Chapter 20: The War of the Forest Commences

Perched high above the battlefield, where jagged rocks jutted out of the earth like the broken teeth of a giant, a man reclined casually on the stone. His cloak was dark, his smile darker, and his eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he looked down at the armies below.
The shady man tapped his fingers against his knee in a rhythm only he knew.

“Well, well,” he muttered to himself, the words barely above a whisper but filled with smug satisfaction. “And they call me reckless. Look at them. Hurling themselves into the jaws of death because a few well-placed whispers told them it was glorious.”

The field below was alive with tension. The Ogres and Beastkin stood like mountains of muscle and fury, facing off against the endless tide of Lizardmen and Orcs. The insults had already been flying for nearly an hour, the venom in their voices thick enough to poison the very air.

But no blows had been struck.
Not yet.

The shady man leaned forward, eyes gleaming as he soaked it all in. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The stupidity of monsters. A word here, a hint there, and suddenly they think war is inevitable. Pawns don’t even realize they’re pawns. And me? I’ve already won.”

He spread his arms wide, as though the chaos below were a stage performance put on for him alone.
“Front-row seats to history,” he purred. “And I’m the playwright.

Down below, the shouting had reached its peak.

The Lizardmen Chief snarled from across the field, his scaled form looming tall above his warriors. “We will never kneel to beasts who’ve lost their pride! This forest belongs to those strong enough to guard it—not those who destroy it!”

The Orcs roared their approval, tusked faces twisted in bloodlust. Spears slammed into the ground, the rhythmic pounding like a war drum.

Gorrak answered with a laugh that shook the bones of every soldier on the field. “Guard it? You? Your hides will decorate my throne by nightfall!”

The Ogres pounded their chests in rhythm with his voice, their guttural chants shaking the clearing. Behind them, the Beastkin howled, fangs glinting, eager for blood.

Then Gorrak lifted his massive weapon high. His six Elites stepped forward, their presence like six storms ready to break.

“This forest belongs to the strong!” Gorrak bellowed. “And today, I prove none are stronger than me! Warriors of the Ogres! Beastkin! CRUSH THEM!”

The battlefield erupted.

The charge began with a roar that seemed to tear the sky.

Ogres thundered forward, their weapons gleaming. Beastkin sprinted alongside them, claws outstretched, muscles rippling as they closed the distance with terrifying speed.

Across the field, the Lizardmen Chief gave his own command, his voice cutting like a blade: “Advance! For the forest!”

Twenty thousand Lizardmen surged forward in disciplined formation, spears lowered, shields braced. The ground quaked beneath their charge. The Orcs followed, one hundred and thirty thousand strong, a tidal wave of flesh and fury that shook the very trees around them.

When the two sides collided, the impact was like mountains colliding.

The first rank of Ogres smashed into the Lizardmen shields, splintering wood and bone alike. Spears pierced thick Ogre flesh, only for the giants to rip them free with snarls of rage. Beastkin leapt over the clash, landing in the middle of Orc ranks, their claws ripping through green flesh like paper.

But the Orcs were endless. For every Beastkin that tore into their lines, ten more rose to meet them. The battlefield became a blur of screaming voices, clashing steel, and blood.

From his perch, the shady man clapped slowly, the sound mocking.

“Oh, splendid. Absolutely splendid. Look at them—believing they fight for honor, for pride, for their race. And all it took was me, whispering in the right ears, pushing the right buttons. A nudge here, a seed there. Now they bleed for me.”

He tilted his head back, laughter spilling out. “Genius. Sheer genius. The Ogres believe they’re conquering. The Lizardmen believe they’re resisting. And the Orcs? Ah, the fools never even realized I tugged their strings from the start.”

The man’s grin sharpened. “And the best part? None of them know who I am. They’ll die cursing each other, never suspecting the truth.”

He reclined once more, satisfied. To him, this was art.
And art deserved to be savored.

Below, the war raged fiercer by the second.

Krasha, the Howl, let loose an earsplitting roar that shattered the nerves of the nearest Orcs. He cut through them like they were children, each swipe of his claws leaving a trail of broken bodies.

Druvak, the Shield, stood unmovable in the center of the field. Spears broke against his shield. Blades bent against his armor. He advanced step by step, a living fortress that nothing could topple.

Varrg, the Black Flame, unleashed torrents of searing fire from his maw, carving lines of ash into the earth and reducing scores of Orcs to cinders.

On the other side, the Lizardmen Chief led from the front, his spear glowing with enchantments as he struck down Ogres twice his size. His warriors fought with ruthless precision, their formations adapting on the fly to hold back the overwhelming strength pressing against them.

And the Orcs—despite their disorganized charge—overwhelmed through sheer numbers, their brute force carving into Beastkin lines.

Everywhere, the clash grew bloodier. The ground was slick with blood, littered with broken shields and severed limbs. The air stank of iron, smoke, and sweat.

The forest itself seemed to groan under the weight of the war.

The shady man stood, spreading his arms wide to the carnage below. His voice rose, though no one could hear it but himself.

“I declare myself the victor already!” he cried. “The Ogres, the Lizardmen, the Orcs, the Beastkin—it matters not who falls, who crawls away broken, who stands when the dust clears. They’re all mine. Every last one of them dances to my tune.”

He laughed again, wild and exultant.

“Let them bleed! Let the forest burn! For I, the genius in the shadows, have already claimed the ending. None can stop me now!”

The battlefield roared below, armies locked in slaughter.

And somewhere, still an hour away, a fifteen-year-old boy from Earth rode toward the war on the back of a tiger, utterly unaware that he was about to smash the shady man’s “perfect plan” into dust.

The battlefield had descended into chaos.

