"Stop running, you coward!"
With heavy steps that made the earth tremble, a colossal figure stormed through a battlefield corrupted by death. Corpses still warm, thick mud, and scattered debris covered the ground beneath its feet. Nearly three meters tall, its body was encased in bone-like armor of a reddish-brown hue. Atop its head, the skull of an unknown beast concealed its face, revealing only glimpses of yellowish skin.
Its powerful roars echoed through the air as it desperately chased after its elusive foe. However, before it could even get close, a well-placed shot pierced its waist, forcing it to its knees.
That wasn't its first wound, nor was it the worst; its crude armor was riddled with holes, but this last attack pushed the limits of its regeneration. Grunting in pain, it pressed one hand against its bleeding abdomen while gripping its heavy mace with the other, knowing that letting go would mean certain death.
Even so, its defensive stance failed to dissuade its relentless pursuer. Seeing the creature collapse, the subject turned with the firm resolve to finish it off.
The contrast between the two could not have been more striking. One bore the monstrous features of the orcs from children's tales, while the other was nothing more than a man—unremarkable in every way except for his above-average height.
He wore blue garments made of a synthetic material similar to nylon, now stained with blood and dust. His short, jet-black hair glistened, slick with sweat from hours of relentless movement. His pale face was the only exposed area of his wrinkled skin, and despite his lean build, the taut muscles in his arms and legs hinted at his latent strength. In his hands, he held an unusual black rifle, which he soon swapped for a peculiar sword that had remained sheathed on his back until now.
With enviable dexterity, the human dodged the giant's clumsy, desperate attack. Then, unleashing his overwhelming strength, he vaulted onto its shoulders and carried out a ruthless massacre.
As this unfolded, a low whisper escaped his cracked lips.
"No..." he gritted his teeth. "This isn't enough."
As he uttered those words, thick with frustration, the blade of his sword became shrouded in a thin layer of flickering gray light, speckled with tiny black dots that danced in sync with his strikes.
From that moment on, he took less than a minute to reduce the orc's body to an unrecognizable mass of flesh that slowly ceased to move. The agonized, hate-filled screams faded, yet the man's furrowed expression betrayed his discontent.
"Damn it. Weak. Too weak!"
He had been repeating to himself as he sheathed his weapon and prepared to leap away from the body beneath him.
At the same time, the orc's fleeting life slipped from its calloused fingers. But before the light fully faded from its bloodshot eyes, it gasped out its final words.
"Human... Human... Damn you and all your kind... You'll pay, you'll see... Listen! God, the... the lord Badr will avenge us... Ha, ha, ha... He will avenge me."
And with that, it died.
A display of faith. A vow of vengeance. Such was the fate of one who had given his life at his sovereign's command, yet his final testament fell on deaf ears.
Dismissing the threat as nothing more than a tired echo—after all, it was the fifth time he'd heard the same words in less than twenty-four hours—the man stepped onto the muddy ground. Then, with a mechanical motion, he tried to rid himself of the sticky black blood that had splattered onto him.
The sensation clinging to his bare skin was truly repulsive. So, instead of wiping it off with his sleeve, he pulled out a canteen from a pocket near his waist and poured half its contents over his forehead, feeling the cold liquid wash away some of the filth. Afterwards, he grabbed an energy bar from the same spot and began devouring it, alternating bites with small sips of water to help it go down.
Amidst that mundane action, the mature and alluring voice of a woman echoed in his mind.
[Congratulations, you have defeated a Low-Rank Orc Warrior. You have obtained 127 Valor Points. You have obtained a Straight Machete made of 1055 Steel. You have obtained 2 AM-23 Magazines. Remember to claim your rewards at the headquarters of your choice.]
"Low rank, huh..."
Shaking his head from side to side, the man sighed as he scratched his chin with his thumb.
Even though he had emerged victorious from that brief yet deadly encounter, he felt no satisfaction with the outcome. How could he, when the course of that battle completely disregarded his decades of struggle and training?
Likewise, what impact could the defeat of someone so weak have on the war of immeasurable proportions that still raged around him? It was nothing more than a speck of dust amid the chaos—insignificant compared to the monarchs, those terrifying and ruthless entities looming as a constant threat over humanity in this foreign land.
