It wasn't like an epic saga.
There were no trumpets or speeches. No coordinated cry of warriors marching to battle.
The only herald was the harsh roar of an engine burning gasoline, a torn sound that bounced off the wounded concrete of the plaza.
[Get ready.] - Wiston warned as Carlos's truck burst from the shadows of the parking garage, a metal beast charging directly toward the horde.
The engine howled, the wheels spat gravel, and the trail of dust it left behind slowly intensified.
[I want to go back to jail] — Carlos cursed, seeing the goblin horde getting closer and closer.
Although his words were light, his sharp eyes remained focused behind the smoke mask.
[[Hehehe!]]
In the back, the two police officers laughed—a tense laugh, loaded with adrenaline.
They opened the truck's cap. With quick movements, they began to release the safeties on the smoke grenades hooked to the sides and rear bumper of the truck. They weren't throwing them; they left them hanging, activated, creating the tense image of a suicide vehicle shrouded in its own shroud of white, acrid smoke.
At the same time, the Orc Chief, who had been watching everything with the boredom of a jaded king, widened a petulant smile. He saw the smoking vehicle approach, not as a threat, but as a new, noisy toy.
["GRAAAAAAA!"]
He shouted, as if giving an order, but he didn't bother to get up from his seat.
But it was enough. The goblins and the lesser orcs turned their attention away from the bloody tournament. They turned, and their eyes shone with a mixture of curiosity and hunger. Soon, war cries and cheers erupted. To them, the truck wasn't an enemy; it was a delivery.
[FIRE!] —Wiston roared.
From the roof of the police station, bullets rained down like steel. The bullets tore through the smoke, seeking to open a path.
Below, inside the truck, the police officers began to throw smoke grenades out the windows, thickening the artificial fog.
Carlos yanked the steering wheel violently, the vehicle skidding over pools of dried blood and rubble, dodging the agile bodies of the goblins who leaped onto the hood, trying to break the armored windshield with rocks and sharp bones.
["""¡GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"""]
The coordinated roar of the orcs resonated in the plaza, a deep, bestial sound filled with a sadistic longing. They took a step forward, ignoring the bullets that bounced off their tough skin. They weren't trying to support the falling goblins; they were seeking the pleasure of destruction.
[Shit] —Carlos cursed, slamming the accelerator. The vehicle shook violently.
[They responded too quickly!] —warned one of the police officers, his voice choked by the smoke and the din—. [We won't reach the objective before they take us down!]
[We have to… Get ready!] —Carlos replied, his eyes fixed on the improvised coliseum: a small circle of packed earth just in front of the throne of scrap and bone, stained with dark blood.
As if responding to his intention, the intensity of the cover fire from the rooftop redoubled.
Carlos didn't back down. The orcs charged from various directions, masses of muscle and fury with no apparent strategy, just the desire to crush.
"BOM!"
An orc's shoulder collided with the side of the truck with the force of a battering ram. The metal howled, denting inward. The tires screeched on the broken asphalt and the truck spun violently, nearly flipping over. Carlos fought the wheel, cold sweat sticking the mask to his face.
The other orcs didn't stay behind. Some were avoided by inches, their gigantic fists punching the air. Others impacted with brutal efficiency, dents appearing all over the armored chassis. The reinforced windshield cracked under a blow, the spiderweb of fractures spreading like brittle ice.
[NOW!] —Carlos shouted, pulling the handbrake. The truck skidded in a 180-degree turn, coming to a stop right at the edge of the ritual arena.
Immediately, his two companions threw the enormous wooden crate full of the remaining smoke grenades into the center of the circle and pulled the intertwined cords that activated the fuzes.
The effect was instantaneous: an eruption of dense, white smoke that expanded rapidly, swallowing the arena and the throne.
But even enveloped in the fog, the orc chief didn't move. His hoarse laugh resonated through the smoke, a guttural, confident sound. The lesser orcs didn't stop either; they roared, enjoying the new game, and charged blindly toward the vehicle.
[WE'RE LEAVING!] —Carlos shouted, slamming the accelerator.
[FIRE ON THE ORCS!] —Wiston ordered.
