Chapter 102: Betrayal & Redemption
Meanwhile, the Bloodtusk Fortress was alive with a brutal, single-minded energy. The arena was the heart of this fervor, its air thick with the scent of fear, stale blood, and the raw excitement of the punishment duel. Orcs who had failed their clan or shown cowardice in battle were stripped of their armor and forced to fight each other, with the victor earning a chance at redemption.
These duels were not about honor; they were about survival.
The first match was quick and merciless: a lowly, trembling orc was instantly beheaded by a larger opponent, a veteran of a hundred small skirmishes. The crowd roared in a unified, guttural cheer, their chants of "Kore! Kore! Kore!" echoing through the stone arches as the victor raised his axe in triumph, the fresh gore dripping from its blade.
"Too weak!" one orc bellowed from the stands."Should’ve stayed in the kitchens!" another laughed, tossing a bone into the arena.The crowd’s laughter turned into stomping and chanting again, the whole fortress rumbling with their frenzy.
From his elevated seat carved from a single piece of dark stone, Chief Minur watched with cold, calculating eyes. His hulking figure was a grim silhouette against the sky, his staff of polished bone and gleaming gems held loosely in one hand. His elite guards, clad in thick, spiked plate, stood like statues behind him, their massive forms dwarfing all others.
His voice, amplified by an unseen power, boomed across the stands, silencing the crowd as a gate groaned open below."Bring out the prisoners!"
The sound of rattling chains echoed as a large iron gate creaked open, revealing Korome and fourteen other orcs. They shuffled forward, bound together, their expressions a mix of fear, anger, and resignation. Guards in jagged black armor shoved them along with halberds, one striking Korome hard in the back to keep him moving.
The watching orcs immediately erupted in laughter and jeers."Cowards!" one spat."Shame of the clan!" another barked, throwing a half-eaten bone at them."Make them fight the rats instead, that’d be fairer!" someone shouted, earning another round of laughter.
"KILL THE COWARDS!" the crowd began to chant, their voices merging into a cruel rhythm, a chorus of mockery and hatred.
Once in the center of the arena, the prisoners were unshackled. Their chains hit the ground with a heavy clatter, echoing louder than their shallow breaths. Instead of weapons, the guards dumped a pile of rusted scraps before them. Broken axes, splintered clubs, chipped swords, even a bent spear that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Some still had cobwebs clinging to them.
"Here’s your chance!" one guard sneered, kicking a splintered club toward Korome. "Make your clan proud."The laughter of the guards joined the jeers of the crowd.
The gates slammed shut behind them, locking them in with their fate.
Minur rose from his stone throne. His voice carried through the arena, colder and more unforgiving than before."All of you will be able to redeem yourselves if you win," he declared. "Your opponent is not each other, but the shame you have brought upon our clan!"
The prisoners looked at one another, some gripping their useless scraps of iron tighter, others trembling.
Minur’s eyes burned with contempt as he pointed his staff toward them."For you are failures! You were sent on a mission to prove your worth. To return with glory. But you did not bring your bounty. You came back with lies! You spoke of fire-breathing sticks and flying stones of death! Excuses!" His voice thundered. "You ran, you cowered, you shamed our bloodline!"
The crowd roared its agreement. "SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!"
"You threw your honor away for nothing," Minur spat. "Now, you will face your true enemy. The beast within our own blood!"
For a moment, silence fell across the arena. Then—
A thunderous roar shook the stone walls.
With a deafening slam, the opposite gate flew open. From the darkness, a huge, mutated orc emerged. Its skin was covered in bulging red veins that pulsed like fire beneath the flesh. Its eyes glowed with malevolent red light. Every step it took made the ground tremble, its claws dragging furrows in the dirt.
The crowd exploded into chaos, their bloodlust unchained."WAAAAGGHHHH!" they screamed."FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
The condemned orcs froze, every last one of them realizing the truth at the same time: this wasn’t a trial. It was an execution.
