The silence stretched, heavy as a funeral shroud. Rahotep's gaze swept across the captives—his people, his kin. He had already lost everything. What more was there to fear?
He exhaled, slow and steady, and then he spoke. "Azerite."
The word hung in the air, stark and unyielding. A truth dangerous enough to kill for. The orcs snarled. Some bared their jagged teeth, gripping their weapons tighter. But Khargul? Khargul smirked.
It was not the grin of amusement, nor one of kindness. It was the smile of a beast that knew its prey had finally stepped into the trap. And without a word, he struck.
His blade—a colossal cleaver of black iron, chipped and worn from a thousand battles—sang through the air. Borgrim never even had time to move. One moment, he was kneeling, his shoulders squared, defiant. The next—his head was gone.
It hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling through the dust, eyes still wide in shock. Blood sprayed in an arc, drenching the sand, steaming in the cool morning air. His body swayed, muscles still trying to hold him upright, before crumpling beside his severed head.
The silence that followed was absolute. Khargul flicked the blood from his blade, his expression unchanged. To him, it was nothing. Then, his deep voice rumbled through the canyon, like the grinding of stone "You are fortunate."
He pointed to the staked and chained victims, their bodies flayed and broken. Some still writhed, moaning weakly in the rising sun. "Yesterday was Yamibi. The day of sacrifice. Had you come then, you would have screamed beside them." His smirk deepened, cruel and knowing. "But today is Kinbi. Cleansing day."
His gaze swept over them all, as if weighing their worth, deciding their fate. "A sacrifice is a waste. No, today you will be more. Today, you will be an offering."
Khargul turned from them, his massive form silhouetted against the blood-red horizon. He raised a hand, fingers curling like the talons of some ancient god. A command. The orcs roared in unison, a guttural chant that shook the pillars of suffering. The ritual was to begin.
They did not take the prisoners to the pits, nor to the stone altars where sacrifices were bled dry. Instead, they were led through a scarred and sunless canyon, where the winds whispered secrets older than any tongue they knew. Shadows clung to the stone, and the air smelled not just of blood, but of something deeper—something untouched by time.
The path wound downward into a great field of cracked obsidian, ringed by torches burning with green fire. The flames flickered unnaturally, casting twisting shadows that moved like spirits on the blackened ground. Here, there were no chains. No knives. No altars. But there were bones.
Not scattered remains of the dead, but arranged in deliberate patterns—circles, lines, and spirals, symbols of meaning none of them could decipher. A battlefield, yet a temple. A place of slaughter, yet a place of worship. They were to be an offering, but what did that mean?
Would they be bled like cattle, or flayed like those left rotting in the Pillars? Would they be eaten? Buried alive? What was worse than mere death?
The orcs said nothing. They only watched, their yellow eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than bloodlust—anticipation. Then, an elder orc stepped forward.
Not clad in armor, nor armed with a blade. His body was painted in spirals of white ash, and from his belt hung fetishes of bone, teeth, and twisted metal. His staff—made of blackened wood, crowned with a skull—clattered against the stone as he approached. The shaman.
He studied them, those ancient eyes searching through their souls. Then, in the rasp of a voice long accustomed to speaking with spirits, he spoke. "You do not understand. You fear the offering, as you feared the sacrifice. You think them the same. But the gods of the Red Wastes know the difference."
He paused, letting the silence sink into their bones before continuing "A sacrifice is given. An offering must earn its place."
His gnarled fingers traced a shape into the dust at his feet—a perfect circle. "Pok-ta-Pok."
The word meant nothing. It sent no shiver down their spines, no instant dread like the thought of an axe against their necks. And yet… the orcs growled in approval. Some beat their chests. Others stomped the ground, snarling.
Rahotep stepped forward, his voice careful. "What is Pok-ta-Pok?"
The shaman's lips curled in what could almost be called amusement. "The game of gods. The battle of honor. The trial of the strong."
The orcs howled. The shaman raised his hand for silence. His gaze locked onto the captives, one by one, before delivering the final decree "Win, and half of you may leave these lands. Lose… and you all die at the Pillars."
The laughter began as a chuckle—deep and guttural, bubbling from the throat of an orc wreathed in old scars and fresh war paint. Then it grew, swelling into a maniacal howl, a sound both cruel and eager. He stepped forward, towering over the captives, his tusks gleaming in the sickly green torchlight.
His name was Urzok the Red-Fanged, and his mirth was that of a predator savoring the moment before the kill. "You do not know Pok-ta-Pok?" he sneered, his voice thick with amusement. "Good. That makes it better. That makes it fair."
The other orcs laughed, a chorus of savage glee. Urzok leaned closer, his breath hot and reeking of old blood. "Pok-ta-Pok is the Game of Gods. Played by warriors. Decided by fate."
He thrust his spear into the blackened ground, drawing their attention to the field before them.
