Under the silver moonlight, the orc encampment sprawled like a festering wound across the exit of the Cliff of Echo—a moldy patchwork quilt of chaos, noise, and rot.
Tents sagged like wet laundry. Campfires crackled with bone and grease. The air reeked of spoiled meat, smoke, and sweat, curling up into the canopy like a curse.
The orcs weren't stationed in formation. No guards. No patrols.
They were scattered, slouched along the road in messy pockets, like beasts fattened by victory before the real battle had even begun.
Across the open stretch—almost one kilometer away—the dense wall of forest vegetation pressed inward. The treeline loomed like a black maw in the dark.
Perfect for concealment.
Perfect for death.
Each fire hosted around fifty orcs. Some gnawed on charred hunks of meat, others slammed down foul-smelling ale. A few belted out crude songs that sounded like goats being crushed under iron boots.
Inside the largest tent at the heart of the camp, the Orc Commander paced with growing agitation.
Blarg!
The commander slammed his fist against the bonewood table, rattling the crude map stones.
"Where is the scout?" he barked. "Gorr still not back?"
Another orc grunted from the corner. "Not yet. No word."
"Tch. This is why I hate sending those bastards. Lazy, glory-chasing, trigger-happy lunatics."
A thinner orc sat slouched on a stack of hides, chewing lazily on something stringy and blackened. His garb was more ceremonial than combat-ready, with crude bone charms looped around his wrists. A tactician, not a warrior.
"That's why we should've brought Kargoz the Three-Eyed," he muttered, licking grease from his fingers. "At least the sorcerer sees outcomes before they happen. Gorr's brigade? They see meat and go blind."
The commander turned and spat.
Togg'Mol's eyes narrowed. The thin orc didn't even flinch.
"Kargoz doesn't follow command," Togg'Mol snapped. "Neither do his mind-drinkers. I am in charge of this warband. Not a three-eyed freak huffing void smoke."
The tent went quiet for a beat.
Near the entrance, a leaner orc chuckled, his armor strapped tight, weapons hung loose for quick reach. He looked like he lived for speed kills and ambush work.
"These are just peasants," he said coolly. "Probably hiding in their little stone huts. Gorr and his boys are just having fun. Who knows... might be sampling some Eldenthyr women right now."
That made Togg'Mol freeze.
His eyes lit red. A slow pulse of crimson spread through his pupils, glowing like coal in the dark.
Jealousy. Possessiveness. The sting of being upstaged by someone he considered beneath him.
"If Gorr laid even one finger on the marked women," Togg'Mol growled, voice deeper now, more guttural, "I'll make him watch as I flay his hands and feed them to his riders."
His eyes shimmered brighter now, glowing fully red.
"And when I'm done with that… "I'll kill him myself."
***
One kilometer away from the orc camp, the thick vegetation waited like a coiled predator. Beaks sharpened. Eyes gleaming in the dark.
Aexl crouched low at the treeline, scanning the fire circles beyond. The camp sprawled like a rotten wound, dimly lit by greasy torchlight and bonfires of bone.
"This is good," he muttered. "They're spread out. Too relaxed."
He pointed with two fingers toward the outer fire rings. "We strike those first. Confuse them. Set the bait."
"Rina," he called.
She stepped forward, carrying eleven heavy javelins—each tipped with a clay urn bound in rope and pitch.
One by one, she handed them out to the Valkyrie guards, placing the last in Selene's hands. Selene gave a silent nod and tightened her grip.
Behind them, the hunters tensed.
"How about us?" one asked, bow already notched.
Aexl turned to them. "Since you're here, fire the arrows at the point of impact. Where we throw, you light. Make it burn."
All nodded quietly, weapons already raised.
Aexl whispered the order.
"Let's begin."
From the trees, fifteen cuckoos burst forth. Their feathers flared, eyes wild, talons kicking up leaves and dirt. They charged single file, mounted by fifteen warriors. Javelins raised. Shields locked. Bows drawn.
The orcs didn't react at first. They blinked at the dust. At the sound.
Then javelin was released…
Whrrrr—Twang!
Thud.
THWAK!
THWAK!
