Five days at sea changes a person.
By the time the ships finally slowed, no one rushed to the rails anymore. The excitement had burned off somewhere between restless nights, recycled air, and the dull understanding that there was no turning back.
The capital of the Orcish Republic rose from the coastline like a scar that refused to heal.
Concrete fortifications hugged the harbor. Watchtowers bristled with guns. Barricades layered the streets beyond the docks. Smoke drifted lazily upward—not from celebration, but from industry repurposed for survival.
The ships docked one by one.
Then the ramps dropped.
Thousands of troops poured out.
Veteran batches moved first—disciplined, efficient, faces already carved into something harder than youth. Behind them came the newer forces. Including Batch 1939.
The moment Gilbert's boots hit the dock, the atmosphere changed.
This wasn't Velmora.
This wasn't training.
This place expected violence.
All around them, allied soldiers rushed to reinforce positions—hauling crates, erecting barriers, loading artillery, shouting coordinates in clipped, exhausted voices. Flags of the Orcish Republic hung from buildings, torn and patched, still flying out of stubborn defiance.
Kael muttered, "Yeah… this place has seen things."
Gilbert didn't answer. His eyes had locked onto a line of stretchers being rushed past them.
Wounded soldiers.
Some unconscious.
Some screaming through clenched teeth.
Some missing limbs entirely—bandages soaked dark, crude prosthetics already fitted where flesh used to be.
One orc soldier lay still, chest rising shallowly, half his tusk shattered. Another had lost both legs below the knee, eyes open but empty, staring at something no one else could see.
Finn swallowed hard.
Marina slowed instinctively before Darius's glare snapped her back into formation.
"Eyes forward," Darius barked—not cruel, but firm. "You look too long, you freeze. You freeze, you die."
They were escorted through the city under guard, deeper into fortified zones until they reached the barracks—long concrete structures reinforced with earthwork and steel. Functional. Cramped. Temporary.
Gear was dropped. Weapons checked. Orders given.
"Rest while you can," Darius told them once the doors closed behind the squad. "You don't know when you'll get another chance."
No one joked this time.
Clara sat quietly on her bunk, cleaning her rifle with precise motions. Nina stared at the wall, already mapping kill zones that weren't on any map. Garrick paced like a caged animal. Rey checked straps on his shield that didn't need checking.
Kael finally exhaled. "Okay… I officially don't like this part."
"That's good," Darius said. "Fear keeps you alive. Let it sharpen you, not paralyze you."
He stepped into the center of the room, voice lowering.
"You're facing Jakura Orcs."
The name carried weight here.
"A coalition of purist tribes," Darius continued. "They don't negotiate. They don't surrender. They believe this land belongs to orcs alone—no humans, no hybrids, no allies."
Cassian clenched his jaw. "So… genocide."
"Yes," Darius said plainly. "And they're very honest about it."
Silence settled again.
"They fight dirty," he went on. "Ambushes. Night raids. Civilian shields. They want you angry. They want you careless."
His eyes swept the room.
"If you want to go home alive, you stay vigilant. You trust your squad. And you remember why you're here."
He paused.
"Not for glory. Not for revenge."
A distant explosion echoed through the city.
"But so this place doesn't burn."
Gilbert felt the nervous weight in his chest solidify into something colder. He glanced around the room—at Kael, at Marina, at Finn, at everyone who had trained beside him just days ago.
They weren't recruits anymore.
They were reinforcements.
And outside those walls, the war that had been raging for two and a half years was waiting to see what Batch 1939 was made of.
The barracks door opened without ceremony.
Not kicked in.
Not announced.
Just a solid knock, then the slow creak of hinges.
Conversation died instantly.
The figure who stepped inside was tall—even for an orc—but leaner than the Jakura silhouettes painted on propaganda posters. His skin was a muted ash-green, scarred but not monstrous. One tusk was shorter than the other, broken long ago and filed down clean. He wore a patched officer's coat bearing the insignia of the Orcish Republic, a rifle slung across his back like second nature.
Half the room stiffened.
Hands drifted unconsciously closer to weapons.
Darius didn't move.
The orc raised both hands slightly—not surrender, just acknowledgment.
"Easy," he said. His voice was rough, but controlled. Human-accented. Educated. "If I wanted you dead, this room would already be louder."
Kael blinked. "Wow. Straight to the confidence."
Darius finally spoke. "State your name."
"Uruk," the orc replied. "Hybrid liaison. Former frontline officer. Currently assigned to educating fresh allies before they do something stupid."
Cassian folded his arms. "Bold assumption."
Uruk's eyes flicked to him. "You're breathing. So yes."
A few snorts broke the tension. Not laughter—release.
Darius nodded once. "Talk."
Uruk stepped further in, boots heavy against concrete. His gaze swept the squad—not with hostility, but assessment.
"You've been told you're here to fight Jakura Orcs," he began. "You've been told they're monsters. Purists. Slaughterers."
He paused.
"All true."
Finn frowned. "Then… what's the lesson?"
Uruk's jaw tightened. "That you should know why monsters are born."
Silence returned—thicker this time.