The monster charged, its speed defying its size, instantly ripping the lower half from one of the trembling orcs. The victim’s scream cut short as his entrails painted the dirt. The beast howled in triumph, its glowing veins pulsing brighter.
Another orc swung a rusted axe at its side—clang!—the blade shattered like glass. The monster’s backhand sent the orc flying across the arena, his skull cracking against the stone wall.
Korome froze, spear shards clutched in his fists. His stomach turned.That’s why he gave us broken weapons. He knows exactly what that thing is...
He’d seen one before. Demonized grunts. Only controllable through pearls. Without them, they were death incarnate.
A whisper in his skull reminded him: This is your punishment. You poisoned him. You chose this path.
For a moment, he wasn’t in the arena anymore. He was back on the pastures.
Wide green fields. The scent of wild grass. Orc children sparring with wooden sticks while their mothers cheered them on. Warriors testing their strength in honest duels, no dark magic, no sorcery. Korome remembered standing behind his chief—the Old Bull, they called him—broad shoulders scarred from a hundred challenges, but always unbowed. "Strength earns respect, not trickery," the chief had said once, handing Korome a drinking horn after a duel. "Even if I fall, I fall as an orc."
Then Minur came. Always losing his duels, always sneering in the shadow of the Old Bull. Until whispers spread. Orcs becoming restless. Brothers turning on brothers. Fists clenched tighter, voices grew harsher. "The chief is too soft," they muttered. "Where is our glory? Where is our blood?"
Korome remembered Minur’s offer: "Help me, and you’ll be my second. You’re wasted guarding that old fool."
He remembered the night. The chief’s drinking horn in his hand. The vial Minur pressed into his palm. Just a drop, dark and oily, sinking into the ale. Korome’s heart had hammered so loudly he thought the others could hear. But the chief drank. And when the duel came, Minur’s dark fire burned the arena, and the poisoned chief faltered. The crowd had roared as Minur cut him down.
To them, it was fair. To Korome, it was a stain that never washed off.
He snapped back to the present as another orc’s head rolled past his boots.
The beast was slaughtering them.
"No, no, not like this," Korome muttered. His hands shook as he grabbed two rusted spears near the gate. "Think, Korome. Survive. Like always."
He hissed at the orcs nearest him. "Tie the chains! Around its feet! Bring it down!"
They looked at him with hollow, terrified eyes. "That thing’s not meant to fall!" one spat blood, clutching a broken club.
"Do it or we’re all meat!" Korome barked. His voice cracked, but it carried the tone of a commander. Old habits.
The monster barreled toward them, claws outstretched. Korome dove aside, chains clattering as he scrambled up its back. The veins burned like fire beneath his palms. He gagged at the heat and stink of it.
The other prisoners, maybe more out of desperation than courage, swarmed its legs. They hacked at the ankles, plunging jagged scraps into its flesh. Black ichor splattered them, sizzling against skin like acid.
The monster roared, twisting to shake them off. But Korome dug in. He wrapped the chains around his chest, binding himself to its back. He could hear the Old Bull’s voice in his skull: "Even if I fall, I fall as an orc."
But Korome wasn’t falling. Not yet.
He raised both spears, screaming, and rammed them into the glowing red orbs of its eyes.
The monster shrieked, a sound that rattled the entire fortress. It bucked wildly, blood spraying in black torrents. Blind, it slammed into walls, into the ground, thrashing with unstoppable rage.
The crowd’s chants faltered. Silence rippled through the stands. Even the guards leaned forward.
From his throne, Minur stiffened. His smirk froze.
What is he trying to do?
The blinded beast thrashed, screaming into the sky. Its claws dug trenches in the dirt as it staggered, slamming into walls and sending stone chunks flying. The arena floor shook with every step.
Korome clung to its back, spears buried in ruined sockets, chains tearing into his chest. The heat from its veins burned his skin raw, but he didn’t let go. His mind screamed with pain—yet another voice whispered louder.
