Khorvash, orc overlord, sat in a meditative position at the base of the Palace of Belkhor, their Eternal One. His legs were folded beneath him, massive arms resting on his knees as thick, luminous tendrils of mana moved through the air, connecting him to the sacred crystal embedded in the earth before him. The crystal pulsed with divine energy, and where Khorvash’s hand touched it, the mana flowed like a torrent—rushing through his body, filling his limbs, bones, and soul with strength that had once been beyond comprehension.

A decade ago, he had been nothing but a scavenger. A hunter stalking a desert scorpion, driven by hunger. That chase had changed everything. It had brought him, bloodied and starving, to the sanctuary carved into the cliffs—a place hidden to all but the chosen. There, in the middle of murals and sun-bleached bones, he had found it.

Belkhor’s blessing.

It came as an overwhelming power. Crystals that were embedded into the chamber floor had lit with Belkhor’s will, and when he touched them, mana surged through his body like a storm. The first time, it had nearly killed him. His young body—still lean, still soft with inexperience—had spasmed violently, veins glowing like molten lines beneath his skin. He had thought it was death.

But it was only awakening.

Now, as the crystal fed him, his skin glowed faintly under the light. And his body strengthened. He could see the bulging muscles under his tattoos etched in deep black and blood red ink. Every tattoo had a story—just like everyone else in the tribe, a duel, a conquest, a name taken and discarded. Dozens of them were across his chest and arms, some even burned in with sacred ash from Belkhor’s altar.

His tusks were thick and slightly curved, and had golden rings. Four piercings lined his nose, and a thick bar of bone—carved from the spine of a Sand Knight—pierced through one ear. Across his back, rows of iron studs gleamed dully in the light hammered in by his own hand after every warrior he crushed underfoot.

He was no longer the boy who hunted for scorpions.

He was Khorvash, Chosen of Belkhor—Overlord of the Duneborns.

His path to power had been a bloody one.

There were artifacts, relics with divine carvings among the gifts in Belkhor’s temple. One by one, he’d learned to wield them. A gauntlet that turned wind to blade. A pauldron that hardened his skin like stone. A horn that summoned the rage of the dunes. With these in hand, and strength boiling through his veins, he challenged every orc chief that dared to block his ascent.

And they had fallen—one after another. Some in fair duels, others in ambushes at night. One by one, their heads had rolled. The sands remembered.

Until finally, ten years ago, he faced the last of them. It had been a weakling overlord. One who had failed to conquer the human tribes nesting in the sacred desert, letting them wander freely like sand fleas. Khorvash had ended him under the moon, cutting him down and dragging his corpse to the altar of Belkhor.

From that day forward, the desert had changed.

The Sand Knights of the tribes—once the pride of the human enclaves—had crumbled under Khorvash’s march. Their strongest warriors had fallen, their beasts slain, their hopes burned under black banners.

Only a few Knights remained now, relics of a dying era, offering desperate protection against beasts and orcs alike.

But it was just that—desperation. False hope.

Because Khorvash did not conquer for sport. He conquered for legacy. He knew that this desert belonged to the orcs once more. The sacred lands were under the dominion of his tribe, and no outsider would take it again. He wouldn’t let it. Not humans, not beast-tamers, not soft-tongued Mages. No, no one would take it again.

The age of the orc had returned. And Khorvash would see it carved into the dunes themselves. But rulership did not mean only glory and conquest. Khorvash knew that well.

To wear the title of Overlord was to stand at the peak—and be the target of every eye that burned with envy. Even among his own, there was always that greed behind respect. He took them as challenges. Because if there was one thing, that’d be that Orcs respected strength, but they also desired power. And so, to stay above them all, Khorvash had to keep growing stronger—stronger than the orcs, stronger than the desert beasts, stronger than any human Mage or warrior.

Stronger than the world itself.

But there was a problem. A problem that no blade could cut.

The crystal—Belkhor’s Heart, as they called it—was dying.

It began three years ago. An extremely subtle shift. The mana that surged into his body had felt thinner, more sluggish. At first, he had denied it, blaming his body, the weather, or the alignment of the moon. But by the second year, he couldn’t ignore it. The mana was weaker. He felt it yet he continued to grow stronger.

