The living border between the domains of humans and demons was an open wound upon the world.
The sky bled in shades of deep crimson, pulsing as if the firmament itself breathed in agony. Below, a jagged mountain range, carved by ages of war and forgotten magic, rose in a chaos of black stone and razor-sharp peaks. But what truly deformed the landscape was not the terrain—it was the purple glow, like frozen lightning, ripping through the ground from below.
Dungeon rifts.
Dozens. Hundreds. Some already subdued by heroes who never returned. Others still waiting for fresh blood.
But all of them... calamitous.
Even after the destruction of the corrupting artifacts and the fall of their bosses, they remained open. Each one a hungry mouth, always gaping. Some whispered curses. Others roared with monsters trying to escape.
In front of the dungeons, crimson stakes were embedded in the scorched earth. From them emanated a red light that projected a film over the rifts.
That film was a protective barrier, functioning as a seal. As long as the stakes held, no one could enter, and no monster could exit.
All these macabre portals created an atmosphere of constant terror—a cradle of degenerate magic and circumstances that could turn fatally lethal in mere seconds.
It was known as the Extinction Zone.
Footsteps echoed amid the murmur of soldiers standing before a dungeon.
The general approached slowly, each step landing with steady rhythm on the burnt stones of the border. His two-meter frame looked even more imposing before the lined-up soldiers. His obsidian-black armor, etched with ancient markings, reflected the purple glow of the nearby rifts, and on his back rested a long silver spear, its blade wrapped in runes so thin they seemed to shift under the warped light.
His white hair, natural as ancient snow, hung loose to his shoulders, contrasting with vivid red eyes that burned like embers. But it was the golden ring on his right hand that drew the most attention—a symbol of honor and power from a renowned imperial family. Under the demon sky, no one dared ignore the authority of this general.
As he neared, the guards stepped aside.
And then he saw it.
The rift.
But... it was not like the others.
The circular structure floated between two deformed columns of stone and flesh, pulsing with an irregular frequency. The light of the portal, which should have glowed in shades of purple—the usual pattern for calamitous dungeons—was now grayish, almost dull, as if the world on the other side had been drained of its essence.
Even the surrounding sounds seemed to hesitate, as if something was absorbing the vibration from the air.
The general furrowed his brow, and his voice broke the silence—firm as steel being driven into the earth:
"This is no ordinary dungeon. Why wasn't I alerted immediately?"
One of the soldiers, swallowing hard, stepped forward and offered a quick bow:
"Forgive us, sir. There was no warning. The detectors didn't react to the rift's activation, not even the internal alarms went off."
Another added without lifting his gaze:
"We conducted a surface-level reconnaissance. No traces of monsters were found. No remnants of corrupted abominations either. The dungeon's interior is... clean."
The general's brow deepened into a frown.
"The boss, if there is one, cannot be located. Everything that was inside... is gone."
"Gone?" the general repeated, his tone now icy.
A third sentinel added:
"As if everything either slipped out unnoticed or was teleported away, sir. Or... as if the dungeon itself abandoned its contents."
The general narrowed his eyes.
The air around the portal felt cold and lifeless, as though time and space within it were severed from reality. No scent. No sound. No presence. It was like staring into a well that reflected no light.
He turned slightly to his subordinates.
The general stood still for a few seconds in front of the rift, his red eyes analyzing every distortion in the air, every flaw in the texture of space around the portal. And then, as if he had made a decision, he slowly raised his right hand.
The air trembled.
In an instant, his prana burst forth in a fierce flash—but it wasn't red, as one would expect. It wasn't the color of blood or demonic fury.
It was white. A white so pure and blinding it seemed to consume all light around it.
A small incandescent sphere formed in his palm, like a fossilized star in silent combustion, spinning with erratic motion, devouring color and heat as it slowly expanded, pulling reality into itself. Sound was swallowed. The world lost its weight.
Color faded.
For a brief and terrifying moment, everything turned gray.
The purple mountains, the crimson sky, even the surrounding rifts… erased like ink washed by rain.
Only living bodies still pulsed.
The soldiers looked around, stunned.
They could see each other differently as if their bodies were made of glass.
Veins full of dark blood ran like rivers beneath their skin, and streams of prana shimmered inside them, revealing their inner flow like an arcane x-ray.
With piercing eyes, the general scanned the area carefully.
