"Shit! What are these things? And why do they hit like berserkers?" Vince snarled, narrowly slipping beneath a brutal swing from the Orc’s rusted blade.
"Don’t get cocky, monster!" With a savage roar, he planted his feet and slammed his soul-forged warhammer into the Orc’s ribs. The weapon blazed with blue energy and, on impact, sent the hulking creature hurtling into a pool with a thunderous splash.
"They’re Orcs, damned Orcs," Mathaven growled through gritted teeth, parrying two simultaneously wild strikes as another pair of them surged toward him.
The battlefield surrounding them looked like something forged from a nightmare. The ground was a cracked, fetid marsh, slick with black mud and broken by stagnant pools that reflected the dull red glare of a dying sun. Towering out of the earth were grotesque, twisted shapes like skeletal hands frozen mid-scream, their clawed fingers stretching toward the darkened sky. Rotting strands of moss and viscera hung from their jagged limbs, dripping into the water with slow, sickening plops. A sickly mist coiled between the broken terrain, slinking over the mirror-still pools and swallowing everything more than a few dozen paces away. In the distance, more of those claw-shaped pillars jutted from the swamp like the limbs of the damned.
Vince was the vessel of Azaroth, the death god of Valor and Ruin. His patron rewarded only those who dared stare death in the eye without flinching, and in Vince he found the perfect host. Through him, Azaroth poured brutal, overwhelming strength, power meant to shatter anything that dared stand in his path. Vince had already reached the level of a C− rank player, and with Azaroth’s blessing, every strike he delivered now struck like a death sentence.
Mathaven, meanwhile, served as the vessel of Vol’Malcur, Death God of Blood and Covenants, the reaper of oaths and unpaid debts. His magic was forged through sacrifice; every spell he cast was sharp, merciless...and paid for in his own blood. Each movement carried a precise, lethal intent, as though Vol’Malcur himself guided Mathaven’s every step.
"We’re down here fighting for our lives," Mathaven growled, cutting another Orc across the throat, "while Belanor sits up there like a bloody king."
Up above them, Belanor sat suspended in the air as if gravity itself had chosen to obey him. His legs were casually folded, posture relaxed, and a silver coin spun effortlessly between his fingers. Moon–white hair framed his sharp features, and those cold blue eyes stared down at the battlefield with wicked amusement. Draped in a tailored three-piece suit and a flowing black overcoat that billowed lazily behind him, he looked less like a participant and more like an aristocrat enjoying a private show. The faint curl of a cruel grin tugged at his lips, almost as if the sight of Vince and Mathaven struggling below was nothing more than entertainment.
"Got something to say, Mathaven?" Belanor asked, casually picking at his ear as the coin spun over his knuckles. "These bloody Orcs are making such a racket, I can’t quite hear you."
"We can’t take them all by ourselves," Vince growled, his hammer glowing faintly as another Orc stalked toward him. "We need your help."
Belanor laughed, still floating in place like a bored noble in his private balcony. "Oh, come on. You’re C–rank players, for god’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re whining over a couple of weak Orcs. What’s fifteen Orcs to guys like you?"
"Tsk... fuck...!" Vince snarled as five of the creatures suddenly surged forward, forcing him back.
The Orcs charged with roars, weapons raised in a savage rush. Vince stepped forward, soul energy crackling down his arms as he swung his hammer in a wide arc, the impact released a burst of blue force and sent two Orcs stumbling back, but even that wasn’t enough to drop them. Another rushed in from the side and smashed its spiked mace into his shoulder, knocking him off balance and tearing through his armor.
Mathaven darted in beside him, moving like a crimson shadow. A thin thread of blood snapped out from his fingertips and wrapped around an Orc’s leg, yanking it off its feet. Before it even hit the ground he slashed another across the chest with his arcane–edged blade, the crimson aura sizzling through flesh. But for every one he staggered, two more took its place.
Vince let out a roar, planting his feet as three Orcs slammed into him at once. He buried his hammer into the ground and released a Ruin Pulse, blowing the closest enemy backward in a shower of mud, but one still managed to crash into him and clamp its claws around his arm, ripping through skin.
Mathaven tried to cover Vince’s blind spot, but another Orc caught him across the back with a jagged axe, the force sending him stumbling forward. He coughed, blood dripping from his lip, and forced himself upright. His eyes flashed crimson as he activated Covenant Surge, his body suddenly faster, he parried a sword aimed at Vince and drove his blood-coated blade into the Orc’s neck.
Still, they were being pushed back inch by inch.
One of the Orcs tackled Vince into a pool of black water, trying to drown him beneath its weight. Another swung at Mathaven’s legs; he jumped, to avoid the blow, but a second Orc slammed into his ribs mid-air and sent him crashing into the mud.
Above them, Belanor leaned back slightly in the air, twirling the coin between his fingers. The grin never left his face.
"Well, this is far more entertaining than I expected. Don’t die too quickly, yeah?"
