The walls of the fortress were just as high and unbreakable as the rumors claimed.
Orcs stood guard along the towers and battlements, prepared for a siege—confident that their walls could protect them from a raging human army.
From a distance, they looked almost human: two arms, two legs, a familiar silhouette.
But once they stepped into the light, the truth revealed itself—skin tinted in deep shades of green and moss, stretched over thick, brutal muscle built for killing. Long ears, sharp like a corrupted elf's, twitched at the slightest sound.
Their jaws were strong, filled with uneven teeth shaped for tearing flesh.
There was nothing civil in their movements. Everything about them spoke of hunger, rage, and a wild instinct no blade or chain could ever tame.
Their armor was crude—dusty metal plates badly forged and darkened by smoke and dirt. Their helmets ended in a sharp point meant to strike terror rather than protect. Their weapons were brutal: thick wooden staves bound with jagged blades, heavy axes, crude metal shields, long spears, and mid-sized swords.
And their bows… massive. No ordinary man could even pull their strings. The arrows were thick and heavy—capable of ripping flesh from bone with a single shot.
But the humans were prepared.
They had built large wooden shields reinforced with steel plates to block incoming arrows. Siege mangonels waited to tear apart the defenses. Tall ladders, high enough to reach the upper walls, stood ready.
Their camp sat beside the strong, fast-flowing river—the same river that carried the waste from the fortress's hidden pipe.
The humans redirected the river, cutting off the Orcs' water supply.
And a thirsty Orc was an angry Orc.
And an angry Orc… was weaker.
"So, after examining the pipe, I'm certain it ends in a well—somewhere in one of the back courtyards," Edward said, eyes fixed on the map. "From there we can slip inside, clear the path to the gate. Meanwhile, the rest of the army stays quiet and ready for our signal. We must keep our usual movements so they don't suspect anything."
He pointed at the map.
"Our signal will be a script of magical light fired upward—or a red-flamed arrow. Once the attack begins, the mangonels fire first, breaking their front formation. Then the main force charges the gate. Some soldiers will climb the ladders as a distraction to split their defenses. Any objections so far?"
No one spoke. Everyone shook their heads.
"After that, we move fast and take the main yard," Edward continued, taking a deep breath. "If we capture it, our chances of victory rise significantly. And don't damage the walls too much. If their reinforcements arrive, we'll need the fortress intact."
Everyone nodded in agreement.
"Fine," Regis said.
"Me, Sir Ferin, Count Migo, Captain Riace, and Hun will go inside." Edward continued.
Regis pointed again. "I'll lead the main assault at the gate. Pretty Face here"—he nodded —"will charge the right tower with one hundred and fifty men. Lord Losh will take his troops left and cover their back entrance."
He stepped away.
"Six soldiers stay with the Duchess. We're not letting any of those ugly bastards near her."
Jim pushed into the tent, seeing everyone already gathered.
"I know I'm late, but can I say something?" he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
"If you wanna leave, it's too late, Pretty Face," Regis said laughing.
"Haha, hilarious," Jim grunted. "No. I just saw a champion on the walls."
Regis froze in place. "A… a champion? Are you sure?" His voice trembled.
Everyone else felt the fear settle in as well.
"If there's a champion," Edward said, touching his chin, "there are two possibilities."
"Well spit it out already!" Lord Losh shouted.
"Either their king is inside—which is absolute trouble. If the king is here, there should be at least ten champions with him."
Edward paused. "Or the other option, which I kinda prefer…"
Regis looked pale. "What is it…?"
Edward smiled.
"Well… it means we've got an Orc wizard inside."
His grin widened.
"Oh, this will be fun."
Jim didn't flinch at the words—he already knew.
He was staring because of Edward's expression.
Everyone else began to panic.
"An Orc wizard? We're doomed!" someone muttered.
Edward kept smiling. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry!? What the hell are you talking about? Explain yourself!" Count Migo shouted.
Jim chuckled. "Isn't it obvious, my lord? This bastard plans to deal with it alone."
He grabbed a pitcher of ale. "So all we should worry about now… is the rest of the Orcs."
Regis staggered back. "S–sorry, my lords, I need some air…"
He rushed outside to breathe.
seven years ago, in a battle between the Orcs and the Duke—Bell Bisberry's father—the Orcs had gathered six thousand warriors. House Bisberry had barely half that number.
The battle was brutal.
Blood soaked the ground.
Men and Orcs fell alike.
To the Orc King, this meant nothing. Using dark magic, he could raise more Orcs from the corpses buried under the earth, twisting human remains into new warriors.
But the Duke… he knew better.
He knew somewhere a mother waited for her son.
A wife waited at the door for her husband.
A child wished for just one more day with their father.
He was a father himself—fighting for his land, his people, and for his eleven-year-old daughter.
A daughter with no mother. No true allies.
If he died… she would be alone in a cruel world built only for the strong.
Even with the falling soldiers, victory was close… until he arrived.
The Great Champion of the Orcs.
A massive beast of muscle and rage, standing over 2.3 meters tall.
Wearing thick armor, carrying a brutal chain mace embedded with spikes sharp enough to tear through bone.
A monster sent straight from the gates of hell.
The Duke knew this was the end.
He mounted his armored horse, sword in hand, and charged toward the Orc King—the only death that could end the battle.
Arrows rained down on him, piercing his armor and flesh, yet he pressed on.
But at the last second, Callion—the Orc Champion—struck.
His mace crushed the horse instantly, throwing the Duke to the ground.
Surrounded, wounded, he grabbed his sword, rose to his feet, and ran straight toward Callion.
The champion's mace fell like a hammer of gods—shaking the earth beneath them.
But the Duke didn't stop.
He slid beneath Callion's legs, reached the Orc King, and drove his blade through the monster's heart.
Ending him.
He had done it.
But Callion stepped forward.
He grabbed my friend by the neck, slammed him into the earth, and crushed him beneath his mace and boots.
I was there.
Six years ago.
As a former holy knight, I couldn't save my friend.
What happened to him…
Should have happened to me.