Vael stood motionless for a heartbeat, the severed hand and axe still smoking on the ground between them. Blood dripped from the clean cut, but he already knew this fight would be far tougher than any skirmish he had faced in this life. A fragment of memory surged unbidden: his previous existence as Raymond, the summoned hero who once wielded the Divine Sword. Battlefield reports and survivor whispers had taught him the grim truth about Gruk—this demon prince could regenerate from almost anything. A lost limb regrew in seconds. A shattered skull reformed in heartbeats. Legends claimed he could rebuild himself from a single cell… or perhaps even an atom. Only two things could end him for good: the Divine Sword in the hands of the summoned hero, or the raw power of a true Demon King.
Gruk stared at the stump of his wrist as pale roots pushed through the skin, forming new fingers. Silence hung for a moment—then the demon prince threw his head back and laughed, a loud, rolling cackle that echoed off the burning trees.
"Wow! What just happened?" Gruk said, turning his wide, toothy grin toward Vael. The new hand finished forming with a wet pop; he flexed it once, twice, admiring the fresh knuckles. "We aren't recruiting anyone… at least not yet."
He leaned forward, evil smile stretching wider, eyes glittering in the firelight.
"But I liked the resume. Brutal. Clean. No wasted movement." Gruk clapped his newly grown hands together—slow, exaggerated, mocking applause that rang over the crackling flames. "Very impressed. I almost want to keep you as a pet."
A large black-fletched arrow streaked from the darkness and struck Vael dead-center through the chest, piercing his heart in a single clean thrust. The impact jolted him backward a step. Hot blood bloomed across his shirt in a dark flower. Pain exploded white-hot behind his ribs, then dulled to a deep, throbbing ache that spread through his lungs with every breath.
The elf child screamed—a high, terrified sound—and bolted through the smoke, tiny legs pumping, silver hair whipping behind her. From the trees beyond the fire, an army of elves emerged: lithe silhouettes in green and silver armor, bows drawn, eyes glowing with fury.
"Get away from that child, you human!" one shouted, voice sharp as a blade.
Gruk threw his head back and laughed again, deep and guttural, the sound rolling through the clearing like thunder. He clapped once more, delighted.
"You see," he said, grinning down at Vael, "there's a saying: 'Never judge a book by its cover.' May you not rest in peace."
Vael looked down at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest. Blood dripped steadily onto the dirt. Slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his fingers around it and yanked it free. The barbed head tore through flesh with a wet rip. Blood sprayed briefly, then slowed to a trickle.
He dropped the arrow.
The wound closed.
Muscle knitted. Skin sealed. The hole vanished in seconds, leaving smooth, unmarked skin beneath the torn shirt.
Gruk's laughter choked off mid-breath. His grin faltered—just for a second.
Vael lifted his eyes, calm and steady.
Hundreds of elves had surrounded them in a tightening ring of green and silver armor. Bows drawn, arrows nocked, tips gleaming with cold moonlight and faint enchantment. The air hummed with the low vibration of drawn bowstrings and the rustle of leaves under shifting boots. Every elven face was set in fury—eyes glowing faintly with rage, grief, and unyielding resolve. The earlier fire still crackled behind them, casting long, flickering shadows across pale skin and silver hair. The scent of burning pine and blood hung thick, mingling with the sharp, clean smell of elven steel.
"Wow! What a beautiful view," Gruk said, spreading both arms wide like a showman. "A jackpot!" His grin stretched wider—sharp, evil, full of cruel amusement—as he scanned the ranks. His eyes lingered shamelessly on several of the females, appraising them hungrily. "Today I'm taking one of you as my concubine."
He turned to Aamon, who stood a few paces behind, expression flat and long-suffering. "If you like one," Gruk continued, voice dripping with mock generosity, "you're allowed to pick too." He clapped again—once, twice—delighted with his own chaos.
Then the ground shook. Heavy footfalls announced the arrival of orcs and taurens. The air filled with the scent of leather, sweat, and iron. Gruk's grin faltered.
"You see," he said quickly, voice suddenly smooth and reasonable, "I'm not with this human. He appeared out of nowhere."
He turned to Vael with an exaggerated shrug, as if they were old friends sharing a joke.
"The loving people of Silvermoon hate your kind the most."
Suddenly a massive orc—scarred green skin, chipped tusk—pointed a thick finger at Gruk and Aamon.
"These two are the ones who stole our goods and ores!"
Gruk and Aamon froze. Their eyes met for a brief second—a shared understanding passing between them. A tireless battle loomed. Fighting orcs and taurens was pointless; magic barely scratched them. They were tanks: thick-skinned, unstoppable, shrugging off spells like raindrops.