The initial charge was gone. Now the two armies were tangled together in a frenzy of steel, claw, and flame. Blood stained the earth, soaking into roots and grass until the ground itself seemed to scream. The forest, ancient and proud, groaned under the weight of battle. Trees splintered, earth cracked, and beasts fled from the thunder of war.

Everywhere one looked, the clash between monstrous races painted a picture of savagery. Ogres ripped through ranks of Orcs like wild beasts.
Lizardmen stabbed upward at giants twice their size, piercing soft flesh behind armor. Beastkin and Orcs tangled in furious hand-to-hand combat, fang and tusk meeting with bone-crunching force.

At the center of it all, Gorrak’s Elites unleashed their power.

Krasha, the Howl, tore through the Orc lines, his roars shaking the very air. Dozens fell from fear alone, their knees buckling as his claws ripped them apart. His howl wasn’t just sound—it was a weapon, tearing into the minds of his enemies, breaking their resolve.

“Pathetic!” Krasha bellowed as he cleaved through another Orc. “Not one of you is worthy prey!”

A squad of Orc captains tried to surround him, their axes raised high. For a brief moment, it seemed their numbers might overwhelm him. But then his howl ripped through their ears, blood bursting from drums, and in the instant of hesitation, his claws shredded through their torsos.

Druvak, the Shield, held the line with immovable determination. He planted himself like a fortress, his shield spanning nearly twice his size. Lizardmen warriors thrust spears into him, but the points splintered against his hide. He answered by bashing forward with such force that entire squads went flying.

One Lizardman officer charged with a spear glowing with enchantments. He thrust with all his might—but Druvak’s shield turned it aside with a thunderous clang. The counterblow crushed the officer’s chest in a single swing.

“Stand if you can,” Druvak growled, stepping over the broken body. “But you won’t.”

Varrg, the Black Flame, was carnage incarnate. Each time he exhaled, waves of fire scoured the battlefield. Orcs roasted alive, their screams blending with the crackle of burning trees. The ground itself blackened, charred, and split from the intensity.

A group of Orc shamans tried to counter with water magic, but Varrg’s flames burned so hot they turned the water into choking steam. The shamans fell coughing, their skin blistering, before his next wave of fire consumed them.

And then there was Jukra, the Maw. He fought like a beast possessed, his mouth opening unnaturally wide, rows of teeth like knives. He tore through the Orc ranks not with weapons, but with his very jaws, ripping flesh and bone apart as though he were devouring cattle. His enemies screamed, but he only laughed through bloodstained teeth.

“Run! Run, little pigs! I’ll chew your bones until nothing is left!”

Renak, the Quiet, was different. He moved without sound, his body darting through shadows cast by smoke and flame. One moment he wasn’t there; the next, a Lizardman officer’s throat opened in a spray of crimson. He killed without roar, without taunt—only silence, only efficiency. By the time squads realized their leaders were gone, Renak was already elsewhere, stalking the next.

And at the very front, towering above them all, Gorrak himself swung his massive blade, cutting down all who dared oppose him. Every strike split shields in half, every swing sent Orcs flying like ragdolls. He laughed as blood coated his weapon, his voice booming like a war drum.

“This is my forest!” he roared, carving a line of corpses before him. “No one will take it from me!”

But the Lizardmen and Orcs were not so easily broken.

The Lizardmen Chief fought with a precision and ferocity that matched any of Gorrak’s Elites. His enchanted spear pierced Ogre flesh with surgical accuracy, each thrust finding weaknesses. Around him, his warriors fought in perfect formation, covering each other, dragging down even the mightiest of foes with coordinated strikes.

“Do not falter!” the Chief roared. “Their numbers are fewer! Every giant you slay brings us closer to victory!”

The Orcs, despite their chaotic nature, fought like an unstoppable tide. For every one that fell, two more surged forward. Their sheer weight of numbers began to overwhelm Beastkin lines, dragging snarling warriors to the ground and burying them beneath tusks and axes.

An Orc Warchief bellowed above the fray, his massive axe splitting an Ogre’s leg clean in two. “Fight, brothers! Today we feast on Ogre flesh!”

The Orcs roared in unison, their spirits unbroken even as fire and claws tore through their ranks.

High above, the shady man chuckled, unable to contain his delight.

“Yes, yes, tear each other apart,” he whispered, his voice dripping with glee. “Ogres, Lizardmen, Beastkin, Orcs—it doesn’t matter who wins. What matters is that they fight until nothing is left. When the dust clears, I pick the bones clean.”

He leaned forward, eyes sparkling with malice. “Look at the Elites. Look at the Chiefs. So proud, so sure of their strength. And yet they play into my hands, dancing like puppets on strings they cannot see.”

The man spread his arms wide, as though to embrace the battlefield. “This is war at its finest—bloody, brutal, meaningless! And I am the only one smart enough to enjoy it for what it truly is: entertainment.”

The battlefield quaked under the weight of their fury.

Krasha’s howl split the air again, stunning dozens before his claws cut them down.
Varrg’s flames consumed whole sections of forest, leaving behind only ash.
Druvak’s shield shattered lines of spears, crushing bodies beneath its weight.
Jukra’s grotesque laughter echoed as his teeth tore through another squad of Orcs.

And yet the resistance held.

The Lizardmen Chief and his warriors continued their disciplined assault, drawing blood even from the mighty Ogres. The Orcs, driven by rage and sheer numbers, clawed back ground with every minute that passed.

The two sides clashed with such ferocity that the very land bore the scars—scorched earth, shattered trees, rivers of blood. The forest, proud and ancient, would never look the same again.

