The air reeked of death.

Not just the smell of blood—but the deeper kind. Burnt flesh, ruptured guts, the copper sting of fresh kills soaked into the sand. It clung to Ansel’s skin, heavy as armor, and no matter how deep he breathed, it only filled his lungs with more of it.

All around him, the battlefield raged.

Steel crashed against bone. Mounts screamed. War cries from both man and orc drowned out any clear thought. The ground had turned into something unholy—mud, blood, and bone crushed into every step. And yet, the tribes pushed forward—for freedom.

They all knew that this was their final chance.

He could see the Sand Knights up ahead—ripping through the orc flanks with mounted fury, their lances shining under the midday sun. The rest of the tribes followed behind, roaring, hacking, bleeding—but never stopping. Not even for a second, not even when some faltered in steps.

But even through the madness, Ansel saw it—they were waiting.

Everyone kept glancing at the cliffs where the sky had once burned with the shape of a dragon. Where the scream of Khorvash had come from. Where the orc overlord had died.

At first, the orcs charged in with bravado—expecting their champion to appear and smash through the humans. When he didn’t, doubt took hold. Then came the fear. Ansel spotted it clearly. Some orcs faltered. Others began to flee. Weapons dropped. Orders stopped being followed.

A crack in the armor.

The humans, on the other hand, only grew louder. The chant began in one corner of the field and swept through like wildfire—“Khorvash is dead! Khorvash is dead!”

Ansel didn’t know if it was true.

But it didn’t matter. The belief alone was enough to shift the tide.

The orcs continued to bleed and in return, the humans pressed harder.

But Ansel’s focus wasn’t on the cheers. It wasn’t on Khalid barking orders or Feroy lighting the sand on fire with every swing of his spear.

He was staring at him. Zethar.

The orc general that killed his father.

A massive brute, his body painted in war marks that shimmered with wind enchantments. His legs glowed faintly blue, and with every movement, he blurred—too fast, too strong. He didn’t use weapons. Or maybe he didn’t need them.

His fists were the storm.

Tribal warriors fell like grass before him. Ribs shattered. Skulls cracked. And Zethar laughed—as if slaughter was just sport.

Ansel gripped the hilt of his blade tighter. His chest boiled with all the rage and grief combined.

He broke into a sprint—eyes locked on Zethar’s hulking frame.

But his body screamed before his mind caught up. Instinct flared.

He twisted to the side just in time to see a second orc charging from the smoke—axe raised, saliva dripping from tusks, eyes bloodshot. It was twice the size as him and wielded an axe that was dripping blood.

It came down. Ansel dropped low, the axe whistling inches above his skull. He came up fast, slashing across the orc’s thigh. A cry rang out, but not deep enough to kill. The brute staggered but didn’t fall.

Ansel crouched low, spear clutched in both hands, and prepared to strike.

The orc in front of him growled, muscles tensing, axe rising for a downward swing.

Then the beast’s head snapped sideways—sharp and sudden—and a spear burst through it like a spike through fruit. The skull cracked and blood sprayed.

The orc dropped without a sound.

Ansel blinked, startled, eyes tracing the shaft back to its source.

Above, standing atop the dead orc, draped in burning armour, was Feroy. The Knight met his gaze, looking too calm despite the raging chaos surrounding them. He pulled the spear free with one clean twist.

“Go,” Feroy said, nodding once. “I’ll clear the path for you.”

Ansel hesitated only a breath before nodding back. Then he ran.

The dust swirled around him, and ahead, Zethar loomed like a storm at the heart of a fire.

Orcs moved to intercept him—three at first, then five. All fast, all brutal.

None of them reached him.

Feroy carved through them with methodical precision. Every swing of his flaming spear left another body behind. One orc’s head spun through the air. Another was run through mid-charge. The Knight didn’t stop or falter.

Ansel barely had time to admire it.

How many have he killed today? he wondered.

It didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t Feroy, wasn’t an Enforcer. He didn’t have the power to use elementals in ways they did. It made him doubt his steps for a moment—what if he wasn’t enough as a mortal?

No, he couldn’t allow himself to think that. He had will in abundance. His father had died under Zethar’s fists.

And Ansel had carried the rage since he had heard about it from Khalid. He wouldn’t leave this battlefield without avenging him.

He gripped his spear tighter. The leather around the haft bit into his palms, slick with sweat and blood.

And then he saw Zethar just a few steps away.

The orc general stood tall, broader than any other orcs, shoulders glinting with tattoos, bare feet wrapped in bracelets that shimmered faintly with wind essence. The carnage he’d left behind was a trail of mangled bodies and dust.

He looked down at Ansel and smiled.

Ansel’s blood boiled at that. Without another word, or a thought, he sprinted forward, his feet pounding sand.

His spear came up and Zethar vanished.

It was a blur—like the wind itself shifted. He looked to his left and right, trying to see where Zethar was, but before he could witness it, his instincts screamed. And he didn’t linger.