You poisoned him. You killed the Bull. This is the debt you pay.
The beast spun in circles, flailing. Orc prisoners were crushed beneath its stomping feet. Bones cracked like branches. One screamed for his mother before a claw tore him in half.
Korome’s stomach turned. He closed his eyes, but behind his lids he didn’t see blood—he saw the chief’s sons. The day after the duel.
The eldest, Schalezusk, standing in the arena with only one arm, the stump wrapped in bandages. He had fought Minur right after the duel, demanding vengeance, demanding truth. Minur broke him. The crowd had cheered then too. Orcs baying for blood, not honor. And the sons were exiled, scattered to the wilds, left for dead.
Korome had looked away. He had told himself survival mattered more than loyalty.
Now, pinned to the back of a demon-beast, survival was all he had.
"MOVE!" he roared at the remaining prisoners. "Cut its legs! Bring it DOWN!"
Two of them, trembling but desperate, leapt at the monster’s knees, stabbing again and again. Ichor sprayed their faces, burning them alive, but they screamed through it, hacking until tendons snapped. The beast faltered, crashing to one side. The arena shook, dust rising in clouds.
Korome seized the chance. He yanked free one of the spears, blood spurting from the ruined socket. The monster howled, blind and wild, staggering forward. Korome pulled the chains tighter, steering it like a mad rider.
From above, Minur rose from his throne, his face twisted in fury. "KILL HIM!" he roared, his voice booming like thunder.
Guards leapt from the stands, axes and blades raised. The crowd’s chants had turned from bloodthirsty cheers to uneasy murmurs. Some even stared in silence.
Korome looked up. For a heartbeat, he imagined the pastures again—green fields, the Old Bull’s booming laugh, orc children sparring with sticks instead of watching their fathers butcher each other.
It could have stayed like that. If not for me.
The beast tore through three guards with a sweep of its arm, bodies splattering across the dirt. Korome barely clung on, chains cutting into his ribs. He saw the fortress gate ahead—freedom.
Minur’s voice rose in a chant, words twisting the air itself:"H’rak ka’dosh, mur’gol, zandor’s kor’lok!"
A crimson orb swelled in his hands, growing brighter and heavier with each syllable. Its heat scalded the arena. The orcs cowered, covering their faces, but Minur only grinned, fangs glinting.
Korome’s gut dropped. He knew what that spell was.
The same one he used against the Bull.
The flash of memory was so sharp he almost let go. The Bull stumbling in the duel, coughing black bile, while Minur’s crimson fire slammed into him. The way the crowd roared, blind to the poison that had already weakened their chief. The way Korome had stood there, silent, second in command at last.
The price of silence had brought him here.
The crimson orb launched. It screamed through the air like a meteor, headed straight for the gates.
"NO!" Korome yanked both spears out at once, plunging them deeper into ruined sockets, twisting. The beast shrieked, stopping dead in its tracks, jerking to a halt just before the impact.
The spell hit the gate. The explosion shattered iron and stone, fire rolling across the arena. The gates lay in ruin, blasted wide open.
Korome’s lips split in a grin. "Thanks for the exit, bastard."
He jabbed the spears forward. The monster, enraged and blind, thundered ahead, smashing through rubble. Guards scrambled to stop it but were trampled into pulp. Korome clung tighter, his chains digging so deep they drew his own blood, but he didn’t care.
Freedom lay ahead.
Minur’s scream tore across the arena, shaking the walls. "NO! KILL THAT TRAITOR! DON’T LET HIM ESCAPE!"
Korome looked back only once. He saw Minur standing on his throne, crimson fire swirling in his palms, eyes glowing with fury. He saw the guards scrambling, too late, too slow. He saw the crowd, silent now, not cheering, not chanting—just staring.
For the first time since the poisoning, Korome felt something other than survival clawing at his gut.
Not redemption. Not yet.
But defiance.
He spat toward the throne and clung to the beast as it barreled through the broken gates, carrying him into the wilds beyond.