Kentucky moved like the wind.
Feathers sliced through branches, talons splashing over marshy ground. The great cuckoo tore through the forest with speed that stunned even Aexl. He kept low in the saddle, posture tight, eyes scanning the terrain burned into his mind—the tactical map from his Ephone, now instinct.
He avoided the main path. Too open. Too obvious.
Instead, he guided Kentucky through ridges and roots, silent arcs of fern and soft bog, veering toward the highland cliffs.
The Cliff of Echo.
Where war would soon roar louder than thunder.
As the trees thinned and sunlight cracked through the canopy, Aexl leaned forward.
Ahead, the land broke open—cragged stone jutting like a natural fortress.
Kentucky slowed at his signal. Talons scraped rock.
Then came the sound.
THUD.
…THUD.
...…THUD.
Aexl froze.
Not thunder.
Not rockfall.
Marching.
Heavy. Synchronized. Merciless.
He slid down the saddle in one fluid motion.
Tied Kentucky to a twisted tree, dropped a pouch of crumbs.
"Quiet, buddy," he whispered.
The cuckoo clucked low and content.
Aexl vanished into the brush.
Boots ghosted across moss. Every movement calculated.
He reached the ledge, peeked between broken stone.
Then saw them.
A force—not a warband. Annihilation given form.
Orcs. Armored. Towering. Shields streaked with blood. Axes thick as a man's torso. No worgs—only disciplined infantry in black iron.
Their eyes burned like coals. Their steps shook the ground.
The trees seemed to bend away. Even the birds had fled.
Aexl's breath caught.
"They're not marching to conquer," he muttered.
"They're marching to erase."
He tracked the shape of their movement.
Wide flanks. Heavy shields on the edge. Lighter ranks down the center.
Recognition clicked.
"Roman marching pattern," he whispered. "Flanks hold. Center folds. Force funnel."
His hands trembled—but not from fear.
From thrill.
This was real war.
Not simulated. Not pixelated.
Real.
He glanced back toward Eldenthyr—quiet, exposed, utterly unprepared.
"They won't last… not with fists and fences."
His jaw clenched.
"But lucky for them… they have me."
He grinned. Not bravado—certainty.
He watched the orcs slow and begin to encamp.
Massive polearms planted in earth. Armor like mobile furnaces. Their march echoed faintly through the cliffs, even at rest.
"They're slow," Aexl noted. "But tanks don't need to be fast to flatten villages."
He studied their gear. Chestplates thick. Greaves interlocked. But...
"No helmets?"
War paint instead. Tribal. Defiant.
He scoffed. "Invincibility complex."
Still, he admired it. "In War Dominion, you meet these guys at level 20. Need full party, high ground, gear upgrades..."
Now?
He exhaled.
"Now I get to face them with pitchforks and hay carts."
Yet he smiled anyway—that crooked grin of a man dealt the worst hand in the game, and still going all-in.
A fire lit behind his eyes.
"If I'm gonna die," he whispered, eyes scanning formations, noting command intervals,
"I'm dying with a highlight reel."
Aexl rose from his crouch, brushing dirt from his knees, when something caught his eye—movement on the trunk of a tree, not far from where he had been watching the orcs through his binoculars. He narrowed his gaze. A silhouette. A face he recognized.
…Dobi?
A smirk tugged at his lips. Without a sound, he slid behind the boy, swift and precise. One arm locked Dobi's elbow, the other clamped around his chest, dragging him into a soldier's chokehold. His breath touched the boy's ear as he muttered low, "If I were an enemy… you'd already be dead."
"Ghhk—!" Dobi wriggled helplessly, eyes wide, feet scraping for balance.
Aexl released him with a shove. Dobi staggered back—and nearly toppled off the ridge. Aexl's hand shot out, yanking him by the collar before he slipped. "Careful," Aexl said flatly.
"S-sorry, General!" Dobi stammered, bowing his head. "I thought you were Tobi…"
Aexl blinked. "Hn. Can't even tell which one of you is which…" He folded his arms. "Who taught you this scouting nonsense?"
"Old Roderick," Dobi admitted quickly.
"No wonder," Aexl muttered under his breath.
He turned away. "We're done here. Let's head back."
Dobi shook his head. "No, General—I need to make a report."
"No need," Aexl cut him off. "Stay put. What we need right now is everyone gathered for something else."
The boy hesitated, then fell in step behind him as they made their way through the slope. Kentucky was still there, the giant cuckoo perched on the grass, lazily pecking at berries. Its saddle straps clinked softly in the night breeze.
Aexl broke the silence. "Dobi… may I ask something?"
Dobi spoke behind. "What is it? General"
"Are your people… good with bows and arrows?" Aexl asked
Dobi ran in front and eyes flicked to him. "Bows and arrows? Why would you assume so?
