The moon hung high and heavy in the sky, veiled by a curtain of thin cloud. The air was cool, heavy with anticipation. At the south gate of Oria's second wall, twenty Awakened stood in the dark — tense, focused, and silent.
Among them, five stood apart.
Veterans. Elite.
Their power was felt more than seen — a quiet gravity that made even the higher-ranked soldiers straighten their backs and speak in hushed tones. This was not a patrol. This was a mission born of desperation, to sever the wound that bled corruption into their world.
Koda arrived last among them, armor buckled tight, the midnight-blue cloak of his order pulled over his shoulders. The silver insignia of the Eternal Guide now rested against his chest.
He approached the group of four, eyes quickly studying them as they turned to acknowledge him.
The first was a mountain of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his greying beard braided into neat cords. A massive hammer rested across his back. His armor bore the burnished red of the Forge, worn smooth at the edges from long campaigns. His name was Torren, a level 24 awakened with a reputation as a siege-breaker. He'd once shattered the gates of a fortified city single-handedly — or so the stories claimed.
Beside him stood Eris, a woman wrapped in dark leathers, her figure lithe and lean, every movement calculated. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, framed by a long cascade of black hair tied tight at the nape of her neck. She carried no visible weapon — her Gift allowed her to manifest blades of shaped light and sound. A master of stealth and assassination, her level was unknown, but rumor said she was beyond twenty — and she moved like it.
To her right, Dara leaned casually on a long-handled glaive, her expression calm, almost bored. She wore the robes of the Shield but bore the bearing of a battle-mage, the subtle shimmer of defensive enchantments clinging to her. At level 22, she specialized in magical barriers and zone control, anchoring formations like an unbreakable wall.
The last was Rovik, a pale man with an eerie stillness, his voice rarely used. A blood mage of the Forge, his power came at a cost — drawing strength from his own life force and that of others. Pale runes were inked across his arms, pulsing faintly beneath his robes. His eyes locked onto Koda as he approached, unreadable.
Koda gave a respectful nod, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. "Koda. Of the Eternal Gu—"
"You don't need to introduce yourself," Torren rumbled, cracking a grin. "We know."
Eris smirked. "Everyone in Oria knows."
Dara gave him a quiet nod. "Bridge Butcher. You've earned your place."
Only Rovik remained silent. But his gaze, cold and calculating, seemed to approve.
Koda held back the instinct to downplay their words. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and gave a single nod. "Then let's finish this."
The others turned with him, and together, they looked out across the darkened fields — to the open scar in the land where the rift still churned, glowing faint and wrong beneath the stars. The end was out there. One way or another.
Gathering around a weathered stone table near the gate, a crude map of the scar's region laid out in charcoal and parchment. The night was still, save for the murmurs of soldiers and the distant echo of crickets in the fields. The commanders stood close, voices low but sharp.
"We can't go in as a single block," Dara said, tracing the outer edge of the rift's influence with a gloved finger. "We'll be flanked too easily. Spread too thin."
"A vanguard and a rear guard," one of the soldiers offered. "Standard formation."
Torren shook his head. "Too rigid. We don't even know what's inside the scar. If it shifts terrain or collapses the tunnel behind us, a rear guard is just dead weight."
Eris leaned over the map, her gaze darting across the sketched lines. "We need flexibility. Small units. Agile."
"We'll need tanks to anchor lines if it collapses into a brawl," Dara countered. "That's not just preference. It's necessity."
"And scouts," Rovik said quietly, his voice flat. "To keep us from walking into traps."
Disagreements sparked, suggestions tossed out and struck down just as quickly. They argued paths, backup plans, the role of the support casters—until finally, Torren chuckled and leaned back, arms crossed.
"We're thinking like generals. Not survivors."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Koda stepped forward, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. "Then let's split like survivors. By how we'll stay alive."
That turned heads. Curious. Measured.
"We go in small. Tactical. Four teams."
He pointed to himself, then to Torren.
"Team One: damage. Nothing but the hammer and the nail. We find the biggest threat, and we end it. Fast."
Torren grinned at that. "About time."
"Team Two," Eris said, nodding slowly, catching on. "Stealth. Two with me. We'll sweep ahead. Find the paths. Spot traps. Avoid fights if we can."
"Team Three," Dara said, glancing toward a group of well-armored soldiers, "goes with me. Six fighters. Balanced. We form a pivot — stabilize whatever needs anchoring."
That left Rovik and the seven who hadn't fit anywhere else — a strange mix of healers, ranged casters, and two utility specialists.
Rovik merely nodded. "Support. Float where needed. Plug the wounds."
It was unorthodox. Uneven. But it felt right.
With no further words, the map was rolled up, the plan silently understood. They departed the staging point and traveled under the cover of moonlight, a silent twenty-piece machine heading toward the black wound in the earth.
The scar came into view like a great open mouth, jagged and wide, pulsating with dull red light. Heat drifted from it. The smell — iron, rot, and ash — clung to their skin.
And standing at the edge of the rift, barring their passage into the maw, was one of the orc generals.
Nine feet tall and rippling with corded muscle, its skin was stained with blood both old and fresh. Bone spikes had been driven into its shoulders like a mockery of armor, its eyes glowing with unnatural hunger. It held a cleaver forged of twisted iron in one hand and a spiked flail in the other.
It turned to them, sniffing once like a beast, then roaring — a terrible, shaking cry that echoed across the plains.
But before it could take a step forward—
Koda moved.
Torren moved.
The two became a blur of speed and weight. Koda struck first, his blade bursting into radiant light mid-swing, slicing at the orc's exposed thigh and staggering it sideways.
Torren followed a breath later.
His warhammer came down like a meteor, smashing into the orc's shoulder with a wet crunch that shattered bone and spun the beast half-around. It roared, whirling back toward Koda with shocking speed—
Only for Koda to leap and slam his knee into its chin, sending it staggering back into the hammer's range.
Another strike. This time to the chest.
Ribs snapped like twigs. The cleaver fell from its hand.
It barely had time to scream before Koda drove his blade through the roof of its mouth, up through the skull, pinning it in place.
Its body spasmed once.
Then dropped.
The whole confrontation lasted barely fifteen seconds.
No one said a word.
Torren let out a low whistle, pulling his hammer from the corpse. "Well. That's one way to start a mission."
Koda didn't answer. He simply pulled his blade free and looked to the others.
"Let's move. While they're still confused."
And with that, they descended into the scar.