For every Ogre that fell, dozens of Orcs followed. For every Beastkin torn apart, squads of Lizardmen went down. Neither side gained a decisive advantage. The battlefield became a slaughterhouse, balanced on the edge of a knife.

Gorrak cleaved through another line of Orcs, his laughter booming. “Come, weaklings! Show me you’re worth killing!”

The Lizardmen Chief answered with a defiant roar, spearing an Ogre through the throat. “Your reign ends here, monster!”

The clash of titans sent ripples across the battlefield. Soldiers stopped to stare, only to be cut down in their distraction.

Still, the war raged on, blood feeding the soil.

And high above, the shady man sat with a grin carved into his face, savoring every scream.

The battle of the forest had truly begun. And though none of them knew it, in less than an hour, the war would be interrupted by a boy who didn’t belong to this world—a boy who would bring it all to a standstill.

The battlefield was no longer just a battlefield. It was becoming a graveyard.

The cries of the fallen mingled with the thunder of weapons, the roars of beasts, and the crackling of fire that devoured everything in its path. The ancient forest was being reshaped by rage—trees toppled, roots torn from the soil, and the once-proud greenery scorched black.

But in the sea of chaos, certain clashes burned brighter than the rest—duels between champions, titans whose every strike shook the earth.

The Orc Warchief cut a swath through Beastkin with his massive axe, his tusks bared, his muscles rippling with fury. Blood dripped from his weapon, his roar carrying across the field. He was a monster among monsters, each swing cleaving foes in half.

But then Krasha’s howl split the air.

The Warchief staggered, clutching his head as the sound rattled his skull. Around him, Orcs screamed, some dropping their weapons as their ears bled.

Krasha leapt forward, claws outstretched, his jaw twisted in a savage grin. “Fall, pig! Your noise is nothing against mine!”

The Warchief braced, swinging his axe upward just as Krasha descended. The clash of claw and steel sent shockwaves through the ground. Orcs and Beastkin alike stumbled from the force.

“You think your roar frightens me?” the Warchief spat, forcing Krasha back with raw strength. “I’ve gutted louder beasts than you!”

Krasha snarled, his claws flashing again and again, each strike faster than the last. The Warchief parried, countered, his axe singing through the air with deadly precision. Their duel carved a circle of death around them, no soldier daring to step inside.

The ground beneath them cracked, unable to withstand the force of their battle.

Elsewhere, the Lizardmen Chief faced down Druvak, the Shield.

The giant stood like a mountain, his shield raised, his eyes cold. Each step he took crushed roots and bones beneath his feet. Around him, no spear, no arrow, no blade could pierce his defense.

The Chief charged, his spear glowing with enchantments. He lunged, the tip aimed for Druvak’s heart.

CLANG!

The blow rang out like thunder, the spear sliding off Druvak’s shield. The Chief retreated, rolled, then lunged again—this time striking from the side. Again, the shield turned it aside, the counter-strike nearly caving in the Chief’s skull.

“You cannot break me,” Druvak rumbled, his voice deep and steady. “I am the wall your people will die against.”

The Chief snarled, his tail whipping for balance as he pressed forward. “Even walls fall. And I’ll be the one to topple you!”

Strike after strike rained down, the spear glowing brighter with every thrust. Sparks flew with each deflection. The Chief’s speed was blinding, his movements precise. And yet Druvak’s shield remained unbroken, his defense absolute.

It was a battle of will—unyielding defense against relentless offense.

Varrg exhaled again, a torrent of fire engulfing the battlefield. Dozens of Orcs vanished in the blaze, their screams drowned out by the roar of flames.

But this time, the Orc Shamans were ready.

Dozens raised their staves, chanting in unison. Water magic surged forward, a wall of rushing torrents colliding with the flames. Steam exploded into the air, scalding everything nearby. The clash of fire and water painted the field in mist and smoke.

Varrg laughed, his charred maw glowing like molten rock. “More fuel for the fire!”

He inhaled, flames building in his throat—but arrows whistled through the mist, piercing his hide. Orc archers, dozens strong, fired in perfect unison. Their shots embedded deep, drawing black blood.

The Shamans pressed their chant, the water magic intensifying.
For the first time, Varrg’s flames faltered.

Snarling, he unleashed his fury in all directions, a blast of fire so powerful it turned the ground to glass. Orcs screamed as they burned, Shamans collapsing as their concentration shattered.

The Black Flame stood tall, bloodied but unbroken, the ground around him an inferno.

Jukra was a nightmare. He leapt into squads of Orcs, jaws snapping, tearing flesh apart. Blood coated his teeth, his laughter chilling even his allies.

But then the Orc Berserkers charged.

These were not ordinary Orcs—they were warriors who fought in a frenzy, their bodies fueled by rage and bloodlust. Their eyes glowed red, their muscles swelled, and their weapons dripped with the blood of their own allies they had cut down to enter their frenzy.

“Come, little snacks!” Jukra howled, his mouth opening impossibly wide. “Feed the Maw!”

The Berserkers answered with roars of their own, axes swinging wildly. The ground shook beneath their charge.

The clash was brutal. Jukra bit down, tearing one in half—but another cleaved deep into his shoulder. He snarled, ripping the axe free with his bare hand before crushing the Berserker’s skull.

But more came. Dozens. Each strike dug into him, each roar drowned out his laughter.

For the first time, Jukra’s grin faltered.

Still, he fought like a demon, his body a storm of teeth and claws. The Berserkers fell one by one—but not without leaving wounds that slowed him.

Silent as death, Renak slipped through the battlefield. Every step was calculated, every kill efficient. Lizardmen officers fell without realizing he was there, their throats cut, their hearts pierced.

