The darkness of night could not hide their menace. Flames from the burning barricade licked upward, casting jagged shadows that twisted and danced like demons on the wall.
The night air shook with the beast's voice. A guttural snarl rolled from its throat
Grrrhhhhhrrrhhh
low and grinding, thick with hunger. The sound crawled along the ground like rolling thunder, a predator's promise that made the villagers flinch as though the earth itself growled beneath their feet.
Then came another sound, claws scraping against stone, sharp and grating, like knives dragged across slate. The noise cut through the night just as torchlight caught movement. Out of the black, two riders emerged.
The first was lean, cruel, a shadow with a sneer. Behind him came something far worse: a hulking orc astride a black-furred worg, bursting into clarity like a nightmare torn from the dark.The rider was massive seven feet of crimson skinned corded muscle, his bare chest a map of old scars, a cleaver longer than a man's arm clenched in his fist. Perched atop the snarling worg, with a combining height neared ten feet, eyes burning like coals in a furnace.
For the first time, Aexl saw what the system's text had only described. Eldenthyr's memories were full of grim whispers about them but seeing a true Worg Rider in flesh was something else entirely.
Panic tore through the villagers. Only two women guards stood their ground, shields raised. Behind them, a black-haired woman shielded a silver-haired girl, Lyssa stood firm, and old Roderick planted himself like a wall. A purple-haired woman shouted, trying to calm the screaming crowd.
The bigger rider barked a harsh command, his voice like a whip in the dark.
The smaller rider's worg lunged.
It moved like a shadow loosed from its leash—fast, too fast—until the charge smashed to a halt.
Steel rang out as the two women Guards braced together. Their shields locked and slammed into the beast's momentum, the impact jarring through their arms. The worg reared back, muscles bunching as it fought to keep its rider seated, then slashed downward with its claws.
The worg's claws raked across steel. A high-pitched shriek split the night, followed by the brutal crack of shields splintering beneath the force of its strike.
The blow tore the weapons from the women's hands. The beast staggered in its frenzy, howling as a blade stabbed deep into its paw. Limping, snarling, it recoiled—then hurled itself forward once more, fangs snapping shut like a trap built for bone.
Roderick moved. His voice cut sharper than any blade.
"Guard the villagers."
Lyssa and the black-haired woman halted mid-stride, bound by the weight of his command. While the two women guards step back with spear only on their hands
Roderick's eyes were not on the wounded worg before him but on the hulking figure still waiting at the gate.
The bigger one.
Aexl stood apart. No command, no blade drawn. The villagers' eyes slid toward him, desperate for some flash of heroism, but he gave them nothing. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the rider at the back—the true threat.
And so it began: Roderick versus the Worg Rider.
The black-furred worg lunged, fangs snapping. Roderick twisted aside, blade flashing across its muzzle. The beast howled, rearing, just as its rider swung a cleaver that could have split a tree.
Clang! Steel met steel. Sparks scattered in the dark.
Roderick's sword danced with a sharpness that belied his years. He moved low, pivoting, striking quick as a snake. His blade kissed the orc's ribs, cutting shallow but true. For a heartbeat, the old warrior shone—flexibility and speed against brute force.
Then the Worg Rider answered.
The cleaver came again and again, heavy arcs that rattled Roderick's bones. The beast moved in perfect tandem, claws raking, jaws lunging, mobility and strength fused into a storm. Roderick was pressed backward, his guard trembling under the weight of each blow.
The worg struck low. Fangs ripped across his right ribs, tearing cloth and carving flesh. Blood spilled hot. His sword hand faltered—pain screamed up his side.
But his left hand clenched tighter around the hilt.
You think that's a free hit?
With a roar, Roderick twisted, blade driving sideways. Steel punched through the worg's left eye, bursting skull. The beast convulsed, shriek cut short as its body slammed into the dirt.
