The news spread across the Southern Continent like wildfire... one of the Five Supre Chieftains of the Orcish Empire had fallen.
Not to age, not to sickness.
But slain, cut down in his pri.
You would have expected certain reactions out of an Empire right after losing what was akin to one of their Vice Presidents?
Reactions like outrage, a cry for revenge, morning, but none of that happened across the territories of the Orcish Empire.
Across the Orcish domain, the drums of war thundered not in mourning but in celebration. Fires blazed in the night skies as clans feasted on blood and marrow, each tribe howling its own claim to the fallen’s lands.
Humans expected a rallying cry, the lesser Demons expected outrage when they heard of the exploits of their army, but those who knew the Orcs best knew the truth... among Orcs, weakness is unforgivable.
That was the Orcish way.
Despite having established a relationship of trade and coexistence among the Orcs for centuries already, the human race was yet to understand the true culture and nature of their neighbors, but the Demons did.
Afterall, even before the humans rose up as a true race in the Southern Continent, the Demons and the Orcs were the ones who lorded over the continent for centuries.
The Demons knew their neighbors best.
The Orcs were a race of war. Their entire society was built on conquest, blood, and the right of the strong to rule the weak.
Demons are no better. But in their case though where Orcs respect power above or else and absolutely loathe weakness, the Demons are a treacherous race full of backstabbers and schers.
But despite this nature of that, Orcs were still different from Demons.
This is because unlike the Demons, they had no unifying crown, no Demon King to bind them together under one will. The Orcs had no SS-Rank champion to hold their kindred in check.
The Demon King... he was the core of the human race, the leash that kept them in line, the face behind their quest for supremacy.
The Orcs once had one... the strongest Orc in history, who vanished two centuries ago into the mountains to break into SS-Rank. He was among the 5 Supre Chieftains, but he was the strongest of them all.
But since he vanished into seclusion, centuries passed and no sign of him returned. The consensus was that he was dead.
Since then, the Orcish domain had been ruled by the Five Supre Chieftains, each commanding vast territories and countless war clans.
They fought, they sched, but they never united.
With one gone, only four remained.
And to the Orcs, that was not a tragedy. To the true heavy hitters of the Orc race, it was an opportunity.
...
In the Ashen Mountains, Gor’Kar the Stonebreaker bellowed his claim.
He was a legend of the Orcish Empire and ruled the mountainous regions.
His war hamrs had shattered human castles and Demon citadels alike. To him, the fallen Chieftain’s fortresses were ripe spoils for his siege beasts and mountain legions.
"Weak," he muttered at the thought of his fallen rival.
"He was too weak to stake a claim to power," he spoke and his voice rumbled like a clap of thunder. "Now, I will take what was once his".
"I will beco the true ruler of his territories!"
...
In the Crimson Sands, Veyla the Dune Widow raised her banners.
Just like Gor’Kar, she was a legend, one of the Supre Chieftains of the Orcish Empire. She ruled over the Crimson Sands.
Her armies were one of the most feared in the entire continent, the re sight of their banner caused entire armies to retreat in defeat. Her armies are mounted raiders who rode like storms across the desert, thriving on slaughter.
She spat on the mory of her fallen peer, declaring. "If he were worthy, he would still breathe".
Her reckless gaze hardened like stone. "His bones belong to ."
...
In the Verdant Wilds, Thraghul the Beast-Eater howled with his berserkers.
Thraghul was a Berserker, a fearso existence across the world, one of the strongest warriors in the history of the Orc race.
Clad in the skins of monsters, he declared every forest, every river, and every tribe of the fallen Chieftain as his by right of strength. His warbands surged like wolves, tearing into loyalists.
The Orcish Council was dead.
The Supre Chieftains were not rulers, they were predators. And predators do not grieve fallen rivals. Rather, they feast on them.
Overnight, the Orcish domain beca a storm of banners and blood as a harrowing civil war ignited.
The fallen Chieftain’s clans tried to resist, but they were overwheld. Tribes turned on tribes, sworn oaths were broken in a heartbeat, and the rivers turned red with their own blood.
Siege beasts thundered through valleys, trampling entire villages beneath their massive feet.
Desert raiders swept through the fallen’s outer camps, leaving nothing but bones and blackened sand. In the forests, berserkers tore apart loyalist warbands with tooth and blade.
It was not a war of justice.
It was not a war of vengeance.
It was a feeding frenzy.
While all of this happened, ravaging through the Orc domain, hidden in the shadows of the carnage, unseen to Orc eyes, the Demons watched.
Cloaked in voidlight, a ssenger knelt before Malgar Voidborne in a distant cavern. His voice echoed with cruel satisfaction.
"The Orcs fight themselves, my lord".
"The death you planted has borne fruit. Already their territories are afla. They do not unite... they devour".
Malgar’s silver eyes glead. "Fools," he mocked, satisfied.
Exactly as the Demon Council had foreseen.
With the Orcs tearing each other apart, there would be no unified response to the Demon ambush on Nexus Academy. No alliance, no unified counterattack.
Humanity’s strongest neighbor had been reduced to chaos with a single, invisible strike.
The Ashen Mountains glowed with burning villages.
The Crimson Sands howled with raiders drunk on blood.
The Verdant Wilds shook with the cries of beasts unleashed for war.
The Orcs roared, not against their enemies, but against each other.
And in the Demon domain, laughter echoed.
The Demons had thrown a single stone... and the Orcs tore themselves apart.
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