But the Lizardmen adapted quickly. Their officers began fighting in pairs, watching each other’s backs, spears covering blind spots.

Renak appeared behind one, his blade descending—only for the officer’s partner to intercept, the spear clashing with steel.

“Finally,” Renak whispered, his voice barely audible. “A challenge.”
He melted back into shadow, his presence vanishing. The officers scanned the battlefield, hearts pounding. Then, without warning, one dropped dead, his chest pierced from behind.
Renak stood there, expression unreadable, his blade dripping red.
“Not enough,” he muttered, fading once more.

Above it all, the shady man’s grin only widened.
“Oh, yes! Yes!” he cried, clapping like an excited child. “This is it! Titans clashing, armies dying, the forest burning—it’s perfect! Absolute perfection!”
He leaned forward, eyes glowing with madness. “Krasha, Druvak, Varrg, Jukra, Renak—you magnificent beasts! And still the Chief, still the Orc Warchief—they refuse to break! The balance, the struggle, the chaos!”
The shady man spread his arms, laughing to the sky. “I am a genius. A conductor, and they are my orchestra of death. Let them play until the forest itself cannot hold the sound!”

The war pressed on. The duels raged with no clear victor.
Soldiers screamed, champions roared, the air itself burned with power.
The forest groaned, its trees falling, its earth shattering. Smoke rose high, visible for miles. Animals fled in droves, sensing the end of their sanctuary.
It was no longer just a battle. It was a cataclysm.
And still, none of them realized that in less than an hour, their war would be interrupted by a boy from another world—a boy who would bring their madness to a sudden halt.

The war had raged for hours, yet it felt like days.
The battlefield was unrecognizable. What had once been a vibrant, ancient forest had been reduced to scorched wastelands, shattered ground, and smoldering craters. The air was thick with smoke, heavy with the stench of blood and burnt flesh.

Everywhere, warriors of the Great Races struggled, screamed, and bled. The ground beneath them drank it all, turning muddy red.

The Orcs, relentless in their fury, pressed against the Ogres with unending force. Their numbers were overwhelming—lines upon lines of green-skinned warriors hurling themselves forward without hesitation. The clash of tusk and axe against Ogre flesh resounded like thunder.
“Push them back!” the Orc Warchief bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. “For the forest! For our kin!”
The Orcs roared in unison, their charge shaking the earth.

But the Ogres, though vastly outnumbered, stood unbroken. Their immense strength and evolved bodies made them nearly impervious. Even when pierced, they fought on, roaring louder than the horns that had once summoned them. Every swing of their colossal weapons claimed dozens of lives.
“You call this war?” Gorrak’s voice boomed as he cleaved an Orc captain in two. “This is slaughter!”

The Beastkin were feral, fighting with claw and tooth as much as weapon. Packs of wolf-like warriors tore through squads of Lizardmen, while bear-kin crushed skulls beneath their massive fists. Their howls filled the battlefield, a chorus of savagery.

But the Lizardmen refused to yield. Their disciplined formations and calculated maneuvers allowed them to drag down even the mightiest foes. Where one Lizardman fell, two more slid into position, spears glinting with precise strikes.

The Lizardmen Chief spearheaded their lines, his movements fluid, efficient. His spear darted in blurs, piercing through Beastkin throats and Ogre joints with terrifying accuracy.
“We will not break!” he shouted, his warriors rallying to his cry. “Hold the line! This forest belongs to us all!”

The tide seemed endless. Neither side gained ground for long. But then Gorrak’s Elites pushed deeper into the fray, and the war reached a new level of carnage.

Krasha, the Howl, roared with such force that the very air split. The shockwave threw Orcs into the sky, their bodies snapping like twigs when they landed. His claws ripped through ranks in sprays of blood.
“I’ll drown you in your own screams!” Krasha bellowed, his laughter carrying through the battlefield like a death knell.

Druvak, the Shield, planted himself at the heart of the Ogre lines. His shield became an impenetrable wall, every strike against it rebounding with bone-shattering force. He bashed forward, creating a living wedge that split through Lizardmen ranks. His steady, immovable stance gave the Ogres a rallying point, allowing them to grind forward through sheer endurance.
“Your spears are nothing,” Druvak growled, shoving aside another volley. “I will not fall.”

Varrg, the Black Flame, became a living inferno. His fire spread uncontrollably, burning allies and enemies alike, but he cared little. Waves of flame consumed everything within reach. Trees erupted into pillars of fire, smoke rising high above the battlefield. His guttural laughter echoed as he torched entire squads.
“Burn! Burn until only ash remains!”

Even the Orc Shamans, desperate, struggled to keep pace. Their water magic evaporated in bursts of steam, leaving them coughing, blinded, as Varrg’s flames surged forward once more.

Jukra, the Maw, fought like a rabid beast, his teeth snapping through armor and bone. Blood dripped from his jaws as he devoured the flesh of those he struck down. His body was riddled with wounds, but his frenzy only grew the more he bled.
“More! More!” he shrieked, ripping an Orc in half. “Feed me more!”

The Orc Berserkers continued to throw themselves at him, and though many fell, their unending fury carved wounds into the monster’s flesh. Jukra’s laughter turned ragged, yet he fought on, consumed by madness.

Renak, the Quiet, struck in silence. He darted through shadows, appearing behind commanders and cutting them down before vanishing once more. Entire units faltered without leadership, leaving them exposed to Ogre retaliation. His blade dripped with precision kills, each strike deliberate, unerring.
Not once did he speak. His silence was more terrifying than the roars of his companions.

