CHAPTER 586: RUINOV (II)

"I saw him," Nidrot said at last, his voice low, hollow, carrying a weight that drew the air from the chamber.

Old Beard’s chewing slowed, and even the ogress on his lap tilted her horned head, listening intently.

"For the first time in my life..." Nidrot’s eyes unfocused, as if reliving it, "I felt fear. Not the fear of death, or the fear of losing, but something older. A primal terror that sank into my marrow, that froze me where I stood and screamed at me to run."

His words grew sharper, his lips pulling into a twisted grin that stretched unnaturally across his face. "But that was not the end."

"Because after the fear came something else." He leaned forward, his fangs catching the faint glow of the crystal lamps.

"A weight. A command I could not hear yet felt in my bones. My knees ached to bend, my head begged to bow, and strangest of all," His smile widened, showing both awe and something darker. "I felt no shame in it, as if kneeling was not submission at all, but the only natural response."

"Grrrahh!" The old Beard snarled, tusks flashing as his face twisted with open disgust. "What nonsense are you spitting, boy?"

His scarred jaw clenched in an ugly grimace. "No wonder your father asked me to keep you in isolation. If any soul heard you babble such spineless rot, you would be a laughingstock of the clan."

Nidrot scoffed, leaning back as if the elder’s words were dust in the wind. "I feel no shame," he said flatly. "Because I know the truth. I am no match for him... not yet."

Then, his lips curled into a smile too broad, too sharp, more predator than man. "He is blessed by ruin itself, and I will be the one to tear open his chest and devour his heart."

The room suddenly felt deadly cold as the very air twisted like howling wraiths.

Orcs were creatures of a violent nature, and for them, comfort, status, and pleasure were secondary, coming after their primal urges, which were to live and die as warriors.

Orcs respected and desired strength above all, and their only reaction to finding a strong creature was either to fight it to show dominance or, if they knew victory was out of reach, to follow it.

However, even then, in most cases, an Orc would only submit to the rule of another stronger Orc.

"Haahh!" The old Beard scoffed, "Don’t tell me you wish to fight him?" His voice cracked into a snarl.

Nidrot only shrugged, casual, as though speaking of the weather. "So what if I do? It’s not like you can change my destiny, because an oath sworn cannot be unraveled."

"You did what?" Old Beard suddenly sat up, his frown breaking into a flash of fear.

The ogeress slid from his lap with a startled yelp as he surged to his feet, towering like a storm.

"Zhar’goth!" the elder cursed in their tongue, orcish for mad spawn of the abyss. His tusks gnashed as he bellowed. "You fool of a whelp!"

"How long?" he roared, his chest heaving. "How long did you give yourself for this mad goal?"

"Two years."

The old Beard froze, then slumped back into his seat as if the marrow had been drained from his bones. His scarred face sagged, disbelief mixing with something dangerously close to grief.

"Madness," he rasped. "You have wagered your very life away..." His voice trailed off.

"Calm yourself, old one," Nidrot interrupted, that grin still carved across his face. "I swore a conditional oath. If I defeat him within two years, the bond is fulfilled."

"If I fail," he tilted his head, eyes gleaming, "Then he may grant me death, or chain me as his servant. His choice."

The chamber fell heavy, the air thick as pitch.

"Boy..." The elder’s voice dropped to a growl, low and raw. "What have you done?"

In Orcish law, oaths were the bones that held order together. Warriors swore them for feuds, blood debts, and vengeance.

But a Death Oath, that was something far more serious, and there was no coming back from it.

The Orcs took such one-sided oaths not merely from hatred or the need to prove themselves, but because the act itself was fuel for their nature.

To pursue a greater foe was to sharpen their own edge. An Orc who swore to bring down a mighty enemy and was binding his life to the trial was the extremest and greatest trial.

The greater the threat, the greater their growth. The more impossible the rival, the stronger the Orc became in chasing them.

But without talent, throwing themselves into the jaws of death could only take even an Orc so far. No matter how extreme the oath was, an Orc wouldn’t magically grow more talented than he could have been.

One could say, through a death trial, an Orc reached the peak of his natural talent, and for most, that gain was not much greater than their existing ability for growth.

That was why so few dared to make such vows, because chasing a greater enemy would most likely mean death, either by the hands of the enemy or by the law that governs their reality.

Old Beard exhaled a long breath as he stood up, and with a ripple of space, a silver axe appeared in his grasp, and without delay, he swung it, slicing up in a silver flash with a touch of crimson.

"Tchh." Nidrot clicked his tongue as the ogress’s headless body slumped to the floor with a heavy thud, blood steaming on the stone. His expression barely flickered. "There was no need for that."

"Sure was," the old Beard growled, the bloodied axe vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. His scarred face hardened. "Loose tongues spread like rot. Best she dies here than carry word of your madness to the others."

"Make sure this oath business stays sealed in your chest, boy." He said, vehemently. His tusks twisted into a grimace. "Let us hope this so-called ’Demon of Ruin’ is nothing but tavern smoke, stories puffed up to line purses and stir the rabble."

Nidrot leaned forward, resting his clawed hand against the table as the crystal light flickered across his fangs.

"Carvell, Bearer of Black Flames... He is a great champion of the Beastkin, yes." His eyes narrowed, a wicked grin carving his face. "But he will not survive today’s bout."

Old Beard growled, showing his anger, but stayed silent. Minutes turned to hours, and by this point, the stands below were full to the last seat, while the arena itself bore the scars of countless battles.

The sky above the coliseum had turned a discolored shade of black and white, rumbling clouds rolling over one another like an army preparing for war.

Thunder roared in the heavens, and flashes of lightning split the sky, as if the world itself sought to acknowledge what was about to unfold.

Down below, the two Orcs waiting in the stone chamber drew a long, heavy breath, their chests rising and falling in rhythm with the thunder outside.

Tension hung in the air thick enough to choke on. The crowd, restless and ravenous, surged like a storm tide, but when a frail, thin Orc in a sleek emerald cloak stepped into the open sky above the arena, silence rippled through the stands.

With arms stretched wide, the scrawny figure tilted his head back and bellowed, his voice impossibly loud, amplified by something unnatural.

"Sons and Daughters of War"

The words rolled like thunder across the coliseum, and almost on cue, lightning ripped through the clouds overhead. The audience erupted, stomping and roaring, with weapons clashing against shields in a deafening rhythm.

The announcer’s grin stretched wide as his voice rose above the chaos.

"Tonight, you witness history. A battle that shall be spoken of even a decade from today. A battle where legends will be carved in blood."

He raised one spindly arm toward the gates at the far end of the arena.

"The challenger. A hunter of beasts from the Hollow Mountains. The bearer of black flame, the predator who has never failed.

"CARVELL"

The crowd howled, chanting the name, stamping the earth until dust rose like smoke.

Then the announcer’s arm swung to the opposite gate, his tone dropping, as if summoning something darker.

"And his opponent... An otherworlder, who dares to crown himself the King of Beasts. But the world calls him another name..."

"The Demon of Ruin. The butcher of the Blood Moon clan’s mightiest general,"

"RUINOV."

The iron gates rattled as they rose. The storm roared in the sky, while the hundreds of spectators watched with burning anticipation, their eyes shifting from one entrance to the other, waiting for the combatants to make their entrance.

In the growing silence, the first raindrop fell, hissing against the near-invisible barrier that had at some point come alive around the battle arena.