The first volley hit like thunder. Four orcs dropped before a scream could leave their throats.
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
My phone vibrated in my coat.
Then arrows..flamed tip
FSSSHHT! FSSSHHT! FSSSHHT!
Flames burst across the tents like spilled oil on a stove. Fire danced along drying hides and sagging tarps. Smoke spiraled into the air.
Chaos ignited.
Aexl stood high on his saddle, voice cutting above the flames.
"Follow my lead!"
The riders split. A double-line sweep, pushing west. Bows loosened. javelin whistled.
CHFFK!
SHLUK!
THUNK!
More javelins struck flesh. Five more orcs fell. One tumbled backward into his own fire pit. His body lit like a torch. Nearby warriors scrambled to their feet, roaring in confusion.
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
Again, the phone buzzed.
I looked at the screen.
You earned 15 coins.
[Command Coins: 135]
The proof was right there. This wasn't just a gimmick.
The game… and this world… Eldenthyr people their kill is my currency, the same system is watching.
The War Dominion app was logging every orc kill—accurately, ruthlessly. Fifteen coins per corpse.
It's like I'm farming goblins in a pay-to-win strategy sim.
I scoffed. "Such a pity system. Fifteen coins per orc? I've played gacha games more generously than this."
"GET READY!" Aexl shouted.
The cuckoos burst into wide loops, circling the outer fire circles—Mamluk-style. Dust kicked up. Arrows rained down from above.
Some orcs hurled rocks in frustration, but the cuckoos dodged like ninja pigeons. One even kicked a stone back, smashing it straight into an orc's face.
"Ha!" Gruff bellowed from his saddle. "This bird's got footwork!"
Selene swept past on her mount, arm cocked. She released a javelin that struck clean into an orc's shoulder. He howled and tripped face-first into his own boiling soup pot.
Zing!
A sharp whistle split the air.
A signal. The orcs were regrouping.
From the shadows of the inner camp, a new figure stepped forward.
Massive. Brutal. A slab of muscle wrapped in black iron.
His presence hit like a wall. Towering height. Shoulders like a fortress gate. His breath fogged the cold air in steaming puffs.
Tusks curved from his jaw like ivory daggers.
In his right hand, he carried a cleaver the size of a rowboat. The blade's jagged edge still dripped with blood from earlier kills.
He didn't roar.
He breathed.
And it sounded like gravel grinding against steel.
Orcs nearby fell silent as he raised his left arm.
His voice rumbled low.
"Stop the fire. Drive them back."
Ten orcs rallied to his side without hesitation. The rest scattered, shouting, grabbing spears, ready to charge.
Then—
He moved.
The giant took off like a battering ram wrapped in muscle, his cleaver dragging sparks across the stone as he rushed toward the running enemy
"That's him," Aexl whispered.
The air shifted.
He raised one fist, commanding all units to halt. The flick of his hand said more than a scream ever could.
Then his voice cut sharp through the shadows.
"Selene. Take the Valkyrie unit and flank right. Hit their supply line from the rear."
Selene nodded once and vanished into the dark, leading ten silent warriors behind her.
"Gruff. Hunters. On me," Aexl ordered. He pointed toward the advancing orcs gathering near the massive brute in the center. "Hit them hard. We draw their eyes."
No hesitation.
"Move."
Selene broke off to the right, slipping between tents like a phantom, while Aexl pulled hard on the reins.
Kentucky surged forward, talons tearing through the dirt, feathers flaring like war banners. His eyes locked forward, sharp and focused like a predator about to strike.
Aexl raised a javelin. He didn't aim for the biggest target.
He aimed for the smartest.
He hurled it hard and fast.
THWUNK!
The javelin struck a thinner orc wearing ceremonial scraps and odd bone trinkets. The tip buried deep into his gut, sending him folding over with a shriek.
Tactician. Mage. Command relay.
Gone.
But the path wasn't clear.
A leaner orc stepped into his line—faster than the rest, eyes wild, axe ready in a backhand grip. The warrior snarled and rushed Aexl head-on.
The axe came swinging.
Aexl ducked low, Kentucky twisting in sync beneath him. The blade whistled past his head, just inches off.