A vast circle of obsidian, scorched smooth by generations of battles. The bones they had noticed before—the ones arranged in strange spirals and lines—were not just remains. They were markers. Boundaries. Warnings. Urzok grinned. "You want to live? Then listen. Listen well."
He held up something from his belt and tossed it to the ground. A heavy, misshapen sphere, the size of a man's skull. When it hit the stone, it made an unnatural sound—a dull, sickening thud, as if something inside it still lived. Not wood. Not metal. Something else. "This is made from the heart of the last champion. Cursed and hardened by the shaman's rites. It is heavy. It is cruel. It will break bone if you let it.Two teams. No weapons. No armor. No mercy." Urzok gestured to the ring. "The goal? To send it through the enemy's gate. You may strike it only with your body—your head, shoulders, knees, and chest."
A dark chuckle escaped him. "Your hands? Forbidden. Use them, and you will lose more than just the game."
He flexed his fingers, and one of the orcs behind him grinned, lifting a necklace of severed hands strung together like trophies. He pointed to two massive stone rings, each standing tall at opposite ends of the field. The rings were high, barely wide enough for the ball to pass through.
"Score, and the gods favor you. Miss, and they do not." Then his grin widened, his voice dark with promise. "If you lose? Then you do not simply die."
The orcs roared their approval. "You will be taken to the Pillars. Your flesh will be carved into the next. Your bones will mark the next field. And your souls? They will scream in the wind forever." His gaze swept over them, reveling in their fear. "So, play well."
The shaman stepped forward again, the torches casting twisting shadows upon his bone-painted skin. His eyes, dark as the abyss, swept across the captives, measuring them as one would measure livestock before slaughter.
He planted his staff into the ground, sending a ringing chime of bone and iron through the silent field. Then, in a voice as dry as the wind over the dead sands, he asked "Who will play?"
Urzok, still grinning his wicked, tusked grin, stepped forward, pounding his massive fist against his chest. "Pok-ta-Pok is not for the weak." His voice was thick with scorn, his yellow eyes flicking between the captives. "It is the game of warriors. Of hunters. Of those willing to bleed for glory."
He stretched his arms wide, as if embracing the night itself. "Each side must field six. No more, no less."
The orcs roared in approval. Six warriors, chosen to fight not with steel, but with flesh and will. It was a sacred number—the number of the Blooded Stars, the six celestial lights that watched over the Red Wastes, their fates forever entwined in war.
Urzok turned, snarling something in their guttural tongue, and the Ashblood Orcs began to step forward—one by one, the best of them, the strongest, the fastest, the most ruthless.
The Ashblood Champions:
Urzok the Red-Fanged – A brute of muscle and scar tissue, his body adorned with old wounds that told of battles survived, victories won.
Ghaar the Bone-Smasher – Towering, his massive frame built for breaking men in half. His breath stank of dried blood.
Dhorak the Swift – Lean but deadly, his bare feet scarred from years of running the jagged wastes. His speed made him feared.
Zarga the Unyielding – A female orc, her shoulders broad, her gaze cold as the night. Her arms bore the tattoos of a hundred victories.
Moghul the Laughing Wolf – Smaller than the others, but vicious, cunning. His hands twitched as if always eager to strike.
Vhakul the Ghost – Silent, wrapped in old gray bandages, his black eyes unreadable. He was a shadow given form, death in the guise of flesh.
The orcs slammed their fists to their chests, bellowing their war cries. "Who will face them?" the shaman asked, his voice like wind over bones.
Rahotep turned to his people. Fear was thick in the air—they all understood now. This was not just a game. It was a ritual, a test of survival, a gamble with fate itself. Win, and half of them would walk free. Lose, and every single one would feed the Pillars. They had no choice. Someone had to play.
Rahotep's mind raced. Six. They needed six. But who? Not just the strong, but the fast, the enduring, the fearless.
His eyes met Yaraq the Elder Warrior—his face lined with years, but his spirit still unbroken. Yaraq nodded. He would stand. Then Khaltar, a man once feared in his village for his skill in the hunt. He clenched his fists. "If I die, I die with my head high."
Nadra, young but with the heart of a warrior, stepped forward. "I can run. I can fight. I will not cower."
Arianne, once a hunter, now with nothing left but the fire in her soul. She lifted her chin, her knuckles white. "I will play."
Rahotep clenched his jaw. That was four. They needed two more. Silence stretched, and then Durnhal, the dwarf, spat at the ground. "Bah. If I'm to die, I'd rather it be in a fight than at some cursed pillar." He rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. The first dwarf to ever play Pok-ta-Pok.
Then, at last, Reza stepped forward. Her eyes burned with something fierce—not hope, but fury, defiance against the gods themselves. "I will play," she whispered.
The team was chosen. Six against six. The Game of Gods was about to begin.