Far away, on the border between the South Almira Kingdom and the scorching Saharan Desert, chaos reigned.
Arthas swung his massive greatsword in a brutal arc, the blade slicing clean through an orc warrior's thick neck. Blood sprayed as the body crumpled, lifeless. Without missing a beat, he turned to face the next threat. His greatsword, weighing a staggering 100 kilograms, moved like an extension of his will.
"Damn it!" Arthas growled, teeth clenched in frustration. "A month into this war, and we've already lost a thousand men. Meanwhile, their numbers keep swelling—over forty-five thousand strong!" His voice shook with fury, barely audible over the sounds of battle.
Beside him, a fellow Tier 3 Enhanced Warrior shouted, "Don't falter, Arthas! Another wave is coming! Fall back to the barricade—the archers will cover us!"
The command was clear. Arthas and his squad moved quickly, their retreat a mix of desperation and discipline, boots kicking up clouds of burning sand.
Suddenly, a monstrous roar cut through the din. Arthas turned—and froze.
A massive troll towered in the distance, its muscles bulging as it hurled a stone spear the size of a battering ram with terrifying force.
"Incoming!" someone screamed.
Arthas braced, every muscle tensed. The air split with a shriek as the weapon hurtled toward him. The ground trembled, the wind howled, and the scent of scorched sand and iron invaded his lungs.
With a roar, he raised his greatsword, using the flat of the blade to intercept the spear. The impact was thunderous. The jarring collision sent a bone-rattling shock up his arms, numbing them.
He skidded backward, sand grinding under his boots as he teetered dangerously at the cliff's edge.
Just as his footing began to give, a hand shot out, grabbing his arm.
Locke's voice rang out—light-hearted, but urgent. "Gotcha! And hey, sorry about nearly breaking your arm last month." Despite the humor, concern flickered in his eyes.
Arthas winced, managing a strained smile. "Now's not the time for jokes, Locke. We've got a battle to win."
The troll, enraged by its failed strike, tore through the lower-tier warriors, wielding a stone hammer that easily weighed 500 kilograms. Goblins peppered the humans with crossbow bolts while snarling warg riders slashed through the chaos, tearing limbs and lives apart.
Locke's grin faded. His expression turned grim. "Stay here."
Without waiting for a response, he gripped his massive 1,000-kilogram mace and surged forward like a cannonball, leaping a hundred meters in seconds. His mace slammed into the troll's skull with earth-shattering force, silencing it forever.
The human troops roared in triumph as Locke charged the warg riders, ending them with ruthless efficiency.
For Arthas, it was another bloodstained day in an endless war.
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a deep horn blared from the orc camp, signaling retreat. Arthas exhaled slowly, bone-weary, and dragged himself back to the barricade.
Edward, a grizzled veteran, met him with a hard stare. "You're losing your edge, lad. Stay back next time. Supervise. Let the ones with stamina handle the frontlines."
Arthas didn't answer. He simply turned and walked to his tent. Collapsing on his cot, he closed his eyes, the battle replaying in grim loops. His once-vaunted Tier 3 strength now felt... small.
I wasted too much time as a baron, he thought bitterly. Now, it might cost me everything.
He clenched his fists. The image of Eleanor's gentle smile flickered in his mind like a dying flame. It hurt—but it also grounded him.
I can't fall. Not now. Not ever.
In the orc camp, Grommash loomed over the returning horde, his tusks gleaming in the firelight. The acrid stench of sweat and blood permeated the air, mixing with the thick smoke from hastily lit campfires. The guttural growls of injured orcs and the restless snarls of wargs echoed in the background, while the flickering flames cast ominous shadows on the jagged tents and crude weapons scattered about. The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily, a stark reminder of the brutal conflict that awaited them with the dawn.
He singled out the captain of the warg riders with a low growl.
"You," he barked, his voice like grinding boulders, pointing a clawed finger.
The captain snapped to attention and saluted stiffly. "Warchief!"
