The village stirred at dawn, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, the clatter of wooden tools marking the rhythm of morning routines. Children ran along dirt paths, laughing, unaware of the dark presence approaching. Livestock grazed, and the river reflected the soft light of sunrise. In the training yard, the younger twin struck relentlessly at a wooden post, gauntlets tight around his arms. Every punch and swing sent splinters flying, his body coiled and unyielding, sweat streaking his skin. He moved instinctively, every motion a rehearsal for the unknown.
From the forest beyond, a figure emerged, moving with unnerving grace. Cloaked in dark robes etched with strange runes, the man's steps made no sound, yet the earth seemed to respond to his presence. The villagers froze as he stepped into the clearing, the air thickening as if the world itself recognized the danger. This was Gelmud, creator of the Orc Lord, a master of commands that bound monsters to his will. But today, he came not to strike immediately—he came to assert his command.
At the village square, the village chief and the older Oni stepped forward. The chief stood tall, voice calm and steady, embodying the authority of generations. The older Oni's gaze, sharp and assessing, swept the figure, weighing his words and presence. The villagers murmured anxiously, some clutching tools as makeshift weapons, unsure whether to flee or stand.
Gelmud stopped a few paces away, hands folded behind his back. "I am Gelmud," he declared, voice smooth and commanding. "Creator of the Orc Lord and master of forces beyond this land. I offer a simple choice: submit to my command and pledge obedience to those I empower… or refuse, and face the consequences."
The village chief's eyes narrowed. "Our village answers to no one. We will not bow to threats or strangers."
The older Oni stepped forward slightly, arms crossed, voice calm. "Titles and commands mean nothing without action. If you come to enforce your will, know that we are ready."
Gelmud's hooded head tilted, lips curling into a faint, almost amused smile. "So be it. Soon, you will see what my creations can do." With those words, he vanished back into the forest, leaving an oppressive chill in his wake. The villagers exhaled, tension mingling with relief.
The younger twin's fists clenched, chest tightening. "Someone's coming," he muttered. "And they won't be leaving quietly."
---
Night fell over the village. Children were guided indoors, doors barred, and villagers readied weapons, stockpiling arrows, spears, and tools. The younger twin continued his training under the moonlight, gauntlets striking logs, posts, and boulders. Sweat and blood streaked his skin, each strike a prayer, a promise, a rehearsal for the coming storm.
The girl appeared quietly by the riverbank, her presence calm yet firm. "You should rest," she said softly. "You've pushed yourself far enough today."
He shook his head, wild grin across his face. "Rest is for later. If they come tomorrow, I need every ounce of strength. I won't let them harm the village—or you."
Her eyes softened with worry and admiration. "Then I'll be here too," she said, gripping her greatsword. "If it comes, we face it together."
Stars reflected in the river, the calm before the storm pressing against the village like a living thing. Both sat silently, listening to the night, each heartbeat marking the countdown to chaos.
---
By dawn, the forest trembled. A low, guttural roar echoed through the trees, and movement spilled into the clearing. Thousands of boar-like orcs poured out—hair bristled, tusks glinting, eyes gleaming with a savage intelligence. They moved in unison, a tide of teeth, claws, and hunger that swallowed the horizon. Huts toppled, livestock was seized and devoured instantly, fences splintered under their weight. Every living thing in their path was at risk.
The younger twin's instincts flared. He sprinted toward the oncoming tide, gauntlets raised. The first orc collided with his fists, a sickening crack reverberating through his arms. Another was flung into a fence, splintering it with the impact. He spun, striking two more with a single motion, yet as he scanned the field, panic clawed at him. No matter how many he felled, more surged forward, their numbers endless.
The older Oni moved like a shadow through the chaos, precise and efficient, guiding fleeing villagers and striking at weaknesses in the advancing horde. The younger twin, by contrast, was a whirlwind, unrestrained, smashing through orcs in desperate bursts of strength. He created small pockets of safety, but they were temporary, fleeting against the overwhelming tide.
The girl fought near the river crossing, clearing paths for villagers. Her greatsword struck with power and precision, and the younger twin caught her glance, fire igniting in his chest. Every blow, every swing of his gauntlets, every motion was fueled by one thought: protect her, protect the village, survive.
The horror of the Orc army became unmistakable. They were not merely fighting—they devoured anything in their path. Chickens snatched from coops, goats torn apart, crops trampled and eaten, fences shattered as if meaningless. The stench of smoke, blood, and wild hunger filled the air, a living nightmare pressing down on the village.
And then, looming at the far edge of the field, the Orc Lord emerged. Towering, bristled hair matted with dried blood, tusks like curved blades, eyes glowing with intelligence and malice. Its presence alone caused the earth to tremble. Even from this distance, the younger twin felt the oppressive weight radiating off it. He could do nothing against it—not yet—but he would fight to protect those who could.
Fists clenched tighter, gauntlets scraping his palms, he lunged into another cluster of orcs, toppling them with a roar. Every strike bought time, created openings for fleeing villagers. Blood streaked his arms, sweat and grime coating his body, yet he did not falter. This was chaos incarnate, a desperate act of defiance against a nightmare he could not possibly defeat.
The Orc Lord let out a resonating roar, a sound that shook the village, and the horde surged forward like tide and shadow. The younger twin's eyes burned with determination. He could not win, he could not even slow the Lord itself, but he could fight. He could buy time. He could protect lives. That was enough.
Hours passed in a blur of fists, tusks, and screams. The village square became a storm of violence and destruction. The younger twin spun, leaped, smashed, each motion a symphony of raw power and instinct. Villagers huddled behind barricades, watching in awe as one oni fought against the impossible.
Gelmud observed silently from the forest edge, hooded eyes gleaming. His creations tore through the village, and yet the younger twin stood, gauntlets raised, a storm incarnate. Fascinating, he thought. So much raw potential… yet so little understanding of the forces they face.
The younger twin roared again, smashing through another cluster of orcs. He was chaos, fury, and determination incarnate—a single oni standing against a tide of death. He could not win, could not claim victory, but he could delay the destruction. That was enough for now.
As the sun climbed higher, the Orc army continued its relentless advance, and the younger twin's mind burned with a single thought: one day, he would be strong enough to challenge monsters like these. But today… today he would endure. Today he would protect. Today he would fight, gauntlets singing with the fury of an untamed storm against the endless wave of teeth, tusks, and hunger.