He searched for signs, tracks, particles... any clue about who or what had left that rift empty.
But the ground said nothing.
No tracks.
No footprints.
No magical residue. Nothing but emptiness.
The white sphere burned for a few more seconds and then dissolved, like dust in the wind. Color slowly returned to the world, repainting the outlines of the landscape with their usual tones—still dark, still grim, but familiar.
"Seal this rift. Now," his voice was deep, carrying the kind of authority that asked for no permission.
"You two, remain on watch. If it pulses again, call for reinforcements—but do not abandon your post. Watch it. And if you die, die telling me what you saw."
"YES, GENERAL NOCTIS!" they responded with full respect.
**
Deep within an ancient forest—not just any forest, but a vertical, living world where trees resembled cathedral columns, rising like millennial pillars that tore through the sky.
Trunks so wide that five men holding hands couldn't wrap around them. Their rough bark bore moss that glowed with a soft light, and vines hung like motionless serpents, coiling around branches thick as stone beams.
There, on an isolated mountain within the beastkin territory, with slopes overrun by thick roots and blackened stones, a singular structure dominated the summit:
A colossal boar's head, petrified and transformed.
Its mouth wide open like a gate, its curved tusks forming twin arches.
Its eyes, two vast circular openings that once held fury, now shimmered with incense and stillness.
A head as large as a three-story building—a hint of how enormous the creature had been in life.
Now glowing like a trophy from a being once feared across the region, it served merely as the home of the warrior who eternalized her glory.
Through sacred rituals, she transformed the creature's skull into a dwelling.
Inside—no viscera, no fetid remains of battle.
Everything had been converted. Transmuted. Purified. Flesh became stone. Bones turned into polished pillars. Wild marble, some called it.
The floor gleamed with a glassy, mossy sheen, and the soft glow of torches and incense filled the air with a warm, red, sweet scent—like burning wood and carnivorous flowers.
Within the left eye socket, there was a vast room, dominated by a rectangular bed of black wood reinforced with fossilized tusks.
Rough yet beautiful fabrics covered the mattress, hides sewn with precise stitching, soft as cotton.
The aura of the place was one of restrained strength and absolute reverence.
Every wall was a scar turned to art. Every inch a reminder that someone lived there who had conquered the impossible and made brutality into a worthy home.
In the silence within, the red incense kept burning like a living heart, pulsing slowly.
Smoke curled in lazy spirals in the dim room, wrapped in the warmth of incense and the steam of a recent bath. Kargath, the titanic orc warlord, lay sprawled on the enormous bed made from the fossilized tusks of the Colossal Boar. His body stretched with feline laziness, though it was anything but relaxed—every muscle looked carved by the weight of wars won.
His dark green skin shimmered with the dried sweat of a different battle.
Scars across his broad chest formed maps of carnage, and his half-lidded crimson eyes stared at the ceiling as if planning to conquer the sky itself.
A thick, golden cigar rested between his fingers, its ember glowing like a dead star. The scent was not vulgar—it was ancestral smoke, burning slowly with the aroma of rare spices and forbidden oils. Clearly harvested from a battlefield too noble to be remembered in books.
Then the bathroom door opened with a soft click.
Voruna, the living legend among the beastkin, emerged through the mist like a primeval goddess. Steam slid down her nude body like living veils, fleeing from the hot, golden skin they dared to touch.
Her full breasts swayed with natural pride. There was no hesitation or shame—her body was a weapon, and she wielded it without apology.
Droplets ran down her defined curves, tracing the scars that marked her abdomen, thighs, shoulders, trickling over her sculpted backside and revealing her pink pussy like living medals the whole world would die to conquer.
Her fox tail, still damp, swayed gently through the air as she walked. The contrast between the wet gleam of her skin and the silvery strands framing her golden eyes was... hypnotic.
Her wide hips moved with a dangerous slowness—the kind of step that comes before a pounce or a lethal kiss. There was no sweetness in Voruna.
Her sensuality was a promise of pain and ecstasy all at once.
She approached the bed with a slanted smile, and even there—naked—she still looked like the one in control.
"I'm surprised to see you back so soon, Kargath," she said, her voice low and husky, as if she had just growled at an enemy and moaned against a lover. "Usually, you make me wait years for a visit. What brought the warlord to my lands this early?"
