CHAPTER 585: RUINOV

The Primal Beastland, a region of the ancestral realm surrounded by the endless sea of mist, stood severed from the rest of creation.

Here, where nature ruled unchallenged, countless ages had birthed clans of savages, people for whom war, blood, and death were the rhythm of daily life.

In its eastern reaches sprawled the City of Bone, raised within the colossal remains of the great beast Azrask.

A city both brutal and enduring, ruled by the Gray Skull Clan, one of the great clans. Its chieftain, Zargash the Cunning, was no mere brute. He was a manipulator, warlord, sorcerer, chosen of the Red Moon, and master of mad magics whispered about and feared even by his own people.

The City of Bone stretched far and wide for miles beneath the vast bone carcass of the ancient beast, its layout marked by a simple yet deliberate symmetry.

Most of its dwellings were sturdy, single-story structures of stone and timber, spaced apart with an almost uncanny order. Their design was plain, practical, and built to last, giving the streets a sense of quiet discipline.

Yet, as one ventured deeper into the city, taller buildings began to rise, multi-storied halls with pointed roofs, wooden balconies, and arched windows fitted with panels of colorful glass.

The architecture carried the weight of a medieval age: strong, functional, and unembellished.

It was a place where Orks, Ogres, Trolls, Half-Giants, and even men dwelled side by side, bound by the harshness of the land and the rule of strength.

Tonight, the city was blazing like a festival. Torches and braziers burned on every street, painting the air in gold and red. Crowds filled the streets in their thousands, as merchants, green-skins, hulking ogres, armored trolls, and ordinary citizens all gathered for a single goal.

The wealthy and mighty made their way to the Bone Colosseum, while the common folk packed the viewing plazas, vast open yards with towering crystal obelisks that shimmered with projected light.

The Bone Colosseum was the heart of the city, an arena that dwarfed all others in the Beastlands. Shaped like a colossal crater, its walls were curved and ended in pointed towers, giving one the illusion that actual ribs of some forgotten giant were used to create them.

The peaks of the bone towers housed private chambers for the great and powerful. Within, ascending tiers of stone seats circled the arena, a cauldron of voices and anticipation.

For the people of the city of Bone, battles were life itself.

They had watched titans clash within these walls, great beasts brought down by spear and spell, enemy generals fighting for their last breath, horrors dragged from the depths of the Deep Chasm.

Yet tonight was different, because tonight was not about rare monsters, nor prisoners, nor beasts.

Tonight, they would witness something greater, as tonight, they would behold the Demon of Ruin, go against the Carvell, the Bearer of Black Flames.

An ancient hunter whose legend had spread far and wide, and a new terror who even the mightiest of the Beastland didn’t wish to offend.

Inside one of the high chambers, two Orks sat overlooking the arena. Hulking warriors, both being clearly of high standing and strength.

One was older, a brute of scarred flesh and a tangled gray beard. His left eye was clouded, a mark of some old wound, and atop his head rested the upper jaw of a silver wolf, its fangs framing his face, lending him the feral visage of a hunter.

A roasted beast the size of a man lay on the table before him, and he tore into it with savage hunger. A horned red-skinned ogress lounged across his lap, her toned arms draped over his shoulders as though claiming him for herself.

The other was younger, though no less imposing. Taller, leaner, his features more human-shaped, his tusks longer and sharper, a mark of purer blood.

His black leather armor, stitched from lizard-hide, gleamed faintly in the crystal light. His posture was calm, almost meditative, his eyes closed as he listened to the roar of the gathering crowd.

The elder growled, his voice like boulders grinding together. "Ugh... my head splits like a rock struck by a hammer." He tore another fistful of flesh from the carcass, chewing noisily.

The young orc snored, "Old Beard, perhaps because you drowned yourself in two barrels of Red Snake wine before dawn. Even your old skull cannot withstand that much."

"Bah! Better than dying thirsty." The old Ork let out a guttural laugh that echoed off the bone walls, then slapped the ogress on her hip before gripping her closer.

"How long until the show begins?" Old Beard asked, his heavy voice thick with anticipation.

"It’ll take a while," the younger one replied, annoyance edging his tone. "Those greedy bastards will squeeze every coin they can before rolling out the finale."

"Heh. Can’t say I blame ’em," Old Beard rumbled, a laugh bursting from his chest. "This is a once-in-a-decade spectacle." The thought alone seemed to send a thrill through him.

The ogress spoke next, her voice meek, hesitant. "Master Grirghar... if I may? Everyone knows Ruinov is a wild beast in battle, stronger than most men can dream."

"But aren’t the stories of his fame just exaggerations, spun to line the coliseum masters’ pockets?"

Grirghar’s booming laughter answered her before words did. "HAAH-hahhahaa,"

"Nidrot," he said at last, turning to the young ork beside him, "You have seen him with your own eyes, so tell us, are the stories true, or just coin-traps for fools?"

Nidrot leaned forward, his pale gray eyes finally opening. "I have indeed seen him," he began, pausing deliberately before his eyes flicked back to the ogress. "But before I tell you what I believe, you tell us what you know of Ruinov."

She swallowed nervously before speaking. "Ruinov, an otherworlder, first made his name completing missions for the Trophy Hunter’s Guild. But his true rise began when he formed a cohort called the Destroyers and started raiding the Blood Moon Clan."

Her voice dropped a little. "According to rumor, the Band of Red Axes, the Blood Moons’ most feared war-band, was sent to wipe them out."

"They tracked the Destroyers to their lair after one of Ruinov’s own betrayed him, and there, Rast the Painted Count himself clashed with him."

She hesitated, as if weighing the weight of the words. "They say Ruinov not only killed Rast, but went mad in the fight, turning on everyone, slaughtering the Red Axes and his own Destroyers alike."

A pause followed as she collected her thoughts. "But most believe the tale of Rast’s death is just an exaggeration, since no one knows, or at least there is no information about where the battle was fought,"

"Also, Rast the Painted Count was a Beast King, one of the three great generals of the Blood Moons. He was said to be second only to their warlord in raw strength, and if he claimed to be the second, no other orc dared claim the first."

Her hands fidgeted. "But somehow, Ruinov, who was only a strong Beast Tyrant, killed one of the strongest Beast Kings and the six other kings in the band of Red Axes,"

"The Blood Moon clan has denied these events," she went on, voice low. "But the absence of one of the most famous bands does give the story some credibility."

"And, since even Ruinov’s own cohort vanished, with their whereabouts unknown to this day, no one is left to tell what had truly happened that day."

Her voice softened, almost a whisper now. "Some low-ranked hunters stumbled on Ruinov’s body in a ruined valley, broken and half-dead. They sold him cheaply to a nameless slaver for his monstrous appearance."

"He was traded twice before ending up here, in the City of Bone, and days later, he finally gained consciousness, being nothing more than a rabid beast at that point, and in his rage, he slaughtered the entire camp, slaves and slavers alike."

Her tone softened, carrying a hint of admiration. "He was only stopped when Lady Resy herself intervened and forced him into sleep."

The ogress’s brow furrowed. "So his legend rests on a story no one can confirm... except for the fact that Rast and his close warhounds are confirmed to be gone."

She fell silent, her ruby eyes narrowing on the young ork, eager to hear what a warrior of his caliber thought of the rising anomaly, the so-called demon whose legend claimed he had clawed his way out of the abyss itself.