The fifty orcs marched through the burned trees, following the smoke. Their blades were drawn, their steps heavy, their tusks glinting under the moonlight.
The decoy team waited in silence. Mines were buried across the narrow path, hidden under leaves and dirt.
The captain raised his hand. "Hold… wait… now!"
BOOM!
The ground exploded beneath the first wave of orcs. Bodies flew into the air, ripped apart by fire and iron. The survivors roared in rage, shields lifting as they charged forward.
"Guns!" the captain shouted.
The men raised the new weapons it was long wooden stocks with iron barrels, crude but deadly. They had only trained once, never in battle. Fingers shook as they pulled the bent steel triggers.
CRACK—BOOM! BOOM!
Smoke burst out, fire spitting from the barrels. The noise was like thunder splitting the sky.
An orc's chest exploded, another's head snapped back as if struck by a hammer. The men staggered from the recoil, some nearly dropping the guns.
One soldier gasped, eyes wide. "By the gods… I struck him down!"
Another stared at the weapon in his hands. "It kicks like a mule, but it kills… it kills faster than any bow."
The orcs didn't stop. They stormed through the smoke as their blades were raised. The men fumbled with powder and lead balls, rushing to reload. Some had no time, so they swung the heavy guns like clubs to create small time for their colleagues to reload.
More mines lit up the night, tearing apart the flanks.
Within minutes, the ground was littered with corpses. Blood ran between roots and stones. The last orc tried to flee, but a final blast caught him in the back, dropping him face-first in the dirt.
The men stood panting, their chests heaving, hands black with smoke. They looked at each other, their faces pale.
One young soldier whispered, almost afraid of his own weapon, "It's like holding thunder."
Another spat on the ground, steadying himself. "Thunder that answers only to us."
The captain lowered his gun, eyes narrowing toward the camp. "Fifty dead, and not one of ours fallen. Remember this. These weapons are the reason we live...Our King is mighty"
Back in the main camp, no alarm had been raised.
The fifty orcs who marched out were nothing more than a search party. The chieftain believed the fires were the work of wild men or wolves, nothing worth sending stronger warriors after. Orc pride blinded them; to them, no human trick could ever harm their ranks.
Besides, the camp was restless. Between the poisoned water, the spoiled grain, and the smoke choking their wolves, the rest of the thousand were already thrown into confusion.
Fires still burned on the edge of their walls, and shouts of "ambush" clashed with orders to guard the chieftain.
By the time anyone thought of sending reinforcements, the search party was already gone....swallowed in silence.
Orcs ran in every direction, shouting, tripping, grabbing weapons, yet finding only half-broken racks and spoiled food. The smoke of burning trees drifted over the walls, and the cries of their wolves tangled with the sound of men screaming from the traps.
From the shadows near the armory, Ragon watched, his silver eyes, He pressed his palm against the wooden wall and whispered,
"Now the heart of the beast."
He turned to his men, their faces streaked green in their disguises. "We move...the armory first. Follow my step."
They nodded. One by one, they slipped from the dark into the camp, their gait heavy, their backs bent, walking as orcs would. The chaos around them gave perfect cover; no one questioned who they were or where they belonged until they got to the armory.
They reached the armory a large wooden tent reinforced with bone and iron plates. Two more orc guards stood at the entrance, their eyes glowing faint orange in the firelight.
Ragon raised his hand. His men froze.
"Follow my step," he whispered.
He strode toward the guards with the same heavy gait. One of the orcs bared his teeth. "What business have you here?"
Ragon pointed to the tent. "Chief's command. Weapons must be checked before the raid tomorrow."
The orc scratched his head, clearly too tired to question further. "Fine. Do it quick. I care not for this duty."
The guards stepped aside, giving way. Inside, the stench of oil, rust, and blood filled the air. Piles of axes, spears, and crude bows lined the walls. Barrels of arrows stood ready, and heavy crates filled with black powder sat near the back.
Ragon's eyes gleamed. He turned to his men. "Now."
They moved swiftly, pulling small clay pots filled with explosive powder from under their cloaks. One by one, they set them against the beams and near the barrels. Andrew, the blacksmith's apprentice, crawled beneath a rack of spears and began laying thin trails of powder toward the door.
"Be sure the lines are even," Ragon whispered. "When fire touches, it must spread clean."
"Yes, my lord," Andrew muttered, his hands steady despite his youth.
One soldier looked nervous as he placed his pot. "What if they smell it?"
"They will not," Ragon said firmly. "The smoke of their own forges covers all."
Ragon's men finished setting the charges in the armory. The faint smell of powder clung to their clothes, but no orc suspected a thing in the madness outside.
Ragon straightened, his silver eyes fixed on the largest tent at the center of the camp. The ground seemed to thrum with power from within.
One of his men whispered, "My lord… that's the chief's quarters."
"I know," Ragon replied, he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "The armory is yours. When the signal comes, burn it all. But the chief… he's mine."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Alone?" one asked.
Ragon gave a short nod. "If he falls, the rest scatter. Stay hidden until the fire spreads. No mistakes."
They clenched their jaws, fists tightening around their weapons, but none dared argue.
Ragon adjusted his cloak and turned toward the towering tent.
As he reached the entrance, the suffocating aura pressed against his chest like a storm. For a moment, his men thought they saw his back glow faintly silver in the firelight.
As Ragon approached the leader's tent, the oppressive aura became almost suffocating. It was unmistakably the energy of a four-star warrior, a match for Ragon himself.
In this world, strength was measured in stages, and every mage or warrior walked the same ladder, though by different means.
The first stage was called the Foundation Realm, spanning from One-Star to Ten-Star. This was where most people remained their entire lives. At this level, the body or spirit awakened its first sparks of power. A warrior would begin to feel raw energy strengthening their muscles, bones, and skin.
A mage, by contrast, would sense the flow of Runic essense in the air and learn to shape it into small spells. One-Star was barely above an ordinary farmer, while Ten-Star marked the peak of human limits before touching higher realms.
The second stage was the Core Realm, where warriors condensed their inner energy into a "battle core," and mages forged their "mana core."
At this stage, they no longer simply borrowed strength, they carried it within. Warriors gained monstrous resilience and speed, while mages wielded devastating spells without exhausting themselves as quickly.
The third stage was known as the Ascendant Realm. Few ever reached it. Here, warriors fused their cores with their blood, granting them almost inhuman vitality, while mages bound their cores to their souls, extending life and deepening control over the elements.
The fourth stage was the Transcendent Realm, whispered only in legends. It was said that those who touched it could split mountains or call storms with a thought. None alive had been seen to stand at this height.
Though warriors and mages walked different paths, their strengths often balanced one another. Warriors thrived in close combat, their bodies serving as living weapons. They could leap great distances, crush stone with their fists, and survive wounds that would kill an ordinary man.
Mages, on the other hand, were masters of range and versatility, channeling fire, ice, or lightning through their command of mana. But their bodies remained fragile compared to warriors, which was why many relied on soldiers for protection in battle.
A single star rank, especially beyond Two-Star, could mean life or death in combat to those in higher rank. And now, Ragon was about to face a chief whose aura burned like a storm proof of his rank as a four-Star warrior.
Without another word, Ragon pushed aside the flap and entered the leader's lair.
Inside, the orc leader sat on a massive, throne-like chair made of bones and animal hides. His glowing yellow eyes stared directly at Ragon, and a sly grin spread across his face. It was as if he had been expecting this moment all along.
"So," the orc leader rumbled, his deep voice reverberating through the room. "The little half-blood dares to step into my lair." he added.