Above it, the rider's cleaver was already falling, a brutal arc meant to split him in two. But with the beast dead, the strike came clumsy, weight dragging it off-line.
Roderick's eyes sharpened. "Opportunity"
He ripped his sword free before the carcass hit the ground, spinning counter-clockwise. His wounded side burned, but his motion was clean. The rider's right ribs—completely open.
"Now!"
The thrust drove deep. His steel pierced heart. The orc froze mid-swing, cleaver dangling useless, breath caught in shock. As the orc tried for one last struggle raise his cleaver
Roderick tore the blade out fast, knocking the weapon wide with a sharp parry. Then, without pause, he raised his sword high blood dripping in heavy trails.
One clean powerful slash.
Steel flashed. The rider's head flew, body crashing lifeless to the dirt.
For a moment, the night was silent, only fire crackling, only Roderick's ragged breath.
Both beast and rider lay dead.
Roderick gripped his bleeding side, swaying but unbowed. Lyssa and the black-haired woman rushed to his aid, eyes wide with worry.
A champion without reward—only survival, only the will to protect the village he loved.
The two women guards snatched up their discarded shields, though splintered and cracked, bracing again as their eyes locked on the hulking orc rider. Would he charge?
He laughed. A guttural, mocking roar that rolled through the night.
The worg launched forward with terrifying speed, its rider urging it on. The guards braced, broken shields trembling in their arms. Roderick shoved Lyssa behind him, body moving on instinct to shield the women.
Then Aexl moved.
Out of nowhere, clad in nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts, he snatched a spear from one of the guards. His blue hair caught firelight as he leveled the weapon.
For an instant his past flashed through him from a boy who once called a javelin champion, the soldier hardened by Military Service, and now this young body carrying the mind of a veteran. Tougher, sharper, deadlier.
He drew a breath, muscles coiled. Then his arm snapped forward.
"Whummphhh—shhhwwwhtt!"
The spear tore the air, slicing through the night.
Thud!
The point drove clean into the worg's forehead, piercing deep into its brain.
"Aaarrrhhhgggkkhh…"
The beast let out a strangled death-cry, collapsing mid-charge.
The hulking rider tumbled, snarling in rage. His eyes blazed as he turned on the dying beast. With one furious sweep, he raised his cleaver and brought it down. The first blow did not take the head as blood spattered across the ground.
The second hacked deeper. The worg's skull split, its cries silenced. The orc stood bathed in its blood, laughing, drenched like a child splashing in his first bath.
Aexl bent and wrapped his fingers around the cleaver of the orc Roderick had felled. The weapon was monstrous, its jagged edge dark with blood, its weight meant for hands twice the size of his own.
He rose to his full height. At six foot five, Aexl was no small man, yet the brute before him loomed taller still—seven feet of muscle and scars, like the wrestlers he saw on TV.
The cleaver should have dragged him down, its bulk enough to stagger even a seasoned fighter. But in Aexl's grip it felt strangely light, almost natural, as if the steel itself had been waiting for him.
He let it scrape along the dirt as he walked forward, the edge shrieking sparks from stone. Each step echoed with calm finality.
Clad in nothing more than a t-shirt and boxer shorts as he removed the coat and dropped to the ground, blue hair swaying in the firelight, Aexl advanced—not as a desperate man, but as someone dressed for the kill.
The villagers stared in awe. Lyssa and Roderick themselves could hardly believe it.
The orc roared and ran to meet him, every step shaking the earth.
This wasn't the first time Aexl had faced a colossus. Earth had bred giants too—hulks of muscle with minds sharp enough to scheme. But this one? This was just brute force.
Clang! Cleaver met cleaver. The impact shook the air.
"Swordplay," Aexl muttered under his breath, a mocking smile tugging at his lips.
"Childish."
The orc unleashed a storm of strikes, brute strength pounding again and again. Aexl parried each one, arms steady, footwork clean.
Then came the heavier blow—an overhead slash meant to cleave him in half.