And now? Now he knew. The crystal was running out.

He had barred every other orc from ever touching it, slaying those who disobeyed without hesitation. Not even his most loyal shamans were allowed near. The sacred source belonged to him alone—his right, his burden. That act had prolonged its life, yes, but not prevented the inevitable.

Khorvash was already beyond mortal strength. His body pulsed with mana. But he had grown dependent on the crystal’s flow. Like a beast fed on blood for years, he didn’t know what would happen if it stopped.

Would he weaken?

Worse—would he go mad?

The thought twisted in his chest. His jaw clenched, tusks grinding together as the last threads of mana slipped into his core for the day. It was a meager meal compared to what it had once been. He pulled his hand away from the crystal with a sharp inhale, his thick fingers twitching as mana surged through his limbs. His skin shimmered faintly beneath his tattoos, muscles taut and alive with restrained power.

With a loud snort, he pushed himself to his feet.

The air around him shimmered with the leftover energy, and he turned, walking toward the alcove to his left, where his armor and artifacts rested in sacred silence.

They were the strongest relics left behind by Belkhor—the god’s final gifts.

The red gauntlets were first. Forged in flame and marked with runes that glowed faintly when he slipped them on. Spiked ridges covered the knuckles and forearms, they hummed with dormant heat. As soon as his hands slid into them, he could feel the power of fire itself curling at his fingertips, ready to be unleashed.

Next came his armor.

Piece by piece, he strapped it on. The shoulder guards of obsidian-black steel, etched with crimson veins. The plated chestpiece, layered with hardened leather from a sand wyrm’s hide beneath enchanted alloy. Each plate weighed more than most men, but on his body, they moved like cloth.

Finally, he reached for the necklace.

A thick black cord, bound with teeth from his fallen rivals, and at its center, a single shard of the god-crystal. It was duller than it had once been, its glow faint—but it was still alive. Still warm.

As he fastened it around his neck, the shard pulsed once.

Just once. Khorvash’s breath slowed. His time was not yet up, but he could tell that it was running out.

When he had first worn the necklace, the shard’s glow had burned a bright, furious red—like the heart of a volcano captured in crystal. Now, even that glow was fading. A sign that the power within it was dwindling… or slipping beyond his reach, and it wasn’t just the necklace.

He had begun to notice the change in other artifacts too. Some of the sacred relics he’d granted to his elite—once roaring with divine magic—had gone quiet. Their enchantments failed to spark, their mana had gone dormant. It had turned to be useless. He had been forced to reassign other relics in their place.

But his own artifacts?

He didn’t dare to imagine them failing. There were no replacements. Because each piece he bore had been born from the Belkhor’s will and was bound to him through pain and blood. If they withered, so too would his throne.

The thought clenched his gut like iron. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from behind.

He turned sharply, muscles tensing.

An orc approached, a broad shouldered, tall one. He dropped to one knee without a word, head bowed deeply in respect.

“It is I, Grakthul, my Overlord,” the orc said in a low voice. Like he hadn’t meant to disturb. “I bring news… of our efforts exploring more of the great god Belkhor’s palace.”

Khorvash narrowed his eyes. “Speak,” he growled. “But know this—if it is not good news, your head will fall where you kneel.”

Grakthul visibly flinched, swallowing hard. “My lord—it is good news. After weeks of clearing debris and pushing through collapsed chambers, our team managed to bring down part of the inner sanctum wall. Behind it… we discovered a door. And it was not wooden, not stone—metal. We haven’t seen anything like that before. We believe it leads to the upper floors of the god’s creation.”

“But?”

Grakthul fell even lower, palms pressed to the stone. “But… we cannot open it. We tried everything—axes, hammers, picks. The weapons shattered. Even the relics you gifted us, my lord… they did nothing. Not even a scratch.”

Khorvash's jaw flexed, and his blood boiled. Grakthul immediately noticed it and rushed on.

“The door has strange patterns etched into its surface—runes. Symbols. We’ve seen similar ones in the ruins before, but we… we don’t know what they mean.”

Khorvash's frown deepened into a scowl. The air around him tensed—and then, with a thunderous crack, he smashed his gauntleted fist against the ground. The floor trembled under the force, and the shockwave echoed through the chamber like a war drum. Grakthul flinched violently, arms shielding his face as dust and fragments scattered all around him.