The duels between champions reached such heights of fury that the land itself began to fracture.
Every time the Orc Warchief’s axe met Krasha’s claws, shockwaves rippled across the battlefield. Soldiers stumbled, trees toppled, and the ground cracked under their feet.
When Druvak’s shield collided with the Lizardmen Chief’s spear, the clash sent echoes rolling through the forest like thunder.
Varrg’s flames carved canyons of molten glass through the earth, while Jukra’s howling frenzy tore apart squads so viciously the soil was painted red.
The terrain was being permanently reshaped. Valleys split, rivers diverted, forests leveled. This was no longer a war fought within the forest—it was a war that would redefine it.

From his perch, the shady man clapped his hands together, eyes wide with delight.
“Yes! YES! Do you see it?!” he cried, his laughter high and wild. “The forest is breaking! Not just the trees—not just the roots—but the very land itself!”
He leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “This is history. This is legacy. Years from now, they will tell tales of the war that shattered the forest, and not one of them will know it was my hand that set it all in motion.”
He spread his arms wide, as though embracing the destruction below.
“And the best part? They think themselves proud warriors, chiefs, commanders. But they are nothing more than my toys. Dying for my amusement.”
The man chuckled darkly. “Foolish monsters. Too easy to manipulate. Too eager for blood. And now they will drown in it.”

Despite the carnage, neither side yielded.
The Ogres, though vastly outnumbered, held firm with terrifying strength. Their Elites carved through foes like gods of war, each one capable of holding back hundreds. Gorrak himself towered above the fray, his blade cleaving with unrivaled ferocity, his laughter booming louder than war drums.

But the Lizardmen and Orcs, bolstered by numbers and unyielding resolve, matched them. They fought with a ferocity born from desperation, refusing to allow the Ogres to crush them. Every line broken was rebuilt, every fallen leader replaced.
The battlefield had become a stalemate, one paved with corpses and soaked in blood.

The war stretched into its second hour. Soldiers grew weary, yet none stopped. The sky, once bright, now dimmed with smoke. The cries of warriors echoed across the land, drowning out even the natural sounds of the forest.

The shady man licked his lips, savoring the sight.
“Yes… yes… keep it up. Exhaust yourselves. Burn it all down. When the dust clears, only I will remain to take the prize.”

But far in the distance—just beyond the smoke, beyond the cries of war—something stirred.
The air grew heavier. The ground quivered faintly, not from battle, but from something else. A presence, still unseen, but creeping closer.

The shady man tilted his head, frowning. “Hm? What is this? That aura… no, it’s too faint to be real. Surely not—”
He laughed, dismissing the thought. “No. Impossible. Nothing could interrupt my masterpiece.”

Yet even as he turned back to the chaos, the faint tremor of an approaching storm lingered.
A storm that would soon demand the battlefield’s attention.

At the very heart of the fray, Gorrak himself towered like a storm given flesh. His blade swung in devastating arcs, each strike cutting down dozens. His laughter rang over the clash of steel.
“Pathetic worms! Is this the best your so-called Great Races can muster?!”

He cleaved through an Orc line, scattering bodies like straw. Blood sprayed high, catching the sunlight before splattering back into the mud. His six Elites cut a path alongside him, forming the vanguard of unstoppable slaughter.

Druvak, shield raised, created an advancing wall. Krasha roared again, the shockwave scattering defenders like dry leaves. Jukra’s howls tore at morale, making even the stoutest Orcs hesitate.

Behind them, the Beastkin surged, emboldened by the Elites’ display. Packs of wolfkin tore through flanks, bear-kin smashed through shields, and nimble feline warriors danced between spear thrusts with terrifying agility.
The Ogre-Beastkin line pressed forward, step by bloody step.

But they did not yield.
The Lizardmen Chief called his warriors tighter, their shields locking together, spears angled in perfect unity. Their phalanx bristled like the scales of a colossal beast.
“Hold!” the Chief roared. “Lock shields! Spears ready!”

The advancing Ogres slammed into them, but the Lizardmen held. Dozens died in the clash, but the line bent—it did not break.

The Orc Warchief, his tusks stained red, raised his axe high. “Brothers! Sisters! For every Ogre you cut down, ten more will fear your name! Push!”
The Orcs roared as one, charging into the press of Beastkin. Their axes fell in wild arcs, their tusks gored into flesh, and their sheer ferocity checked the momentum of the enemy advance.

It was inevitable.
The Chief of the Lizardmen and the Warchief of the Orcs pushed together toward the center, where Gorrak and his Elites tore apart their lines.
And there, with a roar that shook the very canopy, they clashed.

The Lizardmen Chief’s spear darted in like lightning, striking for Gorrak’s throat. Gorrak blocked with the flat of his blade, sparks showering between them. The Orc Warchief’s axe came down, the sheer force splitting the ground like an earthquake. Gorrak twisted, laughing, letting the blow shatter the earth instead of his skull.
“You dare to challenge me?!” Gorrak roared, countering with a swing so wide it sent both leaders staggering back.

The three titans clashed again and again, each strike shaking the battlefield. Around them, warriors from both sides gave their lives just to keep the duel from being interrupted.

Every impact left craters in the earth. Trees toppled, rivers of mud split open, and bodies were tossed aside like toys.

The shady man watching from his perch leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Yes… yes! This is the beauty of war! Let the leaders cut each other to ribbons. The more they weaken themselves, the easier it will be for me to sweep the board.”

While the leaders clashed, Gorrak’s Elites wreaked havoc elsewhere.

Krasha’s voice shattered another wave of Orcs, their ears bleeding as they collapsed. He laughed like a madman, bathing in their screams.

Varrg, cloaked in flame, set entire battalions ablaze. Fire spread uncontrollably, consuming even Ogres and Beastkin who stood too close. He didn’t care. To him, fire was victory.