Aexl let it come. He shifted, guiding the strike downward. The orc's own weight carried the blade into the dirt, cleaver wedged deep.
The beast strained to wrench it free.
"Big swords make big swings," Aexl said flatly.
He released his hands from the cleaver, moving with sudden speed. His body flowed low, blade appeared mysteriously in his hands flashing toward the orc's feet. Blood sprayed as steel carved flesh.
And then—like it had always been there
a second weapon glinted in his hand — not a crude village blade, but a soldier's steel. A heavily customized M9 Bayonet, its 9-inch blade honed to a vicious edge, sawback spine catching the firelight. On Earth, this was a military issue.
In Aexl's grip, it was death incarnate.
He glided low, steps silent, almost casual. The orc never saw it coming.
The knife slashed across the tendon of the right heel
schhhrrp!
severing muscle and dropping the beast's weight unevenly. The orc bellowed, staggering, his leg buckling.
Aexl was already behind him. One swift glide, and the bayonet carved across the tendon at the back of the knee of the left leg. The hulking monster collapsed to one leg with a guttural roar, balance torn away.
It spun, massive arm sweeping to grab him. But Aexl was not there. He slipped into the blind spot, left side open, bayonet flashing upward.
Steel punched into flesh. The blade bit across the carotid, a clean, merciless slash.
Blood erupted in a crimson spray, hot and wild, drenching the brute's chest. The orc's hand flew to his neck, trying to stem the tide, his cleaver slipping from his grip as strength fled his fingers.
Aexl didn't blink. His eyes were cold, movements fluid, attack was flawless as he let the blade wound more on the orc body, calculated, surgical. Every strike had purpose. Every slash was placement, not chance.
A modern soldier's training in a younger body — deadly, agile, efficient.
The hulking orc staggered, choking on his own blood, legs useless, weapon gone.
Aexl straightened, knife steady in his grip. The fight was already over.
The orc tried to growl, but Aexl was already there towering over its kneeling bulk.
He drove the blade upward in one clean motion. Steel punched through the soft flesh beneath its chin, angling deep into the skull. The beast shuddered, eyes rolling white as blood poured from its slackened jaws.
Aexl pulled the blade back, dragging the edge through its mouth, splitting the lips wider into a grotesque grin.
He chuckled low, almost mocking. "You look one of the alien in a movie"
Without pause, he buried the knife into its temple. Bone cracked, eye burst, and when he ripped the blade free, a strip of flesh clung before snapping loose. The orc toppled sideways, crumpling to the ground. No wasted motion. No bloody mess scattered. Just precision—cold, surgical speed.
The villagers froze. Not a scream, not a cheer. They simply stared. An orc had been butchered before their eyes, as easily as a chicken in a slaughterhouse.
But Aexl wasn't watching them. His gaze fell to the knife in his hand. One of his few prized possessions.
"So you followed me all the way here…" he muttered, almost to himself.
Memory flickered—university years. A woman's hand placing the knife into his. A gift, half a joke about his obsession with Rambo, half something deeper. He'd carried it through his military service, always at his side, a private reminder of both her and what he kept hidden beneath the uniform.
How it ended up in this world… he wasn't sure. Last he remembered, it was beside him in the cabin before the summoning.
He recalled the panic earlier—when the two women guards braced against the worg rider's charge. Desperate for a weapon, his hand had scrambled through the War Dominion app. The inventory menu blinked open, and there it was: the familiar knife icon. Instinctively, he tapped it.
The steel had materialized in his right hand, solid, real.
A prompt flashed across the screen:
[ If you will it, the weapon shall appear. ]
That first time, he had lunged to help Roderick—but the old veteran had already slain his foe. And just as quickly, Aexl had tested the command, unsummoning it into nothing.
Now, standing over the corpse, he understood. This knife was no longer just steel—it was bound to him, tied between worlds.
And as he gripped it tighter, his smile was thin and sharp.
This would be fun