The main gate of the orc village was not a gate of wood or iron, but a living slab of stone that blended seamlessly with the cavern wall. It was ancient, older than the settlement itself, covered in the same faint sigils that Zura had painted on Valkar's chest.
Thirty young warriors stood before it, a sea of green skin, glowing amber eyes, and simmering energy. The air was thick with tension and excitement. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for.
The Chieftain stood before them, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. His one good eye swept over them, a look of fierce pride on his face. Beside him stood the village shaman, an ancient orc so old his skin was the color of weathered stone, his body a network of wrinkles and scars. He leaned on a staff made from the spine of some great beast, the skull of an unknown creature perched atop it.
None of the young orcs dared to speak. They just stood there, their hearts pounding, their bodies thrumming with the power of their recent awakening.
The Chieftain raised a hand, and the gate began to groan, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the cavern. Slowly, it began to slide open, revealing a yawning blackness beyond.
It was not a welcoming darkness.
It was a hungry darkness.
A darkness that seemed to press against the edges of the cavern, a living thing that promised pain and death.
"Today, you leave the safety of the tribe," the Chieftain's voice boomed, a thunderclap in the tense silence. "Today, you face the wild. You will face monsters that would make your nightmares seem like pleasant dreams. You will face hunger, fear, and despair."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them one last time.
"Many of you will not return. The mountain will claim you. The monsters will feast on your flesh. But for those of you who do... for those of you who survive... You will return as true warriors. As adults. As orcs."
He pointed a single, massive finger towards the open gate, towards the waiting darkness.
"Go! Do not return until you are worthy of the name orc!"
For a moment, no one moved.
The darkness beyond the gate breathed.
It was subtle—barely more than a shift in the air—but every awakened instinct felt it. Something out there was aware. Waiting. The mist beyond the threshold curled and recoiled as if irritated by the light spilling from the cavern.
A young orc near the front swallowed hard. His fingers flexed around the handle of his axe.
Then another laughed.
It was loud. Too loud. A brittle sound, forced and sharp.
"Ha! What, you all scared?" the orc named Grosh barked, baring his tusks as he stepped forward. "Dark is dark. Monsters bleed the same as—"
He never finished the sentence.
With a roar, he charged through the gate, vanishing into the blackness beyond.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the darkness swallowed him whole.
The gate remained open.
No scream followed.
No roar of triumph.
Only silence.
That was all it took. The tension snapped.
War cries erupted as the young orcs surged forward, instincts overriding thought. Some ran in packs, weapons raised. Others slipped through alone, jaws set, eyes burning with hunger and ambition. The gate devoured them one by one, their silhouettes dissolving into shadow.
Valkar did not run.
He walked.
Each step was heavy, deliberate. He felt the land watching him, tasting his mana, measuring his strength. The sigils on his chest pulsed faintly, warm against the cold air creeping in from beyond the gate.
He paused, taking one last look back.
At the far end of the cavern, he saw them. Zura'thrax and Thraxa, standing on a high stone ledge, watching the exodus. Thraxa raised a hand. A gesture of challenge, of promise.
Zura did not wave.
She simply watched, her expression unreadable, her amber eyes burning with something deeper than pride, colder than affection.
It was an expectation.
Valkar turned away.
The moment he stepped beyond the gate, the world changed.
The air slammed into him—cold, damp, heavy with the scent of rot and wet earth. The faint glow from the cavern behind him vanished, consumed by an oppressive gloom so thick he could feel it against his skin.
Before him stretched a long, deep, narrow valley with steep sides made of jagged black rock and twisted roots like the skeletons of giant beasts.
The location of the orc tribe was well hidden, probably the only reason why they managed to survive for 800 years.
The tribe was built inside a massive mountain that was hollowed out. That mountain was buried deep inside a vast canyon surrounded on all sides by treacherous terrain. To even get to the entrance, you needed to go through a maze of valleys and passageways.
Valkar closed his eyes for a heartbeat, focusing on the energy within him. The red core of his Rage ability pulsed in his chest, a steady, violent rhythm. He let a fraction of its heat seep into him, sharpening his senses.
When he opened them, the gloom receded just enough.
He could see the faint outlines of the others, all heading to the end of the valley. That was the only way forward, and the only entrance and exit for the tribe.
Valkar followed them.
The valley funneled them forward like a throat swallowing prey.
Jagged stone walls rose on either side, uneven and sharp, their surfaces slick with moisture and crawling roots. Some of those roots twitched when brushed by passing orcs, slowly recoiling as if disturbed from sleep. Overhead, the ceiling of the canyon narrowed until only a thin strip of distant, colorless sky was visible.
The further they walked, the quieter it became.
The war cries faded. The bravado bled away.
Footsteps echoed too loudly. Breathing sounded wrong—too fast, too shallow. Even the strongest among them began to feel it: the pressure of the land itself, an invisible weight pressing down on their instincts.
This place was not neutral.
It was hostile.
And the worst part?
This valley was the safest place outside the tribe. It was the path they all had to take to leave and return.
...
After a few minutes, the valley widened, revealing three distinct paths leading deeper into this forsaken land.
There was no sign or marker. Just three silent, open throats in the earth, waiting.
Yet all orcs knew which path led where.
The left path was out of the question. It led to a massive swamp, a place so toxic that even the hardiest orc would die within a day. That was a place only the chieftain and his elite warriors would dare to enter.
Young male orcs may be stupid, but not suicidal, especially after witnessing the injured elite warriors that came back from that swamp.
The right path was the smart choice.
It led to the Whispering Plains, a vast open grassland where monsters roamed freely. But it was known territory, a place where the tribe's hunters often patrolled and where resources were plentiful. A young orc could survive there if they were careful. Many before them did.
Then there was the center path.
The path to the mountain.
It was a route many young warriors took, drawn by the allure of the mountains. They were told stories of the creatures that lived within, their hearts said to be filled with pure mana, their hides and claws worth a fortune in trade. A single trophy from a mountain beast could elevate a young orc's status upon their return.
But it was also a death sentence.
The mountain was a place of chaos, a land of shifting reality and monsters that defied logic. Very few who entered that path ever returned.
And those who did… were never the same.
Yet for someone like Valkar, who had promised to return a conqueror, the plains were not enough. The mountain was the only option. It was the only place that could forge him into the weapon he needed to become. The only place that could give him the strength to claim what was his.
However, the real reason for choosing that path was much simpler.
His mother, Zura'thrax.
She was the only female orc who participated in the Great Hunt. She disguised herself as a male warrior, and for three years—two years longer than the rest—she survived and thrived in the mountain, returning with trophies that shocked the entire tribe and silenced those who wanted to punish her for daring to break the sacred rule.
Zura's story was a legend, a whisper passed down from mother to daughter. She had not just survived; she had conquered. She had walked paths none dared to tread and returned with eyes that held secrets none could fathom.
Valkar wanted to know those secrets.
He wanted to walk in her footsteps.
He wanted to be better than her.
To earn her respect and claim her as a mate.
So he turned towards the center path without a second thought.
He was not alone.
Several of the young warriors, including Grosh, also chose the mountain path. They were the strongest, the proudest, the most ambitious. They saw the mountain not as a threat, but as a challenge. A chance to prove their superiority over the others.
The rest of the orcs, the more cautious ones, went right, towards the plains.