Honor

Within the hallowed, secretly verdant chamber of life, Eonar, the very essence of creation, stood defiant. Her bronze skin glowed, an alabaster staff clutched firm in her grasp, while underfoot, flowers defiantly bloomed even amidst the growing piles of demon corpses. With a majestic sweep of her staff, ancient treants, five or six meters of towering, grumpy wood, burst from the ground, intercepting the tide of screaming demons.

Despite the serene bloom of flora and the monstrous mounds of dismembered fiends, Eonar was in dire straits. In the mere seconds Thorim had observed, her life force defense had been compressed by a third by the insidious power of fel. As the Mother of Life, her true calling lay in blessing distant worlds with vibrant ecosystems, not in cracking skulls. Combat truly wasn't Eonar's forte. Moreover, her physical form had been annihilated by Sargeras millennia ago, forcing her to fight as a Titan spirit, a mere shadow of her former glory. "You will not disgrace the glory of the Titans!" she thundered, her voice echoing with weary resolve.

Thorim wasted no time. His keen eyes locked onto the demon commander: a dark-red skinned Destroyer, a living nightmare with six arms, each clutching a different, menacing weapon. It was Nora, the Mother of Flame, one of the nefarious leaders of the Coven of Destroyers, a notorious fiend who savored torment across the cosmos. These Witches of Destruction, priests twisted by the Demon King himself, specialized in capturing and corrupting Titan spirits – as Aggramar and Argus could attest.

"Glorious Orcs! Charge with me!" Thorim bellowed, his voice a peal of thunder.

"For the glory of the Crusaders!" Garrosh shrieked back, launching himself like a catapulted boulder, his golden Soul-Splitting Axe already a blur. He and his father, Grom, charged like twin, green-skinned cannonballs, flanking Thorim by mere half-lengths on either side. These three apex predators, a demigod and two legendary orcs, formed a terrifying, unstoppable spearhead, plunging fiercely into the demonic ranks. Behind them, thousands of elite Glorious Orcs surged forward, a green tide of fury.

"Stop them, you imbeciles! Lord Sargeras's grand design cannot be thwarted!" Nora, the Mother of Flame, shrieked, her voice a discordant symphony of rage. She whipped her myriad arms, commanding more demons to hurl themselves at Thorim like suicidal projectiles. Under the leadership of several snarling Fel Lords, scores of Demon Guards and snarling Felhounds peeled away from the main army, colliding violently with the shimmering golden advance.

"Feel the storm of despair, my green-skinned brothers! Don't hesitate! Obliterate everything in your path!" Thorim roared, freely wielding storms and thunder, his voice a booming encouragement to the Glorious Orcs around him. "Victory or Death!"

"Feel my wrath!"

With their combined firepower, after only a few brutal exchanges, the demon generals leading the charge found their heads separated from their shoulders before they could even utter a pitiful gurgle. The sudden, ignominious demise of their warlords momentarily threw the demonic charge into disarray, but Thorim and the Hellscreams granted them no time to recover. Thunder, roaring battle axes, blinding storms, and searing holy light tore through the demonic lines, bringing forth geysers of broken limbs and shattered armor, as green demon blood soaked the ground beneath their feet.

This truly horrific, efficient slaughter made the demons falter. You see, this was deep in the cosmic void. Dying here meant true oblivion; no convenient resurrection back at the Argus base. Dead meant really dead. And while they were demons, cruel and bloodthirsty, even they knew the chilling touch of genuine, eternal death.

"DAMN IT ALL!" Nora, the Mother of Flame, shrieked again, her voice cracking with desperation. "ATTACK! DON'T STOP! ATTACK! KILL THEM! NOW!" At her frenzied command, the arcane engines on the chests of two hulking Fel Destroyers and two massive Fel Disruptors roared to life, and the gargantuan constructs lumbered purposefully towards Thorim.

Thorim's eyes narrowed, already preparing to unleash a devastating counter-assault, but Grom suddenly strode in front of him, Gorehowl raised.

"Hold on a moment, Thunder-butt!" Grom roared, carving a demon hound in half with a casual swipe of Gorehowl. "Leave those two big metal bags to us! No one knows how to deal with giant, overgrown lumps of metal better than the Hellscream family!"

Thorim's expression was, to put it mildly, quite peculiar. He was a giant. He was quite confident in his own ability to smash other giants. Yet, here was this mortal orc warlord, highly recommended by the Overlord himself, claiming his family were the nemeses of giants?

The old father's boast resonated deeply with Garrosh, but he also caught Thorim's slightly bewildered expression. While everyone fought under the banner of the Crusaders, there were still distinctions. Garrosh, having matured significantly over the years, quickly stepped in to prevent an awkward skirmish born of his father's bluntness. "Respected demigod, our Warsong Clan has battled ogres and even Gronn for generations. We've accumulated... considerable experience."

"Let me show you how it's done, father and son!" Thorim grunted, a flicker of understanding dawning in his eyes. He grasped that mortals, in their sheer numbers and boundless potential, truly could birth warriors of astonishing might. Hadn't he and his own Titan Guardian brethren been temporarily subdued by the puny, yet surprisingly resilient, human descendants of the Iron Vrykul? "Well, I'll wait and see!"

Grom didn't bother to clarify the glorious ambiguity of his statement; he wouldn't interrupt his son's smooth talking. Especially not after it had taken him so long to bridge the gap with the boy. Seeing that Garrosh and Thorim had concluded their brief, peculiar exchange, the legendary orc hero rolled his shoulders, tightening his grip on the sharp battle axe, Gorehowl. As his chest heaved, a raw, red flame of materialized anger erupted around his body, the very air distorting with his fury.

Truth be told, Thorim was genuinely shocked by Grom's raw, untamed momentum. He felt that this orc warrior, this mere mortal, could actually threaten him.

"LOK'TA—UGHH!"

With a deafening roar that rivaled thunder, Grom's body launched forward like a cannonball, leaving a shimmering red tail in its wake. Then, under the incredulous gaze of the Destroyer Witch Leader, the mighty Evil-Infused Destroyer—a seemingly impenetrable Fel Energy Gundam forged from countless precious materials—cracked. From its left shoulder to its right waist, Grom's Gorehowl cleaved the behemoth in half!

Even that infernal mechanical body couldn't absorb the full force of the orc warrior's might. A six-meter-tall Fel Lord, foolishly hiding behind the "Fel Gundam," was instantly atomized into a fine red mist under Gorehowl's relentless swing.

"Hahaha! There's another one!" After that single, glorious strike, Grom finally felt his blood truly begin to burn! The demons he'd just annihilated had been far too weak to properly get him warmed up.

"Father! That one's MINE!" Garrosh roared, rushing impatiently towards Grom before the dust even settled! Unlike his grizzled father, Garrosh had joined the orcish forces in his early teens. His Soul-Splitting Axe, eerily similar in style to Gorehowl, had earned its own fearsome reputation across Draenor after years of relentless combat with demons.

"Be crushed by the Crusaders! Demon!"