The last wolf fell with a strangled whine, its body twitching before going still. For a moment, the battlefield was silent but for the ragged breathing of adventurers and the crackle of burning brush. The survivors stood in the ruin of their formation, sweat and blood dripping, weapons trembling in tired hands.
Velra's blade hung low at her side, shoulders heaving. She scanned the treeline, every sense screaming. Too many. Too relentless. This wasn't the end.
"Anyone still breathin', regroup!" she shouted, her voice hoarse yet firm. Healers darted among the wounded, their spells glowing soft against torn flesh and shattered bones. The stink of iron filled the air. More than a dozen lay dead; others cried out in pain, clutching stumps or punctured limbs.
Kenshin wiped a blood smear from his cheek, static still crackling faintly across his arms. Despite the carnage, a sharp grin tugged at his lips. "That was a fuckin' storm, yo. But nah… nah, that ain't it. I can feel it." His eyes narrowed on the dark line of trees. "Somethin' else comin'."
Drathan leaned lazily against a scorched boulder, void energy curling around his fingers like smoke. His tone was almost bored. "Big boss entrance, huh? Always gotta roll up late to the party."
Mira crouched low, knives dripping crimson, her ears twitching toward the forest. Her tail lashed behind her. "It's not over. The air's too heavy."
The ground answered her words.
THOOOM.
The earth shook violently, knocking some adventurers to their knees. Loose stones skittered across the dirt. From the treeline, birds scattered in a frantic cloud, their shrieks swallowed by the sound of something massive forcing its way through.
THOOOM.CRAAACK! Trees toppled like matchsticks, snapping in half and slamming to the ground. A path carved itself through the dense forest, as though the world itself was being torn open.
Then he emerged.
The Orc King.
He stood head and shoulders above any normal orc—at least twelve feet tall, his frame bulging with muscle that looked carved from iron. His skin was darker, tinged with a sickly green-black hue, and crude tattoos glowed faintly with crimson light across his chest and arms. His tusks were jagged and longer than a man's hand, his eyes molten gold rather than blood-red. In one clawed hand, he gripped a massive axe, its blade etched with runes that shimmered like embers.
And when he opened his mouth, he spoke—not in broken growls, but in guttural Common, deep and resonant.
"Pathetic… little gnats. This forest is mine. Your corpses will feed the soil."
A chill spread through the survivors. Intelligent. Strong. Magic humming faintly in the air around him.
Then came the bodyguards.
Two Red Ogres lumbered out of the splintered treeline at his flanks, their hulking forms even more monstrous than their lesser kin. Their crimson hides shimmered in the torchlight, eyes glowing with dull hatred. Each wielded clubs fashioned from whole tree trunks uwrapped in chains of blackened iron.
Velra's grip tightened on her sword. An Orc King. With spellwork. With red ogres at his side. This… this isn't a battle. This is survival.
Around her, squads shifted nervously. Some adventurers cursed under their breath, others whispered prayers. Even the B-rankers paled at the sight, their bravado cracking. "We're fucked," one murmured. "We're absolutely fucked."
But not everyone looked shaken.
Kenshin cracked his knuckles, a wide grin cutting through the tension. Sparks danced at his fingertips. "Finally. Something worth fightin'. Been bored as hell out here."
Drathan yawned, as though the towering monstrosity wasn't even worth his full attention. "Guy looks like he skipped leg day but didn't miss arm day. Should be fun."
Seme rolled her shoulders, tightening her grip on her greatsword, calm fire in her eyes. "Big, dumb, and loud. Perfect target practice."
Their nonchalance drew stares from nearby adventurers—half disbelief, half awe. How could they laugh in the face of that?
The Orc King raised his axe high. The weapon ignited with a swirl of dark-red flame. With a single motion, he brought it down—
WHOOOMPH!—the ground split open, a shockwave of fire racing across the field, throwing adventurers off their feet and scattering what little formation they'd rebuilt.
"MAGIC?!" one mage gasped, eyes wide in terror. "ORCS DON'T USE MAGIC!"
But this one did. And his laughter—deep, cruel, echoing—rolled across the battlefield like thunder.
Velra barked orders to reform, but the Red Ogres surged forward, swinging their clubs in arcs that flattened trees and sent adventurers flying. Seme met them head-on, her blade flashing silver. She carved into one ogre's thigh—SCHLK!—lopping off flesh, only for it to writhe and begin stitching itself back together. Her jaw tightened. Regeneration… these bastards don't stay down.
Nearby, Kenshin zipped through the fray in bursts of lightning. He hurled bolt after bolt at the Orc King, but each strike fizzled against the crimson tattoos that flared to life, absorbing the elemental energy. The king only smirked, raising a massive hand, and answered with his own spell—a tornado of stone shards that ripped across the battlefield. Kenshin barely dodged, his grin never fading. "Yo, he eatin' my shit like candy. But bet—I still hit harder than him up close."
Velra and her squad struggled to keep the ogres at bay, their weapons biting deep but never enough. Blood slicked the grass. Adventurers screamed as they were swatted aside like dolls. Seme's arms burned from the endless swings, her teeth bared in frustration. Each limb she hacked off grew back slower, but her stamina was draining fast.
One squad mage whispered furiously while throwing spells, This is insane, even our elites are strugglin'. How are those three so calm? Another answered bitterly, They must be monsters themselves.
"Yo, Seme!" Kenshin shouted while ducking under a club swing. "How many times you gonna cut the same arm off before you admit dude's playin' with you?"
"Shut it, Kenshin!" she roared, muscles straining as she brought her blade down again. "Least I'm actually hitting somethin'!"
Drathan hadn't moved from his perch. Shadows curled thicker now, rising in coils around him, feeding off the chaos. His eyes narrowed, voice low. "Regen ogres. Magic-slinging king. Y'all really thought this was balanced, huh?" He finally pushed off the boulder, stepping forward. "Fine. Guess I stop playin' lazy."
The Orc King locked eyes with him then, something like recognition—or interest—passing through that molten gaze. He bared his tusks in a feral grin, axe resting on his shoulder.
The battle raged on, desperate cries echoing, fire and lightning tearing the night, steel clashing against flesh that refused to stay down. And through it all, Drathan walked calmly toward the heart of the storm, void energy crackling at his heels.
As Seme faltered under the weight of another ogre swing, as Kenshin's lightning danced futile against burning tattoos, Drathan stopped and raised his hand. The shadows quivered.
"Time to cut the leash."
His grin widened as he whispered:
"Seal—open."
The battlefield seemed to shiver, the very air bending around him as his trump card unfurled.