The border of the Kiswell Kingdom stretched into the endless Orc Grassland, a vast ocean of swaying green where the wind howled like a predator.
Here, two great camps stood locked in grim confrontation.
On one side lay the banners of humanity: a mighty coalition of nearly 800,000 soldiers drawn from Kiswell itself, along with the kingdoms of Hecate, Stia, Bandurka, and sixteen other member states of the Tongsley Empire Alliance. Their lines stretched so far across the horizon that the banners and spears shimmered like a steel forest beneath the cold sky.
On the other side, the ground shook with the growls of the Orc Empire and its allied tribes. Half a million orcs stood ready: brutish warriors with muscles like iron, monstrous beasts armored for war, and shamans whose guttural chants rattled the bones.
The wind carried the scent of blood before a single blow was struck.
Knights tightened their grips on polished lances. Horses stamped nervously, their breath steaming in the chill air. Beside them, giant wolves with corrosive saliva dripped venom onto the grass, their riders baring cruel smiles. Wherever that saliva splashed, the weeds shriveled into blackened ash.
Then the horns sounded.
War erupted like a storm.
The heavy cavalry of the human coalition thundered forward, a steel avalanche crashing against the orcish bull cavalry. Shields splintered. Spears shattered. Men and beasts alike were hurled into the air by the violent collision.
Overhead, the shadow of a dragon swept across the battlefield. A dragon knight hurled his javelin downward, piercing straight through the chest of a towering two-and-a-half-meter minotaur clad in blackened armor. The beast bellowed once before collapsing in a heap.
But victory was fleeting. Griffins shrieked from the clouds, wolf riders surged from the flanks, and orcish warriors swarmed the isolated dragon rider. His mount roared, belching flame, but the sheer number of attackers swallowed them whole.
The war raged for two days and nights, the plains burning with fire and drenched in gore.
And at last, the outcome was clear.
The Orc Empire triumphed.
The human coalition was shattered. Eight hundred thousand men scattered or slain, their banners trampled into the blood-soaked earth.
Victorious, the orc legions broke into smaller warbands, surging outward like rivers of fire, striking deep into neighboring human realms.
---
The Palace of Kiswell
In the capital of Kiswell, panic filled the palace halls. Servants rushed about frantically, stuffing treasures and scrolls into chests. The cries of frightened children echoed through the marble corridors.
At the center of the storm, Princess Lusia, red-haired and clad in gleaming armor, clutched the hilt of her longsword. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but her eyes burned with stubborn fire.
"Father, I will not leave!" she shouted.
Her father, King Lat V of Kiswell, stood grim and weary, his crown heavy upon his brow. Outside, messengers brought word that the Orc Empire's legions were already preparing to cross the border. The enemy would soon stand at the very gates of the capital.
Lat seized his daughter's shoulders. His voice trembled—not with fear, but with grief.
"Our army is broken. The orcs will soon be here. You must go, Lusia. Ride to the Kingdom of Ross. Seek out His Majesty Gavin Ward."
Lusia's eyes widened. "Ross? But—"
Her father pressed on. "I have heard the news. Gavin Ward has just defeated the Nord Kingdom. His banners now fly over Tino. He is young, yes, but his victories are undeniable. He will protect you. He must. For generations, Ross has been our ally."
"Father, no!" she pleaded, gripping his arm.
But Lat V's resolve was unshakable. With sudden force, he shoved her toward the gates. The palace guards obeyed his unspoken command, dragging the struggling princess out as she screamed his name.
"Close the doors," Lat said hoarsely.
The heavy gates slammed shut with a thunderous echo.
From the other side, he could still hear her fists pounding against the wood, her desperate cries for him to follow.
Lat closed his eyes. "I am sorry, daughter… anyone may flee. But I am the king of Kiswell. I cannot."
---
The System's Reward
Far away, in Tino City, another king received news of the orc victory.
Gavin Ward, sovereign of Ross, sat upon a high platform in the captured Nord capital. His expression was calm, though the weight of endless conquest lingered in his eyes.
A mechanical voice echoed in his mind:
"System Notification: The army of the Nord Kingdom has been destroyed. Nation annihilated. Integration Kill Value Reward: 300,000. Reward: One five-star lottery draw."
Gavin ignored the message for now. He leaned back, surveying the hall.
To his left stood Lina, dressed in a crisp black military uniform, boots polished, pistol at her waist. The small cap between her furred ears looked comically oversized, but her posture was proud. She puffed out her chest, trying to appear fierce, though in truth she looked more adorable than intimidating.
On his right stood Angelina and Yael, clad in similar uniforms. Angelina's long golden hair spilled beneath her broad-brimmed cap, her golden eyes fixed adoringly on Gavin alone. Yael, in contrast, tilted her head with disdain, lips curled as if to say she found the whole scene beneath her.
Before them stretched a second platform.
There, bound in chains, knelt the last nobles of Nord—a dozen men who had once lived in luxury, now trembling before the judgment of their conqueror. Below, the square was filled with the common people: freed serfs, ragged peasants, and citizens of Nord who had long suffered under these nobles' rule.
Their faces were twisted with hatred, their voices rising in a chorus of rage.
"Kill them!"
"Burn the leech Viscount alive!"
"Death to the vampire lords!"
The people's fury was palpable, their cries echoing through the ruined city like thunder.
---
The Trial
Commander Rotis, clad in a black Ross uniform, stepped forward and raised his voice.
"The trial of Nord's nobles shall now begin. His Majesty Gavin Ward will preside."
The crowd erupted in cheers. At last, justice was at hand.
Rotis unrolled a parchment. His voice was cold, clipped, merciless.
"First defendant: Viscount Marden. Investigation has revealed the following crimes—eighteen counts of rape, nine counts of deliberate murder, and three counts of theft of civilian property committed during your five years in Linde Town. How do you plead?"
Viscount Marden's eyes bulged with terror. His once-fine robes were filthy, his face pale. He writhed in his bonds and cried out desperately toward Gavin.
"Your Majesty! I am innocent! I have been slandered! Please—I will donate all my wealth to you! Spare me!"
From the high platform, Gavin's reply was faint, almost dismissive:
"Execution."
Rotis nodded once. "Prepare."
Three Ross soldiers stepped forward, rifles in hand. The click of bolts echoed.
Marden's knees buckled. He whimpered as the soldiers raised their weapons.
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
The gunshots rang out. Marden jerked violently as the bullets struck his head and chest. Blood sprayed across the wooden platform. His body slumped lifeless to the ground.
The crowd roared in approval.
The remaining nobles trembled violently, sweat soaking their silken clothes. One obese count lost control of his bladder, urine soaking his trousers.
The trial had only just begun.
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