Aexl replied gaze at him well, Pointy ears, sharp eyes… natural for it." referencing elves as they were told in earth
Dobi scratched his cheek awkwardly. " To be honest. The hunters use bows sometimes, but most of us fight with spears and javelins. That's our way."
Aexl stopped mid-step. "…What?" He turned, eyebrows knitting. "So those pointed ears are just for show? Spears and javelins only?"
Dobi's brow furrowed. "What does our ears have to do with bows?"
Aexl exhaled, half annoyed, half amused. "Nothing. Forget it." In his head, though, he cursed—there went his mental play of Agincourt, a line of archers breaking a charge. Not with these villagers.
As they neared Kentucky, Dobi froze, eyes going wide at the sight of the massive bird with reins and saddle. "Wh-what the hell di you do to the cuckoo?!"
Aexl patted Kentucky's flank. "That, kid, is my ride," I told him, patting Kentucky's feathered neck.
"Ride?" Dobi blinked like an idiot. "Last time I tried, I broke my arm!"
I gave him a look. "How the hell did you even try to ride it?"
"Like a horse," he said quickly. "We just… lounge on it. It fidgets at first, but once you show dominance, it settles."
I almost laughed. Dominance? This isn't some farm mule. "No, kid. This one's about romance. And feeding." I swung myself onto the saddle. Smooth, easy, like I'd been born to it. Kentucky shifted, but didn't fight me.
I held out a hand. "Come on. You're riding with me."
His face went pale. "A-are you sure it won't kill me?"
I scratched the back of my head, grinning. "You've got two choices: I kill you… or you ride."
His ears twitched. "I… ride," he muttered, grabbing my arm.
I hauled him up behind me. Once he was seated, I shoved a bundle into his hands. "Hold this."
He peeked inside, then gagged. "Ahhh! I-it's… an orc head!"
"Scout," I said casually. "Killed them before I even got here." Kentucky shifted under us as I turned him toward the village. "Hold tight. I don't want you falling."
The kid stuffed the head into his pack and clung to me from behind. His voice was a whisper against my shoulder. "Y-you… killed five of them? While they were sleeping?"
"Yes," I replied. Flat. No drama. Just fact.
Then I tapped my heels.
Zoom. Kentucky shot forward, the forest blurring into streaks of green and shadow.
We tore through the Overgrowth like a bolt loosed from a bow. Roots, ridges, muck — none of it slowed us. Kentucky's stride was relentless, talons hammering earth with the speed of a storm.
We stopped once—where I'd piled the worg carcasses. Dobi's breath hitched when he saw the heap, eyes wide like he was staring at nightmares made real.
We passed another spot—orc riders, still spiked where I'd left them. The kid's stomach churned. I could feel him trembling behind me.
He was right about one thing: Though that no one would dare go to the village if they saw this
But my focus wasn't on his nerves.
It was on the horizon.
We broke from the Overgrowth, Kentucky's stride tearing into open field. I expected silence. A village lamenting its doom. Women whispering prayers. Children clinging to mothers in dread.
Instead—roars. Wild cheers. The sound of celebration rolled over us like thunder.
I blinked. "…Festival today?" I asked over my shoulder.
Dobi shook his head, as confused as I was. "Not that I can think of. Maybe… maybe they found out you smashed those orc riders?"
"Probably," I muttered, though my gut told me otherwise. Kentucky bolted faster, talons kicking up dirt as we closed on the village gate.
And then I saw it.
Not a festival. Not mourning either.
The wheat fields were gone, trampled flat. Nearly a hectare of dry, parched earth ringed with fences. A scarecrow stood in the middle like some twisted referee. And around it—chaos.
Five figures thundered down the track, not horses, not carts—but cuckoos. Racing. Neck to neck like some damn medieval derby.
Selene leaned forward on a golden-hued beast, hair streaming like fire. Lyssa pressed hard on a blue bird streaked with purple, her golden hair whipping in the wind. Rina straddled a scarlet blur, jaw set like a woman possessed. Two more riders flanked them, every one of them locked in desperate competition—as if life itself hung on who crossed first.
The villagers roared like gamblers at a coliseum. Women perched on cuckoos at the edges, kids clutching eggs like prizes. Bread flew from hands to beaks, and the damned birds gobbled it up like racing fuel.
I almost fell off Kentucky. "…What the hell am I looking at?"
The gate was empty. No guards. The same women I had ordered to mount watch were now streaking down a dirt track, treating this like some holy derby.
Dobi slipped down as soon as we slowed. He hurried toward a familiar rider—Tobi, already astride his own cuckoo.
"Brother!" Dobi shouted. "Why is everyone riding cuckoos?"