He didn't hesitate.
From his left, Aexl drew MI6, the katana with 100 times drop rate. Steel flashed beneath the moonlight, gleaming with cold intent.
With one clean arc, he sliced through the orc's forearm.
Then again.
The second cut came faster—clean through the neck.
Blood sprayed. The body spun.
Kentucky pirouetted with deadly grace, his talons kicking up dirt as he rotated like a war-born dancer.
Aexl didn't even move his arm. He let the mount do the turning—his blade already in the perfect angle for a follow-up cut.
The edge tore through the final layer of muscle, finishing the kill mid-spin.
One clean ride. Two clean kills.
Out of nowhere—
CLANG!
Aexl's blade caught it, just in time. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, rattling his grip.
The sheer force drove both him and Kentucky backward, claws skidding across the dirt.
But they didn't fall.
The moment the weight shifted, Aexl leaned forward.
They charged again.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Steel met steel in a furious rhythm, sparks flying like stars in collision.
But Aexl never clashed head-on.
He slid around the beast's swing. Spun to the side. Feinted left—
Kentucky dipped low, moving with him in perfect sync.
The orc's cleaver roared past, close enough to shave hair.
Aexl struck.
One cut—then another. A third. A fourth. Fifth. His blade chipped along the orc's side, slicing away armor in layers, exposing patches of grey-green flesh.
But nothing deep. Not yet.
Too thick, Aexl thought. Not with brute force. This needs precision.
The orc's massive body twisted, muscles rippling as he swung wide—
A brutal horizontal slash, like a woodcutter cleaving through a tree.
Aexl's instinct screamed.
Now.
He braced, eyes locking onto the cleaver's arc.
Kentucky reacted before the thought finished. His muscles coiled, then launched upward like a spring-loaded trap.
Aexl stood fast in the saddle as the momentum surged beneath him.
Then—
Kentucky dropped.
The mount ducked low in a sharp, crouching dive. His head skimmed the earth. Talons carved into the dirt, knees bending deep, holding tight through the vibration of the orc's cleaver sweeping just overhead.
The blade tore through the space where they'd been an instant before, missing by inches.
The orc howled and raised his cleaver high.
Kentucky dropped low, ducking under a sweeping horizontal slash that ripped through the air.
Aexl went airborne.
Mid-air, his coat flared open behind him like a war banner caught in a storm.
For a heartbeat, the world slowed.
His blade caught the moonlight—just as he twisted mid-flight.
The orc's wide swing exposed his arm—shoulder to collarbone—just enough.
Aexl shifted, right foot angled downward, both hands gripping the hilt.
The katana sang.
SHHINK!
The blade slipped clean through the gap between joint and armor.
Flesh gave. Bone cracked. The warlord's right arm flew free, cleaver tumbling uselessly to the ground with a metallic thud.
Without hesitation, Aexl whispered, "M9 Bayonet."
SLUCK!
The knife rammed upward, straight through the underside of the orc's chin. The tip punched out the top of his skull.
Blood erupted, spraying like pressurized mist.
It masked Aexl in a wave of crimson smoke—turning his silhouette into a phantom.
The orc spun, left hand lashing out in fury—
But Aexl had already dropped low, knife in hand.
He slid beneath the reaching claw, eyes narrowing as he spotted it.
A gap in the thigh plate.
SHHINK!
His blade tore through the joint.
A deep gash ripped across the orc's left leg. The limb buckled. Balance gone.
Another orc rushed forward, attempting to assist.
FSSSHHT! FSSSHHT! FSSSHHT!
Arrows flew in from the treeline. The hunters had joined in, volleys snapping through the air like firecrackers.
The orc commander didn't scream. He couldn't.
The gaping hole under his chin let only wet, ragged breaths escape. No voice. No command.
But inside that ruined body—its mind howled.
Rage.
Pure, stupid, blind rage.
Behind him, other orcs saw what was happening. Roars exploded across the camp. More began to surge forward.
"Time to finish you off," Aexl muttered.
He stepped in, fast and clean.
One foot planted firmly on the orc's bent knee.
Then—he launched.