The red gauntlet hissed with heat where it struck, smoke curling between the engraved runes.

He had seen those strange patterns before, and it maddened him. Because their meaning had always eluded him. Why? Why would the great one leave behind a fortress of divine power and then seal it so thoroughly? And when he searched there had been no hint to open it!

Was this a test of strength?

If so, then it was clear what he had to do. If knowledge and tools failed, then he would break the door himself—with his own hands, even if it meant grinding bone into dust.

He raised his head, eyes narrowing at Grakthul.

“Bring me to this door.”

Grakthul did not hesitate and bowed again, his head hitting the floor. “As you command, Overlord Khorvash.”

The next second, the orc stood up and moved, leaving the sanctum behind.

The corridors of Belkhor’s palace stretched before them. There was a dull blue glow that seemed to hum from veins of crystal embedded in the walls. The ceilings arched unnaturally high, not only built for orcs—or perhaps built for gods.

As they walked, Grakthul’s thoughts churned. How had such a place come to be?

He had lived for over five decades, fought across endless dunes and bloodied battlefields, but never had he seen anything like the Palace of Belkhor until the day he stumbled across it while chasing a sand beast into the cliffs. Hah! It was as if the tower had appeared out of nowhere.

Had it been hidden?

Had Belkhor summoned it into being with a mere thought?

A god of that power—he could do such things. Without doubt. And perhaps, if Khorvash reached the top—if he unlocked every floor and survived every challenge—then maybe… maybe he would be welcomed among the god’s true chosen. Maybe he would be gifted a sliver of Belkhor’s divine essence.

That hope was fire in his belly.

They turned sharply through branching corridors. Broken statues lined the hallways, some resembling beasts, others shaped like forgotten warriors. In one corridor, the ceiling was shattered open to the sky above, but sand had not spilled in—as if the desert itself refused to enter this place.

Then, finally, they reached it. The door.

It stood at the end of a massive, sloped hall—tall enough for three orcs to stand on each other’s shoulders, wide enough to fit a siege chariot through without scraping the sides. It was carved from the same strange, black metal that made up the outer gates of the tower. And there were no scratches, no marks. Not even a fucking dent.

Khorvash’s jaw clenched as he approached. He raised a hand and pressed it against the door.

It was the same as the entrance. And that alone made him curse under his breath.

He had tried to break pieces off the outer gates before—to forge armor, to understand the composition. But nothing had worked. No forge could melt it. No hammer could dent it. Even his own strength, when channeled to its peak, had failed to crack it.

And now this door… His fingers curled into a fist.

How was he going to break through this one?

Behind him, Grakthul dared not speak.

And he stood in silence, thinking of ways to break through the gate. He felt the air shifting faintly with the leftover heat of his aura from all the mana channeling. He became aware of movement to the sides—where several orcs stood.

“My lord… we have tried everything. It does not yield. Only your strength—your strength—can break this.”

Another followed, pounding a fist to his chest. “This is the gate of the god! Only his chosen may pass!”

A third added, “None but you, Khorvash. You were chosen in the sacred chamber. You carry the god’s flame!”

A chorus of voices rose, their confidence roaring into cheers that reverberated through the ancient stone. Their eyes burned with faith—undeniable and absolute. Faith in him.

Khorvash exhaled hard through his nose, nostrils flaring as he turned his gaze back to the door.

“This metal,” he growled, raising his arm to gesture at the immense surface, “was forged for Belkhor himself. This… is the god’s armor. Nothing can break it.”

A hush fell over the gathered warriors.

“But if anything can…” he continued, stepping forward, fists clenching, “it will be his chosen.”

The orcs erupted into thunderous cheers, their roars shaking the corridor. It was evident that they all believed in his powers.

Fueled by their cries, Khorvash walked to the gate, looming before it like a beast sizing up its prey.

Strange symbols spiraled across its face—etched deep and without meaning to mortal minds. Runes that glowed faintly, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. He ran a hand across them. It felt cold. For a brief moment, he kept it there, feeling the metal.

Then he stepped back, planted his feet wide, and drew in a breath so deep it filled his chest like a bellows. His muscles bulged and veins flared. And with one swift movement, the orc overlord let his fist fly—

BANG!