Tobi looked like he'd been waiting to brag. "I got here this morning. Saw the guards feeding them bread. Next thing, they're on the saddle. Said it was easy once you knew the trick. I mounted mine too. Lyssa asked me how, so I showed her. Then Selene saw it, then…"
I cut him off, pinching the bridge of my nose. "…It became infectious."
I looked out over the madness Lyssa and Selene turned jockeys, villagers shrieking like gamblers, half the village mounted like it was the end of days at the Kentucky Derby.
"What?" Tobi blinked.
I sighed. "What I mean is—you started a new hype."
He grinned. "Yeah, that's right… but the guards started it first!"
Dobi cut in, shaking his head. "No. General started that hype."
"What?!" Tobi snapped, looking at me like I'd grown another head.
Before I could answer, Roderick's voice boomed across the field. "Winner—Selene!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers, clapping, whistles. You'd think they'd forgotten the orcs entirely.
I muttered, "Give me the head."
Dobi fumbled into his pack, pale as he pulled out the wrapped bundle. I took it without flinching. Time to kill the mood.
Kentucky slowed near the makeshift hay podium. All eyes turned. Lyssa's gaze met mine, her expression flashing relief, almost whispering oh, you're back.
I smirked under my breath. "Of course I'm back." Then I raised my voice, sharp and commanding. "I'd like to present the trophy!"
The chatter dimmed. Faces turned. Whispers buzzed.
"Why does he always dress so weird?"
"What's on his clothes?"
I glanced down. Orc blood. Mud from crawling. More blood splattered across my pants. No wonder they looked at me like a stray dog.
I cleared my throat. Twice. "Ehem. Ehem."
Roderick crossed his arms, still hostile. "So… what's the trophy?"
I yanked the cloth free. The orc's head lolled out, tongue dangling, eyes glazed. I lifted it high. "This."
Gasps. Murmurs. A few shrieks.
"The scouts are already dead," I barked. "But five hundred more are coming. I hope everyone here is prepared—and doing the roles I assigned."
The cheers died fast. Good. Finally, silence where it mattered.
Then my eyes caught it—off to the right. Ten massive boulders stacked like primitive artillery. Four-meter logs, tips shaved into spears. A cart overflowing with bear traps, gleaming iron teeth ready to snap. Bundles of rope, frayed but serviceable, piled like coiled snakes.
I blinked. When did they set all this up?
"You're fast," I muttered.
Lyssa stepped forward, her voice calm but sharp. "The ropes are old, but that's all we could muster. We need steel—something sturdier."
Selene spat to the side, her black hair whipping. "If Maevra had sold us anything worth the wheat, we'd have steel by now. Instead she gave us a damned spider. Now the thing squats in our mine, nesting over our iron. No one dares go near."
"I'll check on that later," I told them, nodding toward the pile of ropes and boulders. "But first—I want to see the broken fortress. And the armory. If we even have one."
Lyssa stepped forward quickly. "I'll guide you there."
I turned my gaze on Roderick. "How's the training?"
Roderick's weathered eyes met mine. "The ten guards are already adept with their spears and javelins so I had them throw. Mounted. Unmounted. I watched their scores myself. Clean strikes, steady arms. Whether on foot or on cuckoo-back, their aim held.
Hn. Not bad, I muttered in my head. Spoken like a veteran, old man. Maybe you still have some bite left in you. As replied back Good. At least something here was moving in the right direction. Not bad for villagers—no, not bad for soldiers in the making as I tapped Roderick's shoulder then gazed back at Roderick and asked the question that mattered.
"Are any of you proficient with bow and arrows?"
Roderick shook his head. "Not our forte since we arrived here at Eldenthyr. Spears and javelins only. But the hunters—they're proficient. Hunting's different from war, but their shots are true."
I exhaled through my nose. Figures. So much for volley fire. Guess I'd have to adapt.
Out of the corner of my eye, cuckoos thundered across the field, feathers flying as villagers rode them like it was a sport. My lips twitched. "Tell me those hunters… can they be mount in Cuckoo as well same as those villagers?"
Lyssa nodded. "Yes. I saw Lego, Gruff, and Quink riding earlier. They've already taken theirs out to hunt for tonight's dinner."
Thats good I replied as my mind razed to construct a strategy
"What's the plan, then?" Selene's voice cut in, sharp, impatient. She stood with her raven hair falling across her cheek, the orc head in her hands like it was some morbid treasure.
Of course she'd ask. She's the one at stake now—her bloodline, her promise, her gamble. And here she was, clutching that severed head like a gift I'd delivered only to her.
My eyes narrowed. The plan? Not yet. Not until I saw that fortress, that armory. Not until I counted every weapon, every man, every bird.
I exhaled, slow, steady, voice low enough to bite.
"One thing's for sure—tonight, we say goodnight to our incoming orc friends before they sleep."