Druvak’s shield plowed through another Lizardmen line, the impact splattering blood across the grass. No spear could pierce his wall of defense.

Jukra’s laughter echoed, his maw dripping gore. He tore into the flesh of his victims, his frenzy only escalating with each bite.

Renak, silent as death, slid through the shadows, cutting down commanders before they even realized they were targets. His blade was merciless, his silence louder than any roar.

Everywhere they struck, morale faltered.

And yet, the defenders fought on.

The Orc shamans chanted desperately, rain falling from conjured clouds to quench Varrg’s flames. But every drop hissed into steam.

The Lizardmen healers moved tirelessly, dragging the wounded back, binding wounds, and sending them forward again. Their arms shook, their eyes burned with exhaustion, but they did not stop.

The Orc Berserkers threw themselves into Jukra’s maw, sacrificing their lives to slow him, to keep him from breaking the lines entirely.

The Lizardmen hunters harassed Renak with arrows, forcing him to retreat into shadows again and again, even if they never landed a killing blow.

It was not enough to win—but it was enough to endure.

The duel between the leaders reached new heights.

The Orc Warchief’s axe slammed into the ground, cracking the battlefield open. A fissure split through the lines, sending warriors tumbling into sudden ravines.

The Lizardmen Chief lunged, his spear driving straight into Gorrak’s chest. But Gorrak laughed, grabbing the shaft and snapping it in two. Blood poured from the wound, but the Ogre Chief did not falter.
“My blood means nothing!” Gorrak roared, striking back with a blow that sent both chiefs crashing into the dirt.

The land itself seemed to scream under the strain of their battle. Forest collapsed into wasteland. Hills crumbled. The air smelled of ash and blood.

The shady man raised his arms, tears of glee streaming down his face.
“Magnificent! Look at it! This is no mere war—this is rebirth! A new forest, sculpted by my genius! The fools think themselves heroes, but they are architects of their own destruction!”

But for the first time, a crack appeared in Gorrak’s momentum.

The sheer numbers of the Orcs and Lizardmen began to tell. For every Ogre or Beastkin that cut down dozens, dozens more pressed forward. The dead piled higher, but the flood never stopped.

Even the Elites were tiring. Jukra’s frenzy slowed as blood loss caught up with him.
Varrg’s flames guttered, his body trembling from overexertion. Renak’s kills came slower, the shadows no longer concealing him perfectly.

The defenders, though battered, though bloodied, refused to break.

The Warchief spat blood, lifting his axe once more. “You are strong, Gorrak. But even mountains fall beneath the tide.”
The Lizardmen Chief raised a new spear, eyes burning with defiance. “And tides never cease.”

For the first time, Gorrak’s laughter faltered.

Far away, beyond the smoke and chaos, something stirred.

A pressure began to creep across the battlefield. A heaviness in the air. Warriors on both sides felt it, though none could name it.

The shady man stiffened, eyes narrowing. “That feeling again… stronger this time. What… what is this?”

The soldiers looked around uneasily, their fighting faltering for the briefest of moments.

But Gorrak roared, rallying his troops. “Do not falter! Victory is ours!”

The clash continued, though that creeping presence only grew heavier.

The shady man’s grin twitched. “No… no, impossible. No one can intrude on my masterpiece. No one can overshadow me.”

But already, the storm was coming closer.
Closer, and closer still.

The war had raged for hours, and the battlefield was now unrecognizable.

What once had been a lush expanse of ancient forest was scarred beyond recognition. Whole groves of trees had been reduced to blackened stumps by Varrg’s flames. Craters marked where the Ogre Chief’s strikes had split the land. Rivers that once ran clear were choked with mud, ash, and blood. The cries of the wounded mixed with the roars of battle until it was impossible to tell one from the other.

The Great War of the Forest had become a nightmare.

“Forward!” Gorrak’s roar thundered across the battlefield, louder than the clash of steel. His massive blade cleaved through an Orc captain, blood spraying into the air. The towering Ogre Chief looked less like a warrior and more like a force of nature.

His Elites pressed alongside him, though even they bore wounds now.

Druvak, the Shield still held his line, though cracks spidered across his massive shield. Each bash still sent enemies flying, but his movements had grown heavier.

Krasha, the Howl howled again, his voice rattling bones and making weaker Orcs collapse where they stood. Yet blood dripped from his throat—his own power tearing at his body with every roar.

Varrg, the Black Flame panted, flames flickering unevenly along his body, as though his very breath was struggling to fuel them. Still, he burned, torching another line of Orcs.

Jukra, the Maw gnawed on a corpse, his body trembling with both hunger and exhaustion, yet his laughter rang out in wild, manic bursts.

Renak, the Quiet was drenched in blood, not all of it his own. His movements were slower, but still sharp enough to cut through squads like reeds.

Even wounded, even fatigued, the Elites were monsters—but their relentless advance finally began to tell.

The Beastkin surged behind them, wolf packs ripping through flanks, bear-kin smashing through formations, lion warriors roaring as they cut down stragglers. The Lizardmen phalanx bent, then buckled under the pressure. The Orc lines, though numerous, began to falter as exhaustion and attrition sank in.

The Lizardmen Chief wiped blood from his jaw, gripping his spear with trembling claws. “Hold! We cannot give ground!”

His warriors obeyed, though their once-perfect formation was riddled with holes. For every spear raised, two more lay shattered on the ground. For every Lizardman who stood, three more bled in the mud.

The Orc Warchief bellowed, raising his axe high. “Don’t you dare falter! Fight! Fight until the last breath!”

His warriors roared back, tusks bared, charging into the Beastkin once more. They slammed into them with reckless abandon, but for the first time, the weight of Ogre might pressed them back step by step.