"Decades ago," Uruk continued, "Velmora came to this continent waving banners and contracts. Trade. Order. Civilization."
Kael muttered, "Ah. The classic."
Uruk didn't smile.
"Your empires didn't just take land," he said. "They took bodies. Orc women. Orc men. Villages without weapons or laws to protect them."
Marina's hands clenched in her lap.
"The children that came from that," Uruk went on, "were neither human enough for Velmora… nor orc enough for the tribes."
Nina spoke quietly. "Hybrids."
Uruk nodded. "Us."
Clara's eyes stayed on him, sharp but listening.
"We were shamed. Exiled. Killed quietly. And when colonial rule finally collapsed, the pure tribes wanted to pretend we never existed."
Rey swallowed. "So you came back."
"We had to," Uruk said. "There was nowhere else. That's how the Orcish Republic was born—not as revenge, but as survival. A place where humans who stayed, hybrids who returned, and orcs who chose peace could exist."
Garrick scoffed. "And Jakura didn't like that."
Uruk's eyes hardened. "Jakura believes blood decides worth. That hybrids are proof of humiliation. That humans are a disease."
Cassian leaned forward. "So they want to wipe you out."
"Yes," Uruk said simply. "And you for standing here."
A distant artillery thump rolled through the walls, punctuating the truth.
Gilbert finally spoke. "They've killed a lot of people."
Uruk met his gaze. "Because you underestimated them."
The room shifted.
"Jakura Orcs are not just brutes swinging axes," Uruk said. "They learned from you. Firearms. Grenades. Mortars. Improvised shells."
Finn's eyes widened. "They… use guns?"
Uruk snorted. "Poorly at first. Not anymore."
Vera crossed her arms. "Explains the casualties."
"Yes," Uruk said. "They ambush convoys. Plant bombs. Hit med tents. They adapt faster than you expect because hatred is a very efficient teacher."
Kael leaned back. "So no 'dumb savage' advantage."
Uruk looked at him flatly. "If you treat them like that, you'll die first."
Darius finally stepped forward. "What do you want from my squad?"
Uruk exhaled slowly. "Respect. Vigilance. And the understanding that this war isn't about heroes."
He gestured vaguely toward the city beyond the walls.
"It's about preventing history from repeating itself—with better weapons."
Silence lingered.
Then Marina stood. "If they hit civilians… hybrids…"
Uruk nodded. "They do."
Marina's voice steadied. "Then we'll stop them."
Cassian cracked his neck. "Guess that settles it."
Clara finally spoke, eyes never leaving Uruk. "You're trusting us with this truth."
Uruk inclined his head. "Because lies get allies killed."
He turned toward the door, pausing once more.
"One more thing," he said. "Jakura doesn't fear magic."
The room stilled.
"They fear coordination. Discipline. Squads that don't break."
His gaze swept Batch 1939 one last time.
"Prove them wrong."
The door closed behind him.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Kael finally broke it. "Well. That was heavier than rations."
Darius looked at them—really looked.
"Now you know who you're fighting," he said. "And why."
He paused.
"Remember it when things get ugly."
Outside, the war waited—
not as a simple clash of races,
but as the long shadow of history armed with guns.
The gates of the Orcish Republic opened at dawn.
Not wide.
Not proudly.
Just enough.
Thousands of boots moved as one.
Hybrid soldiers in patched armor marched shoulder-to-shoulder with Velmoran infantry, banners furled, rifles low, magic restrained. The column stretched far enough that the front disappeared into haze while the rear was swallowed by the city's shadow.
Batch 1939 moved with them—one unit among many, but no longer invisible.
Beyond the walls, the land changed immediately.
Savanna grass lay flattened and blackened, scorched into uneven paths by shelling. Burnt trees jutted from the ground like broken spears. Craters pocked the earth—some shallow, some deep enough to swallow a vehicle whole. Smoke lingered everywhere, drifting lazily under a blanket of low, gray clouds.
Kael glanced up. "Of course it's cloudy. War hates good weather."
Gilbert adjusted the strap on his pack. "Or maybe it just doesn't care."
No one argued.
They passed abandoned villages—stone foundations cracked, roofs collapsed inward, belongings half-buried in dust. Someone's home reduced to a reference point on a map.
Then the smell hit them.
Not gunpowder.
Not smoke.
Something heavier.
Ahead, two hybrid soldiers stood near a massive pile of bodies stacked like cordwood. Orcs. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Limbs twisted at wrong angles. Armor shattered. Faces frozen mid-expression—anger, surprise, nothing at all.
One hybrid tipped a torch.
Flames crawled upward, slow and deliberate.
Finn's breath caught.
Marina looked away instinctively, hand tightening around her satchel. Clara didn't look away—but her jaw set hard. Garrick's expression darkened, all humor burned off. Even Cassian stayed quiet.
The column didn't stop.
They never did.
Uruk marched near the front flank, his pace steady. Kael drifted closer, eyes still locked on the fire.
"Tell me that's not what I think it is," Kael muttered.
Uruk followed his gaze. Didn't slow.
"Jakura," he said. "From last night."
Kael frowned. "You… burn them?"
Uruk nodded once. "They don't recover their dead."
