The torches burned with eerie green flames, casting long, dancing shadows over the obsidian field. The orcs gathered at the edges, their guttural chants rising in rhythm, a primal drumbeat of war. The air was thick with tension, sweat, and the scent of old blood.
At the center of the field, the Shaman of the Ashbloods raised his bone staff, his voice a rasp of ancient power. "The gods watch. The ground listens. The sky waits."
He turned to the six orcs, then to Rahotep and his team, his black-painted lips curling into something neither smile nor snarl. "Two scores decide your fate. No mercy. No weapons. No second chances."
Then, he lifted a hand. An orc threw the ball high into the air, and as it fell, the world erupted into chaos. The ball struck the ground with a sickening thud, as if something inside it still pulsed with lingering life. Rahotep lunged forward, but Urzok was faster, bigger, stronger—his shoulder slammed into Rahotep's ribs like a battering ram, sending him sprawling across the black stone.
Nadra darted in next, using her speed to intercept the ball. She leapt, twisting midair, her shoulder catching the ball, redirecting it toward Khaltar—but Dhorak, the swift-footed orc, cut in with impossible speed, intercepting the ball and hammering it forward toward the ring.
Durnhal, the dwarf, threw himself into the path, and though his shorter stature made him struggle in reach, his sheer bulk absorbed the impact, stopping the orcish advance. The ball bounced back, rolling wildly across the field.
The crowd roared as Arianne sprinted for it, but Zarga, the Unyielding, was waiting. She anticipated the move, spinning her entire body into a brutal shoulder check, sending Arianne tumbling. The ball was loose again. "Move! Now!" Rahotep bellowed.
Reza, eyes fierce, was already moving. She angled her run, reading the field like a battlefield. The orcs were strong, but brute force had a flaw—it lacked precision. She darted between two, twisting to strike the ball with her knee, sending it into open space. Khaltar surged forward, slamming his chest against the ball, redirecting it toward the orc's gate.
For a moment—just a moment—victory was in sight. But Moghul the Laughing Wolf moved like a ghost. He sprinted ahead, leapt, and in mid-air, twisted his torso to send the ball flying back the opposite direction. Straight toward Rahotep.
The world slowed as he saw it coming. He had a choice. Block with his chest and risk breaking ribs? Try to redirect with his head and risk blacking out?
Pain was coming either way. He gritted his teeth and threw his body into the impact. CRACK.
The ball slammed into his chest like a hammer against steel. His breath vanished, his vision spotted black, but he had done it. The ball was loose again. But then—Urzok was already there.
His massive, scarred shoulder drove into Rahotep's spine, sending him skidding across the stone. Before he could even breathe, Urzok twisted, striking the ball with his knee, aiming high toward the ring.
It soared through the air. Durnhal tried to jump—too short. Nadra ran—too late. The ball arched, heading straight for the ring—And just at the last second, Arianne leapt, her shoulder catching the ball's edge, knocking it barely off course. It missed. The orcs groaned in frustration. The captives breathed again. But they weren't safe. Not yet.
The ball hit the ground again, rolling toward the field's center. The teams reset, bruised and battered, but the score remained zero to zero. The next point would shift the game.
Rahotep coughed blood but stood, glaring at Urzok. Urzok grinned back, tusks glinting. The Ashbloods were enjoying this. The orcs had played this game for centuries. Rahotep and his people had just begun.
The air was thick, not just with sweat and dust, but with something more suffocating—inevitability. The orcs grinned with fanged confidence, while Rahotep and his people steeled themselves, knowing they were playing against fate itself.
The Stakes – Calculating Victory and Defeat
They were outmatched in size and raw power—that much was clear.
The Shaman raised his staff, and the second round began. The ball dropped like a meteor from the heavens. Rahotep moved first. He knew the orcs expected brute force. So he changed the strategy.
Instead of fighting the impact, he let the ball graze his shoulder, using the momentum to redirect it toward Nadra, who was already in motion. Speed was their only advantage.
