The wind howled across the war-torn plains, carrying the scent of blood and death. Beneath the storm-darkened sky, the two armies stood like opposing tides, ready to crash upon one another in a maelstrom of steel and slaughter.
The Silver Axes, 23,500 warriors, held their ground with grim determination, their polished armor gleaming under the sickly, violet light that still lingered in the air after the fall of the necromancer. Their banners snapped in the wind, blood-red wolves on a field of silver—symbols of mercenaries who had fought in a hundred battles and survived them all.
Before them, the Shatûr'Maz, 40,000 green orcs, gathered in a restless, seething mass. They were the Green Tide, the warriors of the marshlands, their skin the color of moss and bile, their eyes like burning coals in the darkness. Their armor was crude, their weapons jagged and poisoned, but their numbers alone made them a force of unrelenting destruction.
And above them all, in the sky choked with black storm clouds, two figures loomed like gods of war.
Khaltar, astride his gryphon-beast Aruzhan, gazed down with cold fury, his blade glistening with the blood of the fallen. Opposing him, Zhurga the Mireborn, draped in the ceremonial bones of his ancestors, rode atop a scaled drake with venomous fangs. His spear crackled with dark energy, the sigils of his swamp-born kin glowing along its haft.
Then, as if some unseen force gave the signal, the storm above split with a deafening roar of thunder. And the battle began.
The Shatûr'Maz orcs charged first. Like a green tide, they surged forward, howling war cries that shook the very earth. Their massive, mud-caked feet thundered across the field, their rusted weapons gleaming with the promise of carnage.
"HOLD!" bellowed Yaraq, the elder warrior of the Silver Axes.
The front ranks braced their shields. A wall of steel and discipline. Then, with the force of a hurricane, the two armies collided. The impact sent shockwaves through the battlefield.
Swords met axes, shields splintered under brutal swings. Silver Axes thrust their spears forward, impaling the first rank of orcs, but the second and third wave trampled over the dead, hacking and slashing. Arrows rained from above, piercing orcish throats, but still they came, climbing over their fallen kin like insects. Within minutes, the ground was slick with blood, the air thick with screams.
The Silver Axes fought with discipline, their ranks unbreaking, their blades cutting down the frothing berserkers that came at them without hesitation. Yet the Shatûr'Maz were endless.
On the right flank, 6,000 orcs smashed through the lines, tearing apart the lightly armored archers before they could retreat.
On the left, Yaraq and his elite spearmen formed a counter-attack, driving back 4,500 orcs in a brutal melee. At the center, the fighting turned to pure butchery, neither side giving an inch.
The Silver Axes held, but they were being slowly, inevitably drowned in the sheer number of their foes. Then, from above, Khaltar dove into the fray.
With a roar like a crashing avalanche, Khaltar and Aruzhan tore through the battlefield, cutting a path of destruction toward Zhurga.
Zhurga saw him coming. He dismounted his drake with a bone-rattling war cry, slamming his spear against his shield, issuing a challenge.
Khaltar did not hesitate. He leapt from Aruzhan's back, crashing onto the battlefield like a falling star. The impact sent a shockwave, knocking back orcs and warriors alike. Then the warlords clashed.
Zhurga was fast—faster than any orc Khaltar had ever faced. His spear was a blur, striking with the precision of a viper. Khaltar dodged left, then right, then countered—his axe carving a deep gash into Zhurga's shoulder.
But Zhurga did not falter. He laughed. "You fight well, mongrel," he spat, twisting his spear in an upward arc.
Khaltar barely deflected it. The sheer force sent him skidding backward, his boots digging trenches into the bloodied earth.
For a moment, the battlefield faded. It was only them—the two warlords, surrounded by death. Then Khaltar snarled, gripping his blade with both hands. And he charged.
Khaltar's next strike shattered Zhurga's spear in two. Before the orc could react, Khaltar buried his blade into his chest.
Zhurga gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes wide with disbelief. He fell to his knees. The battlefield went silent. And then Khaltar tore his blade free, letting Zhurga's lifeless body collapse into the sand.
The Shatûr'Maz army faltered. The Silver Axes, seeing their victory within reach, let out a thunderous roar and charged one final time.
The field was a wasteland of corpses. Of the 40,000 orcs, fewer than 5,000 survived. They fled, leaderless, broken. Of the 23,500 Silver Axes, only 2,700 remained standing.
The sun hung low, bleeding across the sky like a dying god. Smoke rose from the battlefield, curling into the heavens in dark tendrils, as if the souls of the dead were being dragged to the abyss. The cries of the wounded mixed with the distant howl of wargs, the sound of steel on steel ringing like the final toll of a death knell.
Khaltar, his blade still slick with blood, raised it high. "No survivors!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the ruins of Sol-Mayora. "Hunt them down!"
The 2,700 remaining Silver Axes roared in unison, their bloodied weapons gleaming under the crimson sky.
The 5,000 orcs that had fled the battlefield were now scattered across the hills, riding their massive wargs in desperate retreat. But there was no escape.
The Silver Axes archers—masters of death from afar—took position atop the broken ruins. Their bows creaked as they loosed volley after volley, arrows streaking through the dusk like black rain. The wargs shrieked as they fell, their riders thrown to the earth, vulnerable, doomed.