"That's it?" Kael pressed. "Just leave them?"
"They believe the fallen have made their minds for the cause of victory," Uruk replied. "They don't need remembrance. Only victory matters"
Kael swallowed. "That's… cold."
Uruk's voice stayed flat. "It makes them reckless. And predictable."
Gilbert overheard. "And the burning?"
"Disease," Uruk said. "Scavengers. Morale."
He glanced sideways at Kael. "And a message. We won't let them rot our land."
The fire crackled behind them.
Finn finally whispered, "How many wars have you walked through?"
Uruk didn't answer right away.
"Enough," he said eventually. "To know this part never gets easier."
The march continued.
Clouds thickened overhead, muting the light, turning everything gray and brown and red. Somewhere far ahead, artillery thundered—dull, rhythmic, patient.
Darius raised a fist.
The column slowed, then stopped.
"Frontline is less than five kilometers," he barked. "Eyes up. Spacing tight. No heroes."
Batch 1939 tightened formation.
Gilbert felt the dread settle—not panic, not fear. Something heavier. Like stepping onto a road you already know the end of, even if you don't know where you'll fall.
Kael leaned in. "Hey. If I trip—"
"I'll drag you," Gilbert said quietly.
"Good. Just making sure."
Ahead of them lay trenches, smoke, and an enemy that hated them for reasons older than any of them.
Behind them burned the dead.
And between the two, thousands marched forward—
hybrids, humans, allies—
carrying rifles, magic, and the weight of history into the savanna.
The frontline waited.
The frontline revealed itself slowly.
Not as walls.
Not as towers.
But as a valley—wide, scarred, and hollowed out by two and a half years of killing.
The coalition held the slope.
Below them, the land dipped and stretched toward the heart of orc civilization, a long open approach carved with trenches, shell holes, and the bones of failed advances. Whoever charged uphill here did so knowing the ground remembered every mistake.
The reinforcements arrived in waves
Thousands of soldiers moved down the slope in controlled lines, boots sinking into loose dirt and ash. Orders were short. Hand signals frequent. No shouting unless necessary.
Batch 1939 followed the flow, eyes scanning everything.
The silence was unsettling—not peaceful, but loaded. Distant explosions echoed far off, not close enough to feel, but close enough to remind them this place never truly slept.
They reached the trenches.
Older soldiers waved them in—faces tired, uniforms stained, movements efficient. These weren't men and women who talked much anymore. They checked weapons, nodded once, and made room.
"Welcome," one hybrid soldier muttered. "Keep your head low."
Assignments came quickly.
No ceremony. Just placement.
Frontmost trench line
Gilbert and Finn.
The furthest forward.
Gilbert felt it immediately—the exposure. The way the land opened up ahead of them, the way the trench walls felt thinner here. Finn swallowed hard but followed orders without complaint, hands tight around his weapon.
"You good?" Gilbert asked quietly.
Finn nodded too fast. "Yeah. Yeah. I can do this."
Gilbert didn't argue. He just stayed close.
Eastern trench section
Kael slid into position beside Ezra, a short distance away. The eastern side offered more broken terrain—rocks, half-collapsed earthworks, places where movement could vanish if you blinked.
Kael glanced sideways. "You ever smile, man?"
Ezra didn't look up. "Only when things go wrong."
"Fantastic."
Western trench section
Cassian took the west with Ronan, Clara, and Sienna.
Ronan stood like part of the earth itself, boots planted wide. Clara settled into an overwatch nook, rifle already resting, eyes scanning the valley through her scope. Sienna crouched nearby, checking wires and traps with practiced ease.
"Feels like a bad place to rush," Cassian muttered.
"That's why they will," Sienna replied.
Central trench section
Just behind the front line.
Ellior took position there—close enough to respond, far enough to move. Nina stood beside him, already testing how quickly the ground could freeze if needed. Marina adjusted her medical kit, eyes flicking between faces like she was memorizing them. Aira leaned against the trench wall, fingers twitching subtly as illusions shimmered and faded at the edge of perception.
Ellior glanced forward—to where Gilbert was.
Then back to the squad.
"We hold," he said simply.
They all nodded.
Far eastern trench section
Garrick, Vera, Reynard, Theo, and Victor formed the anchor.
A brutal lineup.
Reynard planted his shield with practiced ease. Theo rolled his shoulders. Garrick cracked his neck like he was warming up for a brawl. Victor melted into shadow without being asked. Vera checked nothing—because nothing needed checking.
"Eyes open," she said flatly. "Jakura doesn't announce themselves."
Weapons were loaded.
Safeties off.
Magic restrained, waiting.
Older soldiers passed along the trench, offering quiet words, spare ammo, grim looks of approval. No one joked. No one prayed out loud.
The valley remained still.
Smoke drifted low. Clouds pressed heavy overhead. Somewhere far off, artillery thundered again—slow, patient, inevitable.
Gilbert rested his hands on the trench edge and stared forward.
This was it.
No charge yet.
No enemy in sight.
Just a warzone pretending to be quiet.
And every soldier on the slope knew the truth:
The orcs could come at any moment.
And when they did, this valley would remember every name that fell into it.