to join them. We're not alone."

A flicker of hope, a sense of survival, bubbled inside Dorian. "Where are they going?" he asked hoarsely, despite himself. His voice still carried the weight of exhaustion, but there was something—something unfamiliar—in it. A spark.

"Back to the nearest town. It's safer there. We can get you patched up."

Dorian didn't argue. There was no other option. He didn't care about the town, about safety. He only wanted to keep moving.

The older soldier nodded, his grim expression unchanged. "Let's go then."

And so they left the crumbling ruins behind, joining the ragged remnants of the army, their figures slumped under the weight of exhaustion but driven by the one thing that kept them alive: the will to survive.

Dorian moved with them, silent, watching the others. They had their own stories, their own scars. And they were retreating. But none of it mattered—not the names of those who had died, not the army that had crumbled.

For now, all that mattered was the road ahead.