The hit echoed like a gong struck with a mountain. But the door didn’t move. Not even a tremor. Not a single crack.

Khorvash’s brows twitched. That was more resistance than he expected.

He looked at his followers. “Get back.”

They obeyed immediately, clearing the floor behind him.

Turning back to the gate, Khorvash raised both arms—and then pushed. Power surged from deep within him, drawn into the gauntlets. The red metal flared to life, runes ignited. Flames burst from the surface, licking up his arms, curling around his shoulders. Some scorched his skin—angry, biting flames that chewed at flesh.

But Khorvash didn’t stop.

He was used to this now. The pain would be gone by tomorrow. His body healed faster than most beasts could bite. The flames were his, and he welcomed them like brothers.

So he charged. He struck the gate again. And again. And again until his fists became a blur of motion.

He grunted, roared with every strike. After so many tries, the gate was no longer a door. He took it as a challenge. It was an enemy. A godless traitor that dared bar his path.

And heavy minutes passed. Dozens of hits landed.

The door scorched in patches, darkened where fire met metal—but that was it.

There was not a single dent.

Panting, Khorvash stumbled back. The air felt suddenly heavier—or maybe it was just the toll of his effort. His skin blistered in places, and the gauntlets glowed red-hot.

He looked at his hands. They trembled. With pure frustration.

Still nothing.

He stomped the floor hard enough to crack the stone beneath him.

His eyes burned with rage—not at the gate, but at himself.

Was he still not enough? Had all the strength he gained, all the blood he spilled, all the tribes he conquered—had it still not been enough to pass this test?

Hatred and hunger filled his bones.

He needed to be stronger.

He had to be.

But how…?

The crystal was fading. The divine mana that had fed him for a decade was draining away like blood from a wound.

And this door, this divine lock—mocked him.

The heat of failure burned in his chest, twisting through his gut like a blade and it soon turned to rage. He wanted to tear something apart, rip stone from wall, shatter bone under fist. The desire to crush something surged with every heartbeat. But then…

His eyes drifted back to the symbols.

Wait…

The small runes couldn’t have been done by orcs. Orc hand would never ever bother with such details. These… these were far too refined. So who had?

Khorvash narrowed his eyes, leaning in. The grooves were so fine they looked as if painted with a needle. Some curled in strange loops, others connected like webs of thought. The deeper he stared, the more convinced he became. These were made by… Humans.

Only they were weak enough, clever enough—and had small enough hands—to draw these ridiculous little signs. He snarled at the thought, lip curling, tusks gleaming in the dim glow of the runes.

Had Belkhor used them?

The idea sent a strange sensation through him. The god… accepting help from humans? It was blasphemous. But also… possible. If they had been slaves, then perhaps—perhaps—they had knowledge. Perhaps some still remembered.

And if they did—

He stepped back from the door, his expression changing—fury sharpening into something like purpose.

If those pitiful creatures knew what these markings meant, then he would make them speak.

Turning back to his followers, Khorvash found them still watching him—wide-eyed, expectant, uncertain of whether their overlord would lash out or strike again.

“Bring me humans,” he commanded.

A hush fell across the corridor.

The orc who had led him here, Grakthul, blinked. “What do you mean, Overlord Khorvash?”

Khorvash’s growl was low and rumbling, like boulders grinding in his throat. “From the worthless tribes. The smart ones. The ones who can read and write. I don’t care how old they are. Get them—all of them. I want them here. Now. You understand?!”

There was a long pause. A few exchanged glances—grim, wary, confused. But then, one by one, they knelt.

“We understand,” they said in unison.

The group dispersed quickly.

He knew what his command meant. It would be a slaughter. His orcs weren’t known for mercy—especially not when raiding the human enclaves.

But Khorvash didn’t care.

Sympathy was not for kings. And certainly not for gods-in-the-making.

Let the humans bleed. Let their homes turn to ash. So long as one of them could read these cursed runes, so long as one could unlock the truth behind Belkhor’s gate, it would be worth it.

All that mattered… was the upper floors.

He clenched his fist slowly, the red gauntlet flaring with heat.

He would reach them. Even if it meant the humans had to scream every step of the way.

***

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