The men had left the town behind, riding deep into the shadow-thick woods of the southern wilds. Fog curled between twisted branches, and spiderwebs glinted in the dim light. The brush was dense, merging seamlessly with the fog, and the path ahead looked more like an old wound carved into the forest floor. Horses stamped across damp earth as the group advanced in tense silence.
Talk soon faded. Only the crunch of hooves in fallen leaves and the occasional growl of a beast in the underbrush disturbed the stillness. Leopold rode ahead, his face stern, eyes sharp. His aura hung over the company like a dark veil. The mercenaries felt it pressing against their lungs—a tangible reminder of who rode before them. His Corpus magic trembled beneath the surface, a silent quake through muscle, bone, and breath—like the pressure of an impending landslide.
Eventually, they dismounted. Leopold raised a hand, halting the group with a sharp motion. "We go on foot from here," he muttered. "Too narrow for the horses—and too dangerous." They tied the reins to a low branch. The air had grown heavier, the fog thicker.
They had already been wandering for some time when Marek leaned toward Karl and asked, "Does he even know what he's doing?"
Before Karl could respond, Leopold's voice cut through the mist. "Of course I do. I have senses sharper than those beasts—ears that hear what they don't, eyes that see what they fear."
He raised his hand abruptly. "There it is." Tracks in the mud. Torn plants. And then—blood. A wide, smeared trail led them to a small clearing.
There it stood: an imposing Ironhide.
A behemoth of gray-black fur, over two meters tall, with armored plates along its spine and twisted horns like ancient, gnarled wood. Reddish glowing eyes scanned the area as it tore flesh from a steaming carcass. The sound of ripping meat and cracking bone broke the silence. The carcass—likely a buck—was barely recognizable. Bits of skin clung to the bushes, blood steamed in the cool morning air.
Then—a crack in the brush.
A female figure stumbled into view—an orc woman, tall and strong, her body forged by countless battles. Her long, wild hair was matted with blood, her muscular form shaped by years of hardship—a body built more for war than beauty, yet unmistakably striking. Her physique was a taut equilibrium of hardened muscle and commanding presence, radiating not just power, but an almost magnetic defiance—an embodiment of raw power shaped by survival and pride. Her green skin, marked by faint scars, gleamed with sweat and defiance.
Her eyes burned with fierce intelligence, the kind that whispered of blood-soaked hunts and restless nights beneath foreign moons. But to Leopold, all of it was irrelevant. All he saw was blood waiting to be spilled. Her shredded clothes clung to her body, blood smeared down her arms. Her gaze flicked to the men, then to the Ironhide—panic and calculation dancing in her eyes.
A rustle. Then another. The horses neighed nervously, and the mercenaries shifted. Karl raised a hand to signal caution—too late.
The woods exploded with motion.
The first arrow struck Marek in the throat. He dropped without a sound. A second arrow slammed into Karl's shoulder just as he lifted his hand for a fire spell—his magic fizzled as he crumpled, cursing in pain.
Orcish cries erupted from the trees—sharp, guttural war chants that sent birds scattering from the canopy. Twelve orcs charged from the underbrush, their bodies painted with bone ash and blood, weapons raised. Spears, clubs, axes. Their eyes burned with hatred born of centuries.
Leopold moved first.
His blade flashed—too fast to track. The first attacker's chest caved inward under a blow that split ribs and crushed lungs. Blood sprayed, a fine mist in the morning fog. The orc's body was lifted from the ground by the sheer force, spine shattering as it slammed against a tree and crumpled.
Another charged him with a war cry—axe high. Leopold ducked low with fluid grace and drove his sword upward into the orc's exposed throat. The steel punched through flesh and sinew, emerging from the back of the neck in a spray of arterial blood. The scream caught in the orc's throat, dying in a bubbling gurgle as Leopold twisted the blade and wrenched it free.
He didn't hesitate. Another enemy came—screaming, maddened, club raised. Leopold pivoted, kicked the corpse aside, and met the next with a brutal upward strike that sheared through collarbone and into the chest. The orc spasmed, coughed blood—and collapsed.
All around him, chaos reigned. But for Leopold, it was a rhythm. He moved through it like a dancer, each kill a beat in a violent melody.
In this chaos, the orc woman vanished into the treeline—and the Ironhide thundered after her. No hesitation. No thought. For Leopold, there was only one thing now: his prey.
The mercenaries rallied, but it was chaos. Gerd swung wildly, cutting one down—but took a spear through the thigh. Thomas was tackled and disappeared beneath a pile of snarling orcs. Karl shouted orders, trying to regroup, but panic spread like fire. Thomas fled into the woods. Gerd and Marek—one with his skull caved in, another still twitching with a broken spine.
The orcs fought with brutal efficiency, striking not just to kill but to maim, to cripple. War drums pounded in their blood. This wasn't a skirmish. It was an ambush prepared with ancestral hatred.
Karl, clutching his wounded shoulder, managed to ignite a flare of flame, scorching two attackers before collapsing to his knees. Smoke curled from blackened grass. Screams echoed through the trees.
And through it all, Leopold was already gone, vanished into the thickets, chasing the Ironhide and the orc woman without a backward glance. His prey had moved, and so had he—his instincts overriding any concern for the men left behind.
Karl now stood alone, facing a towering orc with a chipped axe and murder in his eyes. Blood from his wounded shoulder dripped steadily into the dirt. He smiled, not out of bravery, but resignation. "Well," he muttered to no one in particular, "I guess this is how it ends."
A beat passed. Then, softer, almost reflective: "He didn't even look back. Not once. Just like always."
There was no anger in his voice—only understanding. "For him, we're ghosts already. Just noise between him and whatever monster he's chasing."
The orc roared and rushed forward. Karl raised his hand, one last ember flickering in his palm.