Down below, Vince pushed himself up, breathing hard, blood dripping from his forehead. "Mathaven," he growled, bracing as the Orcs closed in again, "we need to hold... just a little longer..."
"I honestly expected better from the two of you," Belanor sighed, shaking his head. "Damn that Noctis for pairing me with a bunch of losers."
Still floating, he rose to his feet, standing in mid-air as though the invisible ground beneath him was solid. Then, with a slow grace, he began to descend...like a spider gently sliding down its thread. For a brief moment, a faint shimmer caught the light behind him, an almost invisible thread extending from his back up into the clouds above.
His boots touched the ground with barely a sound. He glanced at the snarling Orcs closing in, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"This coin," he said, raising it between two fingers and pointing it toward Vince, "will decide whether I bother helping your pathetic selves. Heads, I step in. Tails...I sit back and watch you die."
"Are you serious?" Vince snapped, barely managing to block an enormous hammer strike from the hulking Orc in front of him. Sparks flew as their weapons crashed. "You’re really gonna let us die because of a coin flip?"
Belanor gave a dramatic shrug. "Relax, man. You might get lucky."
He tossed the coin lazily into the air. It spun once, twice, flashing silver in the dim light before landing neatly in his palm.
He held it up with a smirk.
"Ahh...would you look at that. Heads." He clicked his tongue and rolled his shoulders. "Guess today really is your lucky day."
"Very well then...I did promise, didn’t I?" Belanor said, laughter curling at the edge of his voice.
He lifted a single finger into the air. The moment he did, an unnatural silence dropped over the battlefield like a suffocating curtain. The Orcs, mid charge, halted all at once and slowly turned their heads toward him, as if compelled by something far greater than fear.
Belanor tilted his head, smiling down at them as if he were greeting old friends. "My, my...aren’t you a terrifying bunch," he said, tone dripping with lazy mockery.
Then, without warning, he simply swiped his finger to the left.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the world split.
A thin, nearly invisible thread snapped through the air, carving across the field in a straight, effortless line. The Orcs didn’t even have time to scream, each one froze in place before their bodies slid apart in clean halves, blood spraying in perfect arcs as they collapsed into the mud.
Vince, standing directly in that line, barely had time to widen his eyes. A whisper of pressure brushed across his torso, and a red line appeared across his chest. His hammer slipped from his fingers as he staggered back, blood blooming from the wound.
"Oops...guess I overdid it," Belanor sighed, feigning regret. "But really....can you blame me? The man was weak."
Mathaven’s eyes went wide in pure horror. For a brief second, his entire body froze, his nerves locked, legs refusing to move. Vince’s body lay crumpled in the mud, split open like the Orcs, and Belanor was smiling.
Then the horror gave way to rage.
"You...damn you..." Mathaven hissed, gripping his blade so tight his knuckles whitened. "What the hell did you do?!"
Belanor raised a brow, still twirling the coin between his fingers. "What do you mean?" he said, lips curling into a smirk. "I saved him, from a miserable little existence."
"You twisted, half–assed piece of shit!" Mathaven roared. "I’ll murder you!"
"Careful now," Belanor mused, slipping his hands behind his back as though taking a stroll. "I’m an S–Rank, remember? You really want to end up like your friend....and those Orcs?"
Mathaven didn’t hesitate. Rage drowned out the pain and logic, he launched forward at full speed, crimson aura flaring around him.
Belanor’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Very well. Suit yourself."
Mathaven was barely a meter away when his body slammed into something unseen. Thin shimmering threads stretched silently across the air, rising from the ground, vanishing high into the sky like glass wires in a web.
There was no time to react.
Mathaven’s charge was cut short as his body split cleanly, severed into three neat pieces from head to torso. The chunks hit the muddy ground with a wet thud and slid apart, crimson pooling underneath.
Belanor exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.
"You should’ve stayed down," he murmured, watching the blood spread across the battlefield like spilled wine.
"I’ll fight alone. I don’t need partners," Belanor muttered, brushing a speck of dust from his coat. His eyes drifted over the mutilated battlefield. "Now then...what the hell is this place? Hmph....this is nothing like what Noctis described."
He took a few slow steps forward, hands tucked casually behind his back. "I suppose I should look around," he said, a dark smile tugging at his lips. "And purge any other players while I’m at it."
He was just about to leave when a low, ragged groan rose from the mud. One of the Orcs, half‐split but still breathing, twitched weakly in a pool of its own blood.
Belanor strolled over and crouched beside it. "Oh? You’re still alive? Lucky you," he said, tilting his head. "You can talk, can’t you?"
The Orc looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. "Easy now," Belanor murmured, almost kindly, as he grabbed it by the ear and pulled its head up. "Relax. I’m not going to kill you."
His smile widened. "You’re going to help me."
He leaned in, voice soft and pleasant. "Give me a little tour. Show me around your lovely home. I’m new here...and I’m searching for some humans."
The Orc trembled as Belanor tightened his grip. "And you," he whispered, eyes glinting, "are going to help me find them."