As the remnants of battle faded from the chamber, Volk’s mind began to churn.

His thoughts flickered back to Warlock Zenveil, the one he fought with such relentless power.

There was something Zenveil had said—something that gnawed at him even now.

Slowly, he turned to the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs, who stood around him, still marveling at their pale, transformed bodies.

Volk stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. “Pour some water on your bodies.”

The Orcs stared at him in confusion. Grok’Thar furrowed his brow, his tusks twitching as if he hadn’t heard Volk correctly. “Water?”

Volk nodded once, his eyes steady and unwavering. “Yes, water. Trust me on this.”

There was a hesitant murmur among the Orcs.

Why would they pour water on themselves now, after everything that had just happened? But Volk’s tone left little room for argument.

Slowly, a few Orcs unslung their water skins, tipping the cool liquid over their bodies.

As the water ran down their skin, something strange began to happen.

The pale hue of their skin shifted.

Where once the green had been washed away, leaving them almost ghostly in appearance, now the water revealed something else—a clear, light hue, almost luminous, like their bodies were catching the glow of the crystals surrounding them.

“Voila,” Volk muttered under his breath, watching as the transformation unfolded.

The Orcs gasped.

Grok’Thar stood stock still, staring at his arms as the light color replaced the sickly pallor they had moments ago. “What… what is this?” he stammered, looking around to the others.

Grashk, who was equally astounded, ran his hand over his arm, feeling the smoothness beneath the water as it revealed the glowing hue beneath. “Volk… what’s happening to us?”

Volk, wiping the remaining drops from his own skin, shook his head. “I don’t know everything yet. But I remember something Zenveil mentioned before I killed him. Something about the origins of us Orcs.”

This caught their attention.

They had always known themselves as Orcs, warriors born from the earth, molded by battle and survival.

The idea of another origin was foreign, unsettling even.

Volk stepped forward, his gaze piercing as he asked the question that had plagued his thoughts since Zenveil’s death. “What is the true origin of us Orcs?”

The Orcs exchanged uncertain glances. Grok’Thar was the first to respond, his voice deep and gravelly.

“The elder said we’re Orcs, Volk. Born from the deep earth, like the stones and mountains. We’ve always lived there, hunted by the Dark Elven Witches and the damned Warlocks. But we were strong enough to survive. When the Elven Witches came to help us, we thrived even more and spread.”

Volk raised an eyebrow. “Elven Witches, our partners, right?”

Grashk nodded vigorously, his massive fists clenching as he spoke.

“Aye. Out partners. The Elven Witches—not like the Dark Elven Witches or those damn Red Elven Warlocks. No, these Elven Witches were different. They saved us. They mixed their blood with ours and gave us the strength to grow.”

There was a collective murmur of agreement among the Orcs.

Their tale of the Elven Witches was well known, passed down through generations.

They were a symbol of salvation, of hope amidst the constant struggle for survival. But the simplicity of the tale left Volk unsatisfied.

Volk turned his attention to Grounad, who had remained quiet, a thoughtful look on his face. “And what do you think, Grounad? You have a different story, don’t you?”

Grounad straightened, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Aye. There’s another tale back in my Bloodfang Clan, though it’s not too far from what they said. Long ago, we were hunted by Dark Elven Witches who sought to enslave us. But the Elven Witches—they weren’t just saviors. They were… something more.”

Volk narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

Grounad sighed, rubbing his chin as he recalled the legend.

“The Elven Witches came from a land beyond the stars. Not just any ordinary Elves, but a race that had fled from something even darker than the Warlocks and their kind.

“When they found us—Orcs—they didn’t just mix their blood with ours. They gave us part of their essence, their magic. That’s why we’re so strong, why we’ve always had this connection to the earth and magic. It’s in our blood.

“But not all of us accepted that gift willingly. Some fought against it. They said it made us weaker, that we should’ve stayed pure.”

The Orcs surrounding them murmured in surprise, exchanging curious glances.

The story was familiar, yet Grounad’s version had a layer of depth they hadn’t heard before.

The Elven Witches were not just saviors—they were the key to their strength, to their very existence as a race—they believed. And not something like Grounad had said.

Volk’s brow furrowed. “And the Grum-gar form? Where did that come from?”

At this, both Grounad and several of the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs straightened, their faces darkening.

Grashk was the first to speak. “The Grum-gar form came from a different time. It was because we ate the flesh of Ogres. They say the first Orcs to consume an Ogre gained their strength. But it cursed us too. Every time we call on that power, we lose a bit of ourselves to it.”

The others nodded in agreement, recounting the same story that had been told for generations.

The Grum-gar form was both a gift and a curse—a transformation that allowed them to tap into unimaginable strength, but one that came at a price.

It had always been a part of their history, something they accepted without question.

But Volk’s eyes narrowed. There was something about all these stories that didn’t sit right with him. “You’re all wrong,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through their conversation.

The Orcs fell silent, turning to look at him in confusion.

“What do you mean, Volk?” Grounad asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Volk clenched his fists, his mind racing back to his encounter with Warlock Zenveil.

“Zenveil told me something before he died. He said that the stories we know about our origins are lies. The Grum-gar form, the Elven Witches… It’s all been twisted.”

The Orcs exchanged uneasy glances.

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Their entire identity, their heritage, was built on these stories.

For Volk to say they were wrong was a heavy accusation.

Volk exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening. “Do you want to know the truth? The real truth? The one Zenveil spoke of before I ended his miserable life?”

There was a moment of silence as the weight of his words settled over them.

Grounad shifted uncomfortably, while Grashk and the others looked around, unsure of what to say. But the curiosity in their eyes was undeniable.

Finally, Grok’Thar spoke up, his voice low and uncertain. “What is the truth, Volk?”

Volk smirked darkly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon.

“The truth… is far darker than any of us could imagine.” He paused, letting his words sink in.

“But if you want to know the real origin of the Orcs, I can tell you why the skins we have now were different.”

The Orcs were silent, and one could see their faces were reflecting a mixture of anticipation and fear.

The stories they had grown up with, the identity they had built their lives around, seemed inconceivable.

However, they could feel that whatever Volk was about to reveal, it would challenge everything they had ever believed.

Volk took a deep breath, locking eyes with each of them in turn. “Do you really want to hear it?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of the unknown.

The silence in the room was thick with tension, but slowly, one by one, the Orcs nodded.

Volk’s eyes glinted with grim determination. “Then listen closely.”

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