"What news?" Grommash demanded, stepping closer, his breath hot and foul with the metallic scent of blood lingering on his tongue.
The captain's voice remained steady despite the tension. "A human warrior, likely a Tier 4 Battle Master, killed the troll and half my riders. We were forced to retreat." He gestured to the few surviving warg riders limping behind him.
Grommash's eyes narrowed, his expression darkening with restrained fury. He turned away, muttering to his towering troll advisor, "Tomorrow, we draw them out. Use the goblins and riders—guerilla tactics. Bleed them. When they chase, I'll be waiting at the frontlines."
The troll rumbled in agreement, his glowing eyes reflecting the firelight.
Finishing his orders, Grommash grinned with his hideous maw, the sight of it sending shivers through even the hardened warriors nearby.
The Warg Rider Captain's eyes gleamed with sinister delight. "Yes, Warchief!" he howled before marching back to his camp with renewed bloodlust.
Grommash turned and entered his massive tent, pushing aside the thick hide flaps. Inside, the air was heavier, suffocating—choked with incense, blood, and old magic. He strode to a small altar adorned with cracked bones, a carved totem, and a bloody bowl crafted from the skull cap of a fallen human champion.
"Soon," he whispered reverently, kneeling before it.
"Your Almighty's will… will be done," Grommash growled as he lifted the bowl to his lips. He drank deeply, the thick, black-red liquid sliding down his throat like molten steel. He shuddered with a mix of ecstasy and agony, groaning as the tattoos along his body pulsed with an unnatural purple light.
He exhaled a long plume of shimmering purple mist… then inhaled it back in sharply. A loud, guttural burp followed, and the light faded from his skin, leaving behind a menacing aura that made the air vibrate.
Grommash had advanced to the Peak of Tier 5 Mystical Warrior.
He threw back his head and boisterously laughed, a roar that shook the tent poles. "With this... nothing can stand in my way!"
He snapped his fingers. "Retainer! Bring me two human females. I feel like... celebrating."
Moments later, the tent flap opened, and a massive orc retainer entered, dragging two chained female prisoners behind him—both bloodied, both visibly exhausted.
One of them, a young warrior with steel in her eyes, kicked and screamed. "Let me go, you damned animal!"
The other, older and quiet, shuffled behind her with vacant eyes, her spirit already crushed.
The retainer growled at the defiant one. "You'll learn soon enough. Struggling only makes it worse."
"Forget resisting," the quiet one murmured, her voice distant and hollow. "It's over. This will be over soon…"
The younger woman yanked at her chain again. "I said LET ME GO!" Her voice cracked with desperation.
Grommash chuckled darkly as he stood to his full, monstrous height. Even seated, he was taller than either of them. Now standing, he towered like a god of war, all muscle, shadow, and menace.
"Oh, how I love it when they fight," he grinned. "Struggle more. It makes the experience… delightful."
He tugged at their chains with effortless strength, yanking the defiant girl off her feet. She hit the ground hard but snarled, pushing herself back up.
"You're disgusting," she spat. "You're nothing but a monster!"
Grommash crouched down, looking her in the eye, his grin widening. "Yes. But I'm a monster that wins. And you? You'll be mine, before the night ends."
She lunged at him, teeth bared—but the chains snapped her back with a jolt.
He laughed louder, cruelly. "This fire in you—it excites me. You'll break eventually. They all do."
The retainer, still present, cleared his throat nervously. "Warchief... shall I stay and watch over—"
"No," Grommash interrupted, eyes never leaving the two women. "Leave. This moment is mine."
The retainer gave a stiff nod and turned away, stepping outside. The cries of the struggling prisoner echoed behind him as he exited, the sound of metal dragging across the ground and the thick laughter of his Warchief following after.
Outside, the orc retainer paused, staring into the fire-lit sky.
From inside the tent, muffled cries and broken screams intertwined with bestial laughter and snarls. The oppressive aura inside the tent thickened by the second.
No one would dare disturb the Warchief tonight.