From the rooftop, the rain of bullets concentrated on the blurry silhouettes of the orcs in the smoke. The projectiles didn't stop them, but they annoyed them enough to create openings.
Carlos maneuvered the battered truck through the chaos. A final impact, a dull, tearing blow, burst one of the rear tires. The vehicle limped, listing dangerously, but continued onward, leaving the cloud of smoke and the warlord's laughter behind.
And it was right in the midst of that uproar that a second vehicle roared out of the parking garage's darkness.
[Kekeke] —Astrad laughed, a sharp, expectant laugh as he watched the pandemonium unfold before him.
Without hesitation, he floored the accelerator. The truck leaped forward. White smoke from the grenades filled the cabin.
The vehicle rattled brutally over the rubble and bodies, each bump a jolt that made him grit his teeth.
His driving was a reflection of his own personality. Unlike Carlos, who drove around obstacles.
Astrad was direct: potholes, rubble, bodies. Nothing mattered. Between lurches and blows, he held firm in his charge.
The orc chief's smile widened. Even through the thick smoke, he could feel it. That longed-for presence had finally decided to charge. His heart beat with a forgotten yearning. It wasn't the hunt for prey or the fight against an enemy. It was the challenge of an equal.
At the same time, Carlos's semi-wrecked truck passed by Astrad's. Their gazes met through the broken glass and gas masks. There were no words, just a tacit acknowledgment.
[Don't die.]
[Keekekeke.]
["¡GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"]
The orc chief roared again, not in anger or to give an order. His roar seemed charged with genuine emotion. The cry was more thunderous than any other, a pressure so impossible that even the surrounding smoke dispersed for a few seconds.
The Orc Chief stood up, his enormous war axe glowing faintly under the red light of dusk.
The other orcs and even the goblins noticed the change. Their bodies tensed, not with fear, but with primordial expectation.
["""¡GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"""]
The first to react were the orcs. They charged again through the smoke that was thickening once more, but not towards Carlos, rather towards Astrad, drawn by the new confrontation.
Although their vision was limited by the smoke, they could distinguish the silhouette of the truck approaching like an enraged bull.
Astrad saw the orcs converging on him. He saw the orc chief raise his axe, preparing to charge. And on his face, a savage smile formed, showing his canines.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Fear? Of course, but above all a feverish euphoria.
The world narrowed to that instant: the roar of the engine, the acrid smell of smoke. In his eyes, a murderous glint flickered in a crimson tone, sporadic and chaotic. Watching the orc chief, a vicious longing, a dark reflection of the monster itself, took hold of him.
And then, he laughed.
[Guhuhuhu… HAHAHAHAH!] —he truly laughed. Not a sarcastic laugh, not a dismissive one, not even a mocking one.
Just the genuine laugh of a kid who was about to do the stupidest thing of his life.
Pure adrenaline. Pure emotion. Pure desire.
[WHAT'S WRONG, YOU SON OF A BITCH? DON'T YOU HAVE THE BALLS?]
He shouted, his eyes fixed on the orc chief.
["¡GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"]
The deafening roar answered his words. The orc chief took a powerful leap as he brandished his axe.
Despite his enormous size, the dizzying speed and power were enough to make anyone shudder. In his eyes, the feverish glint of one who cannot wait another second.
Time seemed to fracture.
The orc warlord, a mountain of muscle and fury, flying through the air, his axe descending like a dark comet.
The lesser orcs, charging from the flanks.
The goblins, frozen in shock, small figures in a drama of titans.
Astrad, letting go of the accelerator to slip out the window while cutting the rope holding the shield onto the truck's roof, and jumping with it.
["¡CRACKKK!"]
The sound of the axe splitting the truck in two was obscene, a metallic screech that tore the air.
[Keekekeke] —Astrad's laugh floated over the din. Even the orc chief felt as if the cold hand of death were squeezing his heart.
[Let's all go to hell, you sons of bitches!] —Astrad said, interposing the shield between himself and the destroyed truck. His thumb found the red button on the detonator.
"BOM!"
The explosion was not a sound. It was a force. A shockwave that swept the plaza, swallowing the smoke, the screams, and the laughter in a furious fireball.