Then the battlefield itself gave way.

The clash between Gorrak and the two leaders sent another shockwave through the land. Earth split. A deep fissure opened in the battlefield, swallowing dozens from both sides into the abyss. Screams echoed as warriors tumbled into darkness.

But neither leader cared.

The Lizardmen Chief lunged, his spear tip driving for Gorrak’s throat. The Orc Warchief swung his axe at the same moment, the dual strike aiming to bring the Ogre down.

Gorrak laughed. “Come then! Both of you together!”

He caught the spear with his free hand, the point piercing his palm, blood gushing. At the same time, his blade met the Warchief’s axe, sparks flying high. With a roar, he shoved both back, sending them skidding across the ground.

“Is this the strength of your pathetic alliance?!” Gorrak bellowed. “I expected more!”

High above, the shady man clasped his hands together like a delighted child.

“Yes! That’s it! Push them to the brink! Break them! The alliance will shatter, the weaklings will die, and my masterpiece will be complete!”

His laughter was shrill, echoing unnaturally across the field though none could hear it. “Two Great Races crushed beneath one! And the forest reborn under my vision. How could I be anything less than a genius?!”

He leaned forward, eyes glimmering. “Bleed, fools. Bleed until there is nothing left.”

On the ground, it seemed his wish might be fulfilled.

The Lizardmen’s formations broke entirely. Squads scattered, trying desperately to regroup, only to be trampled beneath Beastkin claws. Orc Berserkers, once unstoppable, fell one by one under the relentless punishment of Gorrak’s Elites. The sheer numbers of Orcs that once promised victory now clogged the battlefield with bodies, slowing their own reinforcements.

An Orc shaman fell screaming as Renak slit his throat.
A Lizardman captain was roasted alive by Varrg’s flames. Whole squads crumbled beneath Druvak’s shield charges.

The defenders were no longer holding the line—they were fighting to survive.
“Fall back!” one Orc shouted, only to be silenced as a claw split his chest.
“Don’t run!” another cried, but panic was already spreading.

The Chief of the Lizardmen snarled, spearing an Ogre through the stomach.
“Stand your ground, cowards!”

The Orc Warchief swung his axe, splitting a Beastkin in half. “Fight! Don’t let them take a single step more!”

But both leaders knew the truth. Their troops were breaking. One more push and the defense would collapse.

And then… something shifted.

A pressure began to settle across the battlefield. Faint at first, like a whisper of wind, it grew heavier by the second, as though invisible chains wrapped around the world.

Warriors stumbled mid-strike, eyes darting in confusion. Even the Elites faltered.
“What is this?” Druvak muttered, his massive shield trembling.

Krasha’s growl died in his throat. “A presence…”
Varrg’s flames flickered. Jukra stopped laughing. Even Gorrak frowned, blade lowering slightly under the weight pressing on him.

The Lizardmen and Orcs felt it too. Some dropped their weapons entirely, clutching their chests. Fear and awe mingled in their eyes.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t a spell.
It was something primal. Something instinctual.

An aura.

The shady man froze.

He had been laughing moments ago, lost in his brilliance. Now his grin faltered, twitching at the edges.
“No… not yet. No one should be here yet.” His voice cracked, fingers tightening around the railing of his perch.

The pressure grew heavier still. His eyes darted toward the horizon.
“That aura… it can’t be. That kind of presence shouldn’t exist here. Not now.”

For the first time, the so-called genius felt something gnaw at him—
A cold, creeping fear.

On the battlefield, everything slowed.

The Ogres, Beastkin, Orcs, and Lizardmen alike hesitated. Blades hung mid-swing. Even the roars of war fell quiet beneath the suffocating weight pressing against their souls.

Gorrak’s laughter was silenced. His eyes narrowed. “Who…?”

The Lizardman Chief panted, lowering his spear. The Orc Warchief’s tusks clenched as sweat rolled down his temple.

Even the Elites glanced toward the horizon, unease plain on their monstrous faces.

The war had not ended, but for the first time, every warrior on the field felt it—

The arrival of something greater than them all.

The battle had raged for over an hour. Steel clashed, spells erupted, blood soaked the earth.

But then something changed.

A ripple. A shift. That creeping feeling up the spine whispering—something’s coming.

It wasn’t enough to drop warriors to their knees, but it was enough to make them pause.

An Orc warlord mid-swing frowned, tusks grinding. A Beastkin’s ears twitched. Lizardmen hissed uneasily, shields lifting. Even the Ogres shifted their footing, eyes narrowing.

Krasha stopped his howl, sniffing the air. Druvak’s grip tightened. Varrg’s flame dimmed.

“What is this…?” hissed one of the Lizardmen elders.

Not fear. Not yet.
But every instinct screamed—something strong was drawing closer.

High above, the shady man tapped his foot furiously, cloak rustling with each jerky movement.

“What now?” he snapped. “I set this stage perfectly, and now some fool strolls in uninvited?!”

He leaned forward, squinting through the haze of smoke.
“Tch… another monster? A rogue mage? Some forest spirit sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong?!”

His hand clenched into a fist.
“Doesn’t matter. Whoever it is, they’ll just become part of the entertainment. And if they ruin the mood…” His grin flickered, sharp and annoyed. “…then I’ll crush them too.”

Still, despite his bravado, unease stirred. He hadn’t planned for this. And he hated surprises.

Above the battlefield, the beating of great wings joined the chorus of war.

The Princess of the Ogres clutched the reins of her wyvern tightly, her retainers clinging on behind her as the beast soared closer.

“Princess, this is madness!” one retainer shouted over the wind. “Flying straight into the war—you’ll be killed!”