Kargath drew from the cigar slowly, letting the smoke drift from his nostrils like a demon bull about to charge. He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers—red as burning rubies.
"Whenever I meet with Selene, my blood gets corrupted. Rage and lust..." Kargath paused, as if recalling the sensations still coursing through his veins. "To a level where I lose control. You, more than anyone, understand what I'm talking about... this feeling, and how... frustrating those meetings can be."
"And you know very well..." he added with a crooked grin, "You're the only one who can take the impact."
She laughed—a low, hot, almost feral sound.
"Of course I understand. Selene is a storm of beauty and threat... it's hard to walk away unscathed." Voruna replied, her gaze distant, as if recalling memories buried deep in her subconscious.
"But don't flatter me, Kargath. You know my hospitality... runs on the same instinct that brings you here." A wicked, deadly smile curled on her lips.
"I use your body the same way you use mine."
She stepped to the edge of the bed, standing before him, her golden eyes half-lidded.
"And right now, we're even."
Kargath let out a guttural laugh and pulled her by the waist, as if daring lightning with his bare hands.
"Even? That depends on whether you plan to sleep... or use me again before sunrise."
Voruna climbed onto the bed like a lazy panther, but the way her golden eyes watched the orc giant was anything but relaxed. She came closer, her hips swaying in the rhythm of restrained desire.
She straddled Kargath's lap, feeling the growing heat of his arousal pulsing between her thighs. When her skin brushed against him, he hardened like a war spear ready to pierce mountains.
Her claws traced gently across his steel-forged abs—so firm not even her clan's ceremonial blades dared try to pierce them. Still, her scratches left glowing marks.
"Thank you," she whispered, unashamed of her nudity, unapologetic for taking pleasure while the world outside burned.
Kargath frowned, confused, and answered with a voice as rough as thunder about to explode:
"Why are you thanking me?"
Voruna smiled and leaned in, her mouth just inches from his—but her eyes said more than words could.
"For stopping that group of young beastkin from entering the dungeon. My daughter was among them." She paused, letting the weight of the words hang heavy in the incense-thickened air.
"But instead, they ran into a green monster carrying a sword bigger than a horse. And who completely ignored the etiquette between races. You didn't care about political fallout—you just did what you wanted."
Kargath let out a deep laugh, his body trembling from the memory.
"Hahaha... their faces were priceless. Three fainted the moment they felt my aura. One pissed himself. Literally. Only that brat... what's her name, Vex? She was the only one who stood her ground."
"She's my daughter." Voruna smiled, proud. "And the ironic part: that dungeon was corrupted. A trap set by that organization infiltrating the shadows. If you hadn't barged in by instinct... they would've killed my heir. Without me even noticing."
"I'm a simple man, Voruna," Kargath said, a savage gleam in his eyes.
"If my instinct tells me to kill, I leave a trail of blood."
"If my instinct tells me to protect..." he gripped her hips with force, "I become a damned wall no one can break."
"And right now..." his voice dropped like muffled thunder,
"My instinct is telling me to fuck you. Hard."
Voruna laughed, her body vibrating against his.
"Still... I thank you, Kargath." Her eyes shimmered, and then her tone shifted—more serious, even as her hand traced the lines of his chest.
"But first... I need to know. Are you alright?"
The mood in the room shifted.
The warmth of the incense seemed to vanish for a moment. The glow of the smoke paused mid-air. Kargath remained silent. A silence heavy with raw rage and ancestral grief.
Five battalions lost.
A beloved disciple... dead.
He inhaled deeply from the cigar, exhaling the smoke with calm intensity.
"There's no use crying over what cannot be changed," he said firmly.
"The honor of an orc is to die in battle. At least they had a death worthy of our race."
Voruna merely nodded, honoring the restrained grief and the strength behind it.
Kargath gripped her waist tighter, and added in a low voice, deep as a muffled earthquake:
"But we orcs... we hold grudges. And I... am vengeance made flesh."
Then he pulled her down with savage force, and when their bodies collided in a clash of titans, the world trembled.
The mythic ivory of the bed creaked.
The ceiling shook.
The earth wept.
And within a ten-kilometer radius, the tectonic plates groaned under the pressure of pleasure and violence shared by two monsters in carnal ecstasy.
No one dared approach that mountain.
Not that night.