He dove sideways just as a fist hammered down where he’d been. The impact sent cracks rippling through the ground. He hit the sand hard, rolled and kicked back onto his feet.

“Good reflex, human. But one dodge won’t save you.”

Then the orc came. Faster than before.

Ansel ducked, narrowly avoiding a sweeping punch. The wind trailing behind it sliced into his shoulder armor, peeling away part of the metal.

Fuck. No, no. Watch him and read him. Don’t panic or you will be dead!

Ansel screamed in his mind. He noticed that the orc’s artifact needed time to work again and he used that time trying to clobber Ansel to the ground with his fist, not even bothering to use any other part of his body.

And Ansel let him; let him move, knowing he would be able to dodge every strike.

As expected, the orc’s next punch came low—telegraphed by the twist of his hips.

Ansel sidestepped, letting it pass him by, and struck with the butt of his spear into Zethar’s ribs. It barely made the giant grunt, but Ansel was already moving, using the momentum to spring back and circle.

He’d hunted beasts with nothing but a rusted blade and instinct. He knew how to read movements, how to survive on pure grit. And Zethar was also a beast, but one with a mouth. So his rhythm became clear.

One—two—pause. One—lunge—overreach.

There.

Ansel ducked low and dodged.

The more he dodged, the more the orc general got angry, until he made the mistake of giving Ansel a chance to rush into his guard.

Ansel yelled and dove inside his guard, stabbing his spear straight into Zethar’s thigh.

The orc attacked with his fist, but he ducked and the fist got stuck in sand. Perfect, Ansel thought, and tried to push the spear deeper into the cut.

Zethar’s thick skin didn’t help, but the cut was enough. Unfortunately, he immediately recovered and swung his other hand at him.

Shit, Ansel’s instincts screamed at him as he ducked and twisted midway, hitting the foot of the orc as it cried.

But then, he saw the danger right in front of his eyes.

The bracelets on Zethar’s feet glowed. Wind howled.

Ansel turned and sprinted, heart pounding. And he became a blur of motion.

Goosebumps exploded along his skin.

He turned.

Zethar was already there. Right in front of him. Like his worst nightmare come true, his massive fist hurtled down like a falling boulder, parts of rock and sand falling from it.

And he knew that there was no time to dodge. So, he did what any sane man would do, he raised his arms on impulse and closed his eyes shut.

CLANG!

There was no impact or pain like he anticipated. What’s happening? He opened his eyes and they were met with a shield.

A large, solid shield that held the fist back.

He looked up, and saw Khalid. His eyes were narrowed at Zethar, who was huffing and puffing in anger. The sand shifted beneath him, but he didn’t dodge.

“Khalid?” Ansel gasped.

“You think I’d let you die before you finish what you started?”

Zethar’s gauntlet reared back again.

“Dodge!” Khalid barked.

Ansel didn’t think. He dove to the left as Zethar’s fist slammed down again, cracking stone and sending up a spray of earth. Khalid took the hit with his shield, braced for it—but the impact sent him skidding back, armor scraping across rock.

The orc spat to the side, lips curled. “Annoying humans. I’ll kill you both.”

Ansel sprinted to his brother, reaching out and helping him to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Khalid smirked through the pain. “I need my revenge too.” His voice shook, but his eyes were steady, looking at Ansel. “You weren’t there. I saw father die. Right there—in his grip. You think I’ll let you take all the glory?”

Ansel’s heart twisted.

He smiled. Just for a breath. “Then let’s do it together.”

Zethar surged forward just as they finished talking.

The artifact bound to his legs gleamed again—this time brighter, faster. The wind around him howled like a storm. His movements blurred, faster than anything they had seen before.

The brothers split.

Ansel veered right. Khalid went left.

Zethar picked a target—Khalid.

The orc general charged like a battering ram, swinging with enough force to shatter stone. Khalid roared, raised his shield, and caught the blow. The metal groaned.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the shield’s face. But it held barely, but Ansel knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Before Zethar could pull back for a second strike, Ansel closed in. He moved fast, keeping his spear low and stabbed right into the orc’s knee.

The blade hit with a sick crunch. Zethar’s leg buckled, blood gushing out in a thick stream. The orc snarled in pain, eyes wide with fury.

He didn’t fall. But he dropped a knee.

In Ansel’s tribe, they had a saying: If you want to bring down a beast, break its legs first. Zethar was no different.

But rage still burned in the orc’s eyes. He swept an arm out in a wide arc, aiming to crush Ansel with sheer force. The wind surged behind his swing.

Ansel didn’t try to block it.

He threw himself into a roll, dirt and blood smearing his clothes, the blow just missing his back.

He came up on one knee, hands already moving to his pouch. Fingers closed around a glass vial—one of the last explosive potions he had left.

“Khalid!” he shouted. “Run!”

He didn’t wait to check if his brother listened. He hurled the potion straight at the kneeling orc’s face. It spun once in the air.

Zethar saw the vial coming.