“I know exactly what I’m doing!” she snapped, eyes fierce. “I’m ending this! If I don’t try, no one will!”

Another retainer groaned, knuckles white as she gripped the saddle. “And what if you’re too late?!”

The Princess grit her teeth.
“Then I’ll still have tried. I refuse to sit by while my father throws everything away!”

The wyvern shrieked, wings flaring as it dove lower. The battlefield loomed.

Meanwhile, just beyond the treeline, the pounding of paws grew louder.

A squad of tigers darted through the forest, weaving gracefully between trees. At their head was Momo, carrying a rider far too casual for someone heading straight into war.

Tengen.

He leaned back lazily, one hand loose on the reins, the other adjusting his collar. His half-lidded eyes swept over the clearing ahead.

Behind him came Yoruha, Dravel, Shirina, and Zeril, each on their own tiger.

Yoruha’s sword gleamed, her sharp eyes scanning.
Dravel smirked, sword across his lap. “Off? You mean besides the giant armies killing each other?”
Shirina muttered nervously, staff glowing faintly. “No… she’s right. The air itself feels like it’s waiting.”
Zeril patted Garfield’s side, murmuring, “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The tigers roared in unison, breaking through the last of the forest.

The thunder of tiger paws reached the clearing.

Ogres turned their heads. Orcs froze. Beastkin ears twitched. Lizardmen tails stiffened.

From both sides, eyes turned toward the treeline.

A boy led them. Not an Ogre. Not a Beastkin. Not a Lizardman. Not even an Orc. Just… a boy.

And yet, his presence was undeniable. Quiet, heavy, natural.

The battlefield stilled—not because they couldn’t fight, but because they wanted to see who this newcomer was.

Above, the Princess caught sight of him. Her breath caught.
“Who… is that?” she whispered.

Her retainers shook their heads. “We don’t know. But… he doesn’t look like someone to underestimate.”

The Princess narrowed her eyes.
Maybe… this is the chance I’ve been waiting for.

The first tiger broke the treeline with a roar, muscles rippling as it bounded forward. Upon its back sat a boy, posture relaxed, dark hair catching the faint glimmer of flame and smoke.

Tengen.

He rode Momo as if on a leisurely trip, one hand loose on the reins, the other tucked into his pocket. His eyes scanned the battlefield with the disinterest of someone browsing a market, yet his presence pressed against every corner of the clearing.

Behind him followed Yoruha, Dravel, Shirina, and Zeril.

Five tigers. Five riders.

It shouldn’t have been enough to stop two armies mid-battle. And yet, it was.

Without a word, Tengen lifted his hand.

Black and crimson mana swirled at his fingertips, pulsing brighter and brighter before he flicked it skyward.

The blast roared upward, exploding in a shower of dark light. It harmed no one. It wasn’t even aimed at them.

But the sheer scale, the casual release, forced every warrior to look up.

The explosion cracked like thunder, rolling across the land. Even the wyvern faltered mid-flight.

Then silence.

Every eye turned to the boy on the tiger.

Tengen yawned. Loudly. Then straightened, brushing soot off his shirt.

“Yo.” His voice carried across the battlefield. “Sorry I’m late. Took me a while to get here.”

His casual tone clashed violently with the devastation around him, yet no one dared laugh.

His eyes swept over Ogres, Beastkin, Lizardmen, and Orcs alike. Then he sighed, scratching his head.
“So, uh… could someone explain why the so-called great races are wasting time playing ‘Who’s Got the Bigger Stick’ in the middle of the forest?”

Murmurs spread. No one answered.

Tengen’s voice hardened slightly.
“Here’s the thing. This nonsense?” He gestured to the carnage. “It stops. Right now. You’re making too much noise, and I’m already tired of it.”

He let a fraction of his aura slip.

Not overwhelming. Not crushing. But enough.

The air grew heavier, pressing on chests like an unspoken warning. Warriors shifted uneasily. Even the Elites exchanged wary glances.

Tengen’s gaze lingered on Gorrak and his six Elites. He didn’t smile. He didn’t scowl. He simply looked, calm and disinterested, as if weighing their worth.

Gorrak’s grip tightened on his axe.

From above, the Princess leaned forward on her wyvern, eyes wide.
“Who… who is he?” she whispered.

Her retainers shook their heads. “We’ve never seen him. But that aura, those tigers… he’s dangerous.”

Another swallowed nervously. “Different. Not like an Ogre, not like a Beastkin. Not like any of them.”

The Princess’s heart pounded—not from fear alone.
Different… maybe exactly what we need.

She tightened her grip on the reins.
If I can speak to him… maybe I can end this war before it destroys everything.

Meanwhile, in his vantage point, the shady man slammed a fist against the railing.

“What is this?!” he snarled. “Some brat strolling in like he owns the place?! Who does he think he is, stealing my stage?!”

His lips curled in a snarl. “Fine. If he wants to play the hero, he can die with the rest. My masterpiece won’t be stopped.”

And yet… his eyes flicked toward Tengen again, narrowing.
Something about the boy gnawed at him. A seed of unease he couldn’t shake.

Back on the battlefield, Tengen cracked his neck and spoke again, his tone calm but cutting.

“My name is Tengen.”

The name carried clear across the field.

“I don’t care who started this mess, and I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. But it ends here. Today. You keep swinging after this point, and you’ll be swinging at me.”

He leaned forward slightly, Garfield rumbling beneath him. His eyes narrowed.
“And trust me—” his lips curled into a faint smirk— “you don’t want that.”

The battlefield froze. Thousands of warriors stood locked in stunned silence.

High above, the Princess whispered, eyes fixed on him:
“…This is it. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for.”