Once his thoughts drifted to that point, the man cast his gaze into the distance, ignoring the millions of combatants clashing across that wretched land, heavy with the stench of death: iron, smoke, and filth.
Several hundred kilometers away, massive silhouettes loomed above the clouds, like relentless deities imposing their dominion over fragile mortals.
To the south was the closest threat: an ancient, imposing tree whose immense ebony trunk split the sky in two. Its abundant leaves shimmered with a tempting glow, a deadly trap designed to ensnare and shatter the minds of its feeble aggressors.
A beautiful yet crude ruse, woven by the elves, haughty beings who not only prided themselves on their beauty but also clung to the belief that their morality stood above that of humans.
Hidden within that illusory manifestation was a diminutive figure of regal bearing: the elven queen and goddess, Myrrans. With her amputated fingers, she commanded the countless branches and roots sprouting from her vast green mane, as if conducting an orchestra. A grim symphony that claimed the lives of hundreds, even thousands, with each movement.
Nevertheless, even though most humans were insignificant before the power she wielded, there were a few exceptions who dared to halt her advance. Five fearless warriors stood against her divine presence, unleashing terrifying explosions of searing fire with their assaults, like they were ballistic missiles. While their efforts seemed insufficient to vanquish the queen, they managed to prolong the war—one that had seemed lost from the start—offering a fleeting glimpse of hope that the tides might yet turn.
Of course, that confrontation was not the only one shaking the battlefield.
A little further east, a titan composed of a fierce crimson aura stood. Upon his head rested a magnificent crown adorned with sharp thorns, from which emerged countless golden chains, firmly encircling his neck, torso, and limbs. However, contrary to what might be expected from his repressed appearance, these did not limit him in the least; they only amplified his vast power.
His muscular arms tore through the sky with every punch, and his powerful legs cracked the mountain range beneath him, crushing everything in his path.
As if that wasn't enough, the man watching those unrealistic feats from a distance still vividly remembered the nightmare he experienced during the most recent battle at the desert border of the Alliance. Thanks to that memory, he knew all too well that this quadrupedal form did not represent the limits of the creature known as the King of Orcs' abilities.
Fortunately for him, that being was unable to approach the allied army because his eternal rival would not allow it. General Lira, along with her loyal followers, fought on the edge of death, using every aspect of her surroundings to her advantage in pursuit of a certain victory.
Perhaps she was the only one aiming to defeat one of the monarchs. In the end, not all confrontations against them favored humanity; among those beings was one that even the most talented could not intercept.
The wolf Velkara, mother and guardian of her numerous offspring, was a relentless hunter who roamed the plains unbound at unfathomable speeds.
Her white-furred presence was nothing more than a fleeting shadow in the man's eyes, but the echo of her devastating actions sent chills down his spine. Wherever she appeared, waves of spectral fire danced with terrifying intensity, driving those they touched into oblivion.
That was why the fastest officers of the Alliance pursued her without respite, fearful that her violent rampage would shatter the fragile balance of the war, which had barely been maintained up to that point.
Because of that relentless chase, combatants on both sides trembled whenever the hot air brushed their skin—a fleeting omen of death rushing toward them.
"Die! Die, you miserable sons of bitches!"
"Humans! Bastards who must be purged!"
"Fools! Drop your weapons this instant, and perhaps the gods will have mercy on you!"
"Ha, ha, ha, ha…!"
"No, please, I don't wa—"
''...''
Closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, the man fought to steady his racing heart. The stench of decay scorched his nose. Screams crashed into his skull. Filth clung to his body, dragging him toward the edge of panic.
After a few seconds, he realized that remaining passive wouldn't bring him any peace. So, he brought his right fist to his chest, tapped it lightly, and softly whispered a name that had been his spiritual pillar for decades.
"Diane…"
As if by magic, the trembling ceased, along with the cold sweat trickling down his forehead and back. He had regained his will to fight; once more, he was ready to kill.
The moment he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of two walls of light and darkness rising in the north. Angels and demons had joined forces to bring an end to their creators. Even so, he cast aside the unease growing within him, reassuring himself that there was no point in worrying about what was beyond his control.
Instead, he chose to focus all his attention on his next opponent: a male elf—one of the few of his kind—who was just about to take the life of a human soldier.