Before Gruk could respond, another orc—taller, necklace of teeth clattering—pointed directly at Vael.
"That was the one who slaughtered hundreds of our people and looted everything!"
Aamon heard it clearly. Gruk did not—his attention still on the elves and taurens closing in. Panic flashed across the demon prince's face for the first time. He spun on his heel, boots skidding in the dirt, and tried to run.
Vael moved faster.
He slammed one hand to the ground. Earth skill surged through his palm—raw, instinctive, uncontrolled. The soil beneath Gruk's feet hardened instantly, cracking open like stone jaws. Vael's other hand shot forward, fingers closing around Gruk's ankle in a vise grip. The demon prince stumbled, legs locked in place, and crashed face-first into the dirt with a heavy thud.
Gruk snarled, twisting violently, claws raking the earth. "Let go, you—"
The tallest orc—horns wrapped in iron bands—raised his massive axe high. His voice boomed across the clearing, deep and final.
"No one escapes today. Attack!!!"
The orcs and taurens surged forward as one—a tide of muscle, steel, and fury. The elves loosed their arrows in perfect unison, silver streaks cutting through the smoke. The air filled with the whistle of shafts, the roar of charging beasts, and the crack of earth splitting beneath Vael's grip.
Gruk thrashed, laughing through gritted teeth—still cruel, still defiant.
Vael held on, calm and steady, eyes fixed on the chaos closing in from every side.
In the obsidian throne room of the Underworld, Valthar received the news from a trembling scout who barely dared lift his eyes. Gruk and Aamon were forming an army. They were gathering corpses in Shadowmoon Valley, raising undead, whispering rebellion against the crown. The scout's voice cracked as he finished.
Valthar did not move. He stared into the distance, expression unchanged—calm, almost bored.
The scout waited, sweat beading on his brow.
Finally Valthar spoke, voice low and even.
"Ignore it."
The scout blinked. "My king…?"
"They are nothing against me," Valthar continued. "Gruk is immortal, cunning, vicious, and ambitious—yes. But ambition without power is just noise. Let them play in the dirt. If they ever crawl back here with an army worth fearing, I will crush them myself."
He leaned back slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips—cold, certain.
"Leave."
The scout bowed deeply and fled.
Valthar remained alone. The throne room was silent except for the distant hiss of molten rivers. He reminded himself—not out of fear, but habit—that Gruk was dangerous in theory: regeneration from a cell, from an atom; cunning enough to survive every tournament until Valthar ended him; vicious enough to enjoy every second; ambitious enough to dream of this very throne.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The scout's words were forgotten almost before the doors closed.
Back at the fight:
Vael knew that using full power would spread word like wildfire—especially near these two demons. Thousands of arrows flew in a silver-black storm launched by elven bows. Thousands of orcs and taurens charged behind them—bellowing, axes raised, hooves thundering. He didn't know how much power was safe. Too little, and he died. Too much, and the entire continent would know a monster had awakened in Shadowmoon Valley.
He reacted on instinct.
All the skill came at once—not chanted, not spoken, not from this world. Here, magic required words, voice, and will. Not for him. His body moved with something older than any spellbook.
Swift movements blurred into afterimages. Shockwaves rolled outward with every step, flattening grass and cracking stone. Gruk and Aamon—never allies—suddenly found themselves fighting alongside him, caught in the same storm. The arrows and axes didn't care about sides.
Vael knew orcs were immune to magic. So he turned it inward.
He reached toward the living blood inside their bodies. His will closed like a fist. Veins burst. Arteries tore. Spears of their own blood erupted from chests, throats, eyes—crimson lances punching outward in every direction. Orcs staggered, roared, collapsed in sprays of red. Taurens bellowed as ribs cracked from within, hearts impaled by their own lifeblood turned weapon. Havoc. Bodies fell in heaps, blood pooling so thick the ground turned to mud.
The orcs and taurens that had been attacking the demons ignored Gruk and Aamon completely. Rage overriding survival instinct, they turned straight toward Vael. Axes swung. Horns lowered. The earth shook with their charge.
Vael moved faster than sight. Each step hurled warriors backward. He wove through the tide—a shadow among giants—hands flashing, blood spears flying, bodies bursting. Gruk, Aamon, and the elves witnessed a battle unlike any in their lives: one man against thousands, tearing through orcs and taurens like paper. The ground quaked. Trees cracked. The air smelled of iron and death.
For hours he fought.
Whoever tried to run, he killed.
He was losing his mind—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all. The screams, the blood, the endless bodies. His eyes—once calm—now held terror, wide and haunted.
Gruk and Aamon saw it clearly: the stranger wasn't just powerful.
He was breaking.
To be continued.