The orc’s hand snapped up to swat it aside, but the glass cracked the moment it brushed his skin—and that was enough

An explosion tore through the battlefield.

Fire sprawled across Zethar’s chest and shoulders, licking up his throat and curling down his arms. The orc screamed—raw, guttural, inhuman. It wasn’t pain alone in that scream. It was rage. Agony. Hatred.

The bracelet flared to life. Then he moved. Like a beast set ablaze.

He darted from place to place, vanishing and reappearing in flashes of speed—zigzagging through the battlefield in blind agony. His flesh sizzled. Smoke poured off him. But still, he didn’t fall.

He couldn’t stop.

The flames clung to him like a curse, and each time he moved, more skin peeled, more blackened chunks of muscle sloughed off. His howls grew hoarse, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, he was moving faster—too fast, too furious.

Ansel gripped his spear tighter, breath caught in his throat. He turned to his brother.

Khalid stood frozen, eyes locked on the burning figure. Their gazes met—and in that heartbeat, they both knew what they had to do.

This was it. Now or never.

Ansel nodded once.

Khalid stepped forward. They started running.

Straight toward the fire. Straight toward the orc. Straight toward vengeance.

***

Claire sat cross-legged beside the unconscious form of Lord Arzan, her gaze fixed on his face. He looked calm.

She inhaled sharply.

He looked too calm considering everything that had just happened.

His chest rose and fell in even breaths. She looked for signs, sweat, twitching or any sign that Lord Arzan was in pain, but there were none. It was almost as if he was in the middle of the best dream of his life. But Claire knew better. She’d seen the way his body had gone limp the moment they pulled his face out of the water-filled bowl, his arms sagged to his side and how the mana around him had gone quiet.

No one slept like that unless they were somewhere else entirely.

So she knew that this was another trial he’d have to pass—basically a soul-bound puzzle only he could solve. She’d said as much hours ago.

The others hadn’t argued.

Footsteps echoed in the chamber, metal tapping faintly against the stone. Claire turned.

Gareth stood there.

The Enforcer walked over and silently placed his enchanted weapon on the ground. Then, with a tired groan, he sat down next to her, his eyes falling on Lord Arzan’s motionless body.

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” he asked quietly.

Claire didn’t hesitate.

“The same thing I said three hours ago,” she replied. “Soon. I know it.”

Gareth nodded. “Yeah. Let’s hope it’s before Feroy and the tribals come storming through that door. Would be awkward, seeing the man who killed Khorvash taking a nap.”

At that, Claire huffed out a tired laugh. “You’ve got a strange idea of awkward.”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then she asked, “What happened to his body? Khorvash’s. You and Adil went to look for it.”

Gareth nodded. “We found it. Took us a while—lots of dunes to climb and there were large holes in the sand and a lot of it had become glass.” He paused, then added, “Body was burnt badly. Real bad. Could barely recognize the bastard.”

Claire’s expression didn’t shift. “And the artifacts?”

“The rings are still there. Lord Arzan didn’t even bother touching them.” Gareth scratched his beard. “But the gauntlets? They were all broken. Adil picked through what was left. Said we needed proof.”

“Proof?”

“For the tribes,” Gareth said simply. “They’ll want to see something. A broken weapon. A charred tusk. Something to spit on.”

Claire nodded slowly, then looked down at Lord Arzan again. “Let’s just hope they don’t try to make Adil the next overlord once we leave.”

“I’m worried about that too,” he admitted. “About what happens after. But… Adil didn’t look greedy when he picked up the rings. Not even curious.”

Claire tilted her head. “That’s surprising.”

“Yeah. He just took them, quietly. Since then, he’s been tending to the kids.”

Claire looked at him, brows raised.

Gareth nodded. “It took some time to get the chains off. Bastards had them locked down with more than iron—there were old symbols, maybe magic too. Some artifact they found in the tower. But we got them loose.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the hallway leading back down the tower.

“They’re on the ground floor now,” he said. “Waiting for this war to end. Waiting for someone they know to come find them.”

“Adil found fruits too,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “They were growing in one of the side chambers—no idea how. Pretty strange for a desert. I tasted them.” He made a face. “A little sour. But not bad. Just has a distinct taste. Malden would’ve liked it here.”

Claire’s lips curved faintly. “You think Lord Arzan will want to establish trade with this place?”

“Who knows? That’s up to him. But he’s got the tower now. Can’t just leave it to rot,” Gareth said and shrugged lazily. Claire in return nodded at that.

She doubted there was another building like this in the entire kingdom. Just climbing to the top made her legs feel like they’d walked across the Ashari twice, and there were still corridors they hadn’t seen.

But by how Lord Arzan had looked at everything, she could tell that the whole place alone could make him one of the richest men in the kingdom. It was massive. His mother—Magus Valkyrie’s inheritance was grand but again, she expected nothing less after finding out who she was.

But she would only find what they were going to do with it once Lord Arzan woke up. And Claire knew he was going to wake up soon.

***

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