Nadra caught the ball with a quick knee, pivoting left instead of right—a feint to confuse the massive Zarga, who lunged the wrong way. A split-second opening.
She kicked it high toward Khaltar, who braced himself against Moghul the Laughing Wolf, absorbing the orc's charge just enough to strike the ball midair with his thigh, angling it toward the ring—A perfect shot.
For the first time, the orcs weren't laughing. But then—Urzok moved. The chieftain's champion, twice the size of a normal orc, twisted his body with terrifying speed. His massive leg caught the ball mid-flight, sending it screaming across the field like a war projectile.
It was too fast to counter. Durnhal tried anyway. The dwarf threw himself forward, arms tucked, bracing for impact—The ball slammed into his ribcage.
A sickening crack echoed across the field. Durnhal collapsed. The ball ricocheted off his now-broken torso and bounced toward the goal. One point to the Ashbloods.
The orcs howled in triumph, but Rahotep and the others didn't have time to mourn Durnhal's injury. They had to score.
The Shaman signaled the restart, and they changed tactics again. If brute force didn't work, if pure speed wasn't enough—they needed deception.
Rahotep locked eyes with Arianne. A silent understanding passed between them. As the ball dropped, she bolted forward instead of back, confusing the orcs for one critical second.
The ball bounced, and this time, Soraya made the first move, headbutting it backward to Nadra. Zarga lunged at Nadra again, but this time it was a trap.
Instead of running, Nadra planted her foot and let Zarga's own momentum work against her. Zarga, too heavy to stop in time, stumbled forward just as Nadra flicked the ball away. Perfect setup.
Khaltar sprinted toward it, sliding on one knee to redirect the ball upward with his chest. It soared toward the ring. The orcs realized too late. SCORE.
One to one. Now, both teams were battered, bruised, and bleeding. The final round would decide everything. The ball dropped for the last time. Everything would be decided in the next moments.
The orcs grinned through bloody teeth, their muscles twitching with primal excitement. Rahotep and his team stood their ground, battered but unbroken. One point each. One last score would decide their fate. The Shaman raised his staff high. The ball dropped.
The ball hit the ground, and everything exploded into motion. Urzok charged first, his massive frame a blur, sending a shockwave of dust as he leapt forward.
Rahotep didn't run. Instead, he faked a step left—just enough to bait Urzok into lunging early. Rahotep spun around him, brushing past the orc's side, and met the ball mid-air with his knee.
It soared toward Nadra. Nadra knew Zarga would come for her. She didn't hesitate—instead of dodging, she dropped to the ground, sliding beneath the orc's sweeping arm. The ball rebounded off her chest, and Khaltar was already moving. Perfect pass.
Khaltar vaulted forward, planting a foot against Moghul's broad chest and flipping over him. The orcs roared in fury, realizing too late—The ball was already midair, heading for the ring.
Urzok reacted instantly, his massive leg launching him off the ground like a catapult. He was fast. But Khaltar had counted on that. Instead of aiming directly for the ring, he had angled the shot slightly wide.
A deliberate misdirect. Urzok twisted his body mid-air, realizing the deception too late. His fingers barely grazed the ball. It clipped his knuckle… and spun even faster toward the ring. A split second of silence. Then—it sailed through. Score.
The orcs stared, their bloodstained faces frozen in disbelief. The ball bounced once, then rolled to a stop. The Shaman raised his arms. "It is done."
The crowd erupted—some in fury, others in awe. Khargul watched in silence, his massive arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Rahotep and his people collapsed to their knees, chests heaving, muscles burning.
They had won. But the cost was clear—Durnhal lay unmoving, his ribs crushed. Khargul finally stepped forward, towering over them. His deep voice rumbled "You have spilled sweat, not blood. This is not our way."
A pause. Then he grinned. "Half of you may leave. The others… shall stay. As proof of honor."
The victory felt hollow. Who would stay behind? Who would walk free? And was this truly over?