Steel flashed.
SHING—CHOP!
The katana sliced clean through the thick neck.
The orc warlord's head flew, spinning once... twice...
It bounced off a discarded shield—then landed with a soft plop in a boiling soup bowl.
Silence followed.
For one heartbeat, not a single creature moved.
Then—screams.
Dozens of orcs turned as one, eyes wide with shock and fury, surging toward the kill zone.
Then came chaos.
The orcs panicked. Some charged. Others fled. One even threw his own boots into the fire.
Aexl calmly sheathed his blade with a clean flourish.
But the orcs were closing in fast.
He didn't flinch.
Through the blood haze, Kentucky tore his way back into the fray, claws raking down two orcs who dared step forward.
"Let's go!" Aexl shouted.
He grabbed the saddle horn.
Spun. Vaulted.
In one fluid motion, like a circus acrobat trained for war, he swung back onto Kentucky's back.
The cuckoo reared and let out a piercing screech.
Then they launched.
Straight through the orc lines, blazing past tents and shattered shields, their feathers trailing sparks.
The firelight caught their silhouettes.
Their momentum was poetry.
Their escape, complete.
But this wasn't a victory.
This was only the beginning.
"No leader, no logic!" he roared. "Now we dance!"
They chased left—we rode right.
They chased right—we spun left.
Back and forth, cuckoos twisting like insane ballerinas.
Gruff cackled. "I'M HAVING TOO MUCH FUN!"
Another orc tried to swing a club but slipped on his own stew. Selene threw her last javelin into a tent. It collapsed, trapping two orcs like a burrito of failure.
"Command Coins: 750," my phone buzzed again.
Even as the orcs rallied again, their morale was shattered.
Supply cart in shambles
Axl raised a torch—three spirals. The signal.
"Retreat!" he commanded. "We're out of ammo and midnight has already finished!"
One by one, the cuckoos galloped into the trees, hooting and chirping.
Behind them, the orc camp descended into a chaotic inferno of rage, some chase but soon give-up, leaderless and lack of sleep i hope they can manage i muttered
***
Smoke and fire twisted through the night sky. The supply cart lay in splinters, meat rotting into ash, barrels of ale spilling into the mud. The once-proud encampment now smoldered like a funeral pyre.
The orc commander's tent was half-crushed, his tactician javelin in his body, his sub-leader Headless and armless. Shouts turned to arguments, arguments to snarls.
From the embers, one hulking brute stepped forward, chest like a boulder, tusks gleaming in the firelight.
"I will lead now!" he roared, raising his axe high.
But before the others could rally, another orc — even broader, with a pack of warriors looming behind him — shoved through the smoke. His fist lashed out like a hammer.
CRACK!
The first challenger reeled, spitting blood and teeth into the dirt.
"I am stronger! I have brothers at my back!" the second bellowed, his gang snarling approval.
The camp teetered on the edge of civil war, claws itching for throats. Orc against orc. Tribe against tribe.
Then, a voice cut through the bedlam. Deep. Gravel-scraped. A roar older than the flames themselves.
"ENOUGH!"
The fighting stilled. An elder warrior strode from the shadows, his frame wiry yet towering, his skin a map of scars — some still fresh, others carved from battles long forgotten. His single eye burned with defiance, the other sealed by an old wound.
He didn't wait for permission. He seized both rivals by the scruffs of their necks and slammed them to the ground as if they were children. The dirt shook.
"If any of you think now is the time for squabbling…" He bared his tusks, wild and reckless. "…then you'll die before dawn."
The orcs froze. His scars told a story no words could. A survivor. A beast too stubborn to die.
He straightened, throwing back his head.
"I am Vrokk the Reckless," he snarled, voice carrying over the crackle of flame. "Follow me, and you'll taste fire, blood, and the spoils of women special enough to warm a warlord's bed."
The promise sank deep into the orcs' hunger. Murmurs grew. A growl became a chant.
Vrokk raised his arms high, tusks flashing in the inferno's light.
"Roar with me!"
And the horde answered, a guttural bellow shaking the trees, drowning out the night — a vow of savagery beneath the burning sky.