The roars of dying orcs still echoed behind them as the hounds raced through the burning village, their boots slapping against ash-strewn dirt. Smoke curled into the sky like dark fingers clawing at the moon.
"Where is he?!" one of the knights barked, ducking beneath a collapsing beam as flames licked the rooftops.
"Dead, probably," another spat, though his eyes darted with unease.
"No one survives a frontal charge that long."
The captain said nothing—his jaw tight, blade drawn, heart pounding like a war drum.
Then they saw it.
A clearing torn through the battlefield, corpses strewn like discarded dolls. And at the heart of the carnage… Aden Vasco, barely standing, shoulders heaving, sword dripping with black orc blood.
Behind him towered the High Orc.
It was a creature carved by war, a grotesque monument to savagery. Bone plating covered its chest like armor, and its weapon, no its executioner's slab—gleamed red beneath the moonlight. A beast whose very breath reeked of carnage.
Aden's breath hitched as the High Orc loomed over him, exuding rage and raw killing intent. His mind raced, not with fear—but calculation.
This thing… it's built for war. Tough hide. Dense muscle. Faster than it looks. But not invincible.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
That plating on its chest—it's thicker. Aim for the joints, under the arm, behind the knees...
Another attack came—a downward smash meant to split him in two. He sidestepped, barely in time. Sparks lit up the night as the blade slammed into stone. He swung up, aiming for the beast's elbow, but it twisted unnaturally and knocked him back with a backhand swipe.
He hit the ground hard, skidding through ash. Pain flashed behind his eyes.
"Dammit!" one of the Hounds shouted from the edge of the battlefield. "He's gonna get himself killed at this rate!"
Another added, voice taut with panic, "We can't keep watching this! We need to help him!"
"No," the captain said sharply. "Look again."
They did—and saw it.
Aden wasn't failing. He wasn't just surviving.
He was reading the monster, movement by movement.
Each dodge became tighter, more efficient. Each strike, more precise.
Inside the chaos, Aden's mind burned with focus.
It's guarding its right side more. Favoring its left leg... Weakness? No—old injury, maybe. That's where I'll break it.
The verses from the poem whispered through his skull like fire in the veins.
"Let wrath guide the blade, not hate."
His sword arced, catching the monster in the armpit. The cut was shallow, but it made the orc roar in fury.
Aden's stance was firm, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes—not madness, not fear.
Conviction.
"That movement," one of the Hounds murmured. "It's... strange. Wild, but controlled."
Another narrowed his eyes. "It reminds me of someone…"
The captain exhaled slowly. "It's his..."
They fell silent.
The High Orc moved first.
Its massive body cut through the smoke, weapon raised in a deadly arc. The slab came down with a howl of steel, shattering the ground where Aden had stood a moment before.
Aden rolled to the side, boots sliding in the ash. He came up quick, slicing upward, sparks flying as steel met hide. The blow didn't cut deep, but it drew blood—thick and dark.
The orc roared in fury, spinning and swinging horizontally. Aden ducked under the massive swing, the wind from it nearly knocking him off balance. He darted forward, driving his blade into the beast's ribs before leaping back.
Pain throbbed through his body, but he welcomed it. The verses echoed in his mind, louder now.
"Let the bones break before the blade wavers."
The High Orc came again, this time faster, angrier. A downward smash forced Aden to his knees. He barely blocked it, the force driving his sword into the earth, arms trembling.
He kicked off the ground, sliding backward, breathing ragged. Ash and embers danced in the air like specters.
The orc gave no pause. Another swing. Another dodge. The rhythm of death quickened.
Aden's sword arm ached. His vision blurred. He wasn't sure how long he could keep up this dance.
Aden leapt, sword screaming through the air. A direct hit across the orc's jaw sent it staggering but not down.
His chest heaved. Still not enough. Dammit… think! There has to be a way to end this!
"Vasco!" a voice called out—it was the Hounds' captain, ducking behind a burning hut. "You're not going to beat it alone. We need a plan. What do you have?!"
Aden didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked across the field, calculating the terrain—the slope, the fire, the bottleneck behind them.
He gritted his teeth. "Use the huts. Collapse the one behind him when I draw him in. Trap him."
"That's suicide!" a knight shouted.
"Do you think this will even work?" the captain asked, voice edged with doubt.
Aden stared at him.
Blood streamed from his lip, bruises already forming under his skin. But his eyes were cold and clear.
He spoke no words and continued with his attack on the high orc.
He charged before they could argue further.
The High Orc met him with a savage roar, swinging its slab-blade in a killing arc. Aden ducked beneath it, rolling and slashing at its thigh. It bellowed, enraged, stumbling into the ruined hut.
The signal was clear.
A shout from the captain. The Hounds surged forward, axes and blades slashing at the supports.
The hut collapsed in a cascade of burning timbers, engulfing the orc in smoke and flame.
But it wasn't dead.
A massive arm burst from the wreckage. A knight too slow to retreat had his head severed in a single sweep.
Aden blinked—one second too long.
A meaty fist struck his side.
He felt the crack of bone before he registered the pain.
Aden felt something give. The breath left his lungs in a broken gasp. He flew, body twisting mid-air, before crashing through a burning hut.
Wood shattered. Fire roared.
He didn't move.
His sword lay a few feet away, glinting dimly in the firelight.
Pain pulsed through every nerve. His ribs screamed. Blood dripped from his lips.
The world was a blur of smoke, cinders, and agony.
Aden stared up through a break in the ruined roof, where a sliver of moonlight pierced through the smoke-filled sky.
It fell across his face, cold and silver.
In that silence, amidst ash and blood, he reflected.
Was this the end?
They had cast him into this cursed land to break him.
To silence him.
But Dahaka had not swallowed him.
It had received him.