Khaltar watched as the first hundred orcs collapsed in seconds, bodies punctured by dozens of arrows. Wargs twisted in agony, tumbling over their riders, snapping bones beneath their immense weight. The orcs, seeing there was no escape, had no choice but to turn and fight.
The orcs, though desperate, fought like animals cornered, their survival instincts turning them into frenzied killers.
The Silver Axes, though wounded and battle-worn, fought with the cold fury of warriors who had already claimed victory.
It was discipline versus madness. The orcs slammed into the Silver Axes' front lines with brutal force, bodies colliding like a storm-driven tide against jagged cliffs.
For every one Silver Axe that fell, two orcs were cut down in return—but the orcs were still more.
A Silver Axe swordsman lost his arm to a warg's snapping jaws before his comrades cut the beast down and crushed its rider beneath their boots.
Another warrior, a veteran of fifty campaigns, was ripped apart by three berserkers at once, his body torn open in a spray of red before his killers were skewered by a wall of spears. The numbers dwindled. The orcs dropped to 2,500. The Silver Axes to 1,800. Blood turned the battlefield into a lake of death.
Khaltar, still atop Aruzhan, cut through the orcs like a reaper harvesting the damned. His blade split a warg's skull in half, his boot crushed another orc's face into the sand. He fought his way toward Jhon.
Jhon had fought across countless battlefields. He had killed men, monsters, and things unfit to be named. But Khadag was unlike any foe he had ever faced.
The orc warlord was wounded but still smiling, his massive cleaver gleaming with fresh blood.
Jhon panted, his sword heavy in his grip, his armor dented and splattered with gore. He had cut Khadag a dozen times, but the orc refused to fall.
"You fight well, human," Khadag growled, rolling his broad shoulders. "But you die here."
Jhon spat blood. "Not before you."
The orc came at him like a hurricane. Jhon dodged left, barely avoiding the cleaver that could have split him in two. He countered, his blade slashing across Khadag's ribs, but the orc only laughed—a deep, rumbling sound of amusement. Then he punched Jhon in the face.
Jhon staggered, spitting out a tooth. He barely raised his blade in time to parry the next strike—but the force sent him crashing onto his back. Khadag raised his cleaver, ready to end it. And then Khaltar struck.
A shadow fell over Khadag as Khaltar leaped from Aruzhan's back, his blade raised high. The orc turned—but too late.
Khaltar's blade came down with a force that split bone and flesh alike, carving deep into Khadag's chest. The warlord's eyes widened. He staggered, coughing blood. Then, with a final, shuddering breath, he collapsed.
Jhon pulled himself up, wiping the blood from his face. He looked at Khadag's motionless body, then at Khaltar. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Then Jhon grinned. "Took you long enough."
With Khadag dead, the remaining orcs broke. They ran. But the Silver Axes did not let them escape.
The last 500 orcs were cut down without mercy, their green blood soaking the battlefield, mingling with the fallen warriors of both sides.
When the final orc collapsed into the sand, gurgling his last breath, the battlefield fell into silence. Only 83 Silver Axes remained. They had started the war 23,500 warriors. Now, barely a fraction of them stood.
Khaltar, breathing heavily, looked across the field of corpses. Jhon let out a long, weary sigh as he dropped onto the blood-soaked earth, his armor dented, his body aching from a battle that felt like it had lasted a lifetime. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, looking up at the crimson-streaked sky. "What now?" he asked, his voice hoarse from shouting, from killing.
Khaltar sat beside him, stretching his sore muscles with a grunt before flashing a rare, tired smile. "Maybe you could go back to your homeland," he mused. "I don't know. Maybe all of this was just another war to you."
Jhon huffed a dry laugh. "Doesn't feel like just another war."
They both laid back, staring at the sky, letting the weight of everything settle into their bones. For the first time in weeks—maybe months—there was no battle to fight, no enemy to kill.
Jhon let his thoughts drift. To the first time he met Khaltar. Back then, he had been just another desperate man, seeking the aid of the Silver Axes to crush the Iron Foot Clan. He had been so sure that was the greatest battle of his life. How foolish that seemed now. Everything had come to an end. Or so he thought.
Jhon sat up again, rolling his stiff shoulders when movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye. He turned—and there was Ghur'Zir, the treacherous bastard, trying to slink away into the ruins.
Jhon smirked. Reaching for a discarded axe lying nearby, he weighed it in his palm before standing. "Where do you think you're going, rat?"
Ghur'Zir froze. His skin slick with sweat, his tusked mouth twisted in fear. Then, like a cornered beast, he ran.
Jhon took a deep breath, pulled back his arm, and let the axe fly. It spun through the air in a deadly arc before finding its mark with a sickening crunch. Ghur'Zir screamed.
The axe had buried itself into both of his legs, severing tendons, breaking bones. The once-proud goblin collapsed, writhing in agony, blood pooling beneath him as he clawed at the dirt, trying to drag himself forward.
Jhon strode over, slow and deliberate. He crouched beside the fallen goblin, watching the pathetic attempt to crawl. "Not so proud now, are you?" Jhon smirked, his voice laced with mockery.
Ghur'Zir snarled, his face contorted with pain and rage. But there was no more fight left in him.
Jhon tilted his head. "Crawl all you want. It won't get you far."