The Hunt Begins

  "Partner, do we even know where they are?" Fenric's voice carried a nervous edge, a faint tremor of fear that he couldn't quite suppress. "They last attacked Meadowfall, but it's been some time since then. They could have moved somewhere else by now."

  "Keep going straight," Kuro answered flatly. "They're near."

  Fenric glanced sideways at his companion. Kuro's hat cast a shadow over his eyes, obscuring his expression, making it impossible to read what he was thinking. How are you so sure? Fenric wanted to ask, but the words caught in his throat. Deep down, he was beginning to understand something fundamental about his partner—Kuro wasn't normal. Whatever instinct or ability was guiding him now, Fenric had to trust it.

  He pressed harder on the accelerator. Beretta surged forward, and as the speed increased, Fenric felt his fear begin to fade, replaced by grim determination.

  The terrain around them was still cloaked in snow, though not as densely as before. Visible patches of brown earth broke through the white blanket, and the ground had solidified enough to support their rapid pace. Small mountains stretched in the distance like the humped back of some enormous caterpillar, their peaks touched with afternoon gold.

  A mechanical wagon appeared ahead, traveling in the opposite direction. It was moving fast, bouncing over the uneven road with desperate speed.

  Fenric slowed Beretta to a stop. The wagon driver, noticing them, pulled his vehicle to a halt as well, though his hand remained on the reins, ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

  Fenric called out to him, his reluctance evident. "Hey! We're looking for information about the Horned Orcs. Have you seen them? Are you alright?"

  A young man leaned out from the wagon's driver's seat—clearly a guild member by his worn leather armor and the sword at his hip. He looked at them with a mixture of disbelief and pity.

  "Seriously? A half-beast?" His voice was incredulous, tinged with dark humor. "Where exactly do you think you're going? To fight those monsters? For the elves' sake, heed my warning—you and your friend over there can't do shit against them. Me and my mates barely escaped with our lives from those horrendous bastards."

  "Uhm... thanks for looking out for us," Fenric replied, his jaw tight. "But turning back isn't an option."

  The guild member shook his head slowly, as if witnessing someone walk willingly toward execution. "Your funeral, then." He pointed down the road. "They're attacking a small village that direction. Destroying everything in their path. It's... weird. Just keep going straight, deep into the woods. You'll find them. Or they'll find you."

  Without waiting for a response, he snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, disappearing down the road in a cloud of kicked-up snow.

  Back in the Town, Master Rhanes stood in the town square, addressing the gathered crowd with calm authority.

  "There's no need to panic," his voice carried across the frightened faces before him. "Everything is under control. Reinforcements from the main town and surrounding villages are already heading out to engage the threat. We will be victorious." He paused, letting his confidence settle over them like a blanket. "Until I give further instruction, everyone return to your homes and stay there. Keep your families safe and wait for word."

  The crowd began to disperse, murmuring anxiously but obeying.

  Lovia arrived at that moment, pushing through the thinning crowd, her face flushed from running. "Master Rhanes! What's happening? Kuro and Fenric just took off suddenly, and—"

  "Lovia, there's no time to explain in detail." Rhanes cut her off, his tone brooking no argument. "Are there any adventurers currently in town?"

  "Uhm... yes, several. Maybe a dozen C-rank and above."

  "Good. Gather them immediately. Post them at the town's edges—north, south, east, and west. We're potentially under threat of attack."

  "What?" Lovia's eyes widened as the full weight of the situation hit her. "Attack? Here?"

  "Yes. Now go. Lives depend on speed."

  "Yes, Master!" She turned and ran toward the guild, her mind already racing through which adventurers were available.

  Chief Barvtov approached from the side, his expression grim. "Hammer, I'll do my end of the duty. My guards are mobilizing now."

  "Of course," Rhanes replied. Then, more quietly, he added, "Though I suspect we won't be needing any of this."

  Barvtov raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

  Rhanes didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the southern horizon.

  "I have to say," Fenric spoke over the roar of Beretta's engine, his tone attempting lightness, "you never gave me the impression of being a good guy. Someone who tries to help people, to protect the town. I'm... I'm happy, in a way, partner. Happy to be wrong about you."

  Kuro didn't respond. His thoughts were elsewhere, pulled by the insistent throbbing in his shoulder that grew stronger with every mile they traveled south.

  BOOM.

  A massive sound erupted from the direction they were headed—deep, concussive, the kind of impact that made the ground itself shudder. Something flew into the air in the distance, spinning end over end against the afternoon sky.

  Fenric squinted, trying to make out what it was. "What the fuck?" The object was moving too fast, tumbling through the air in a blur that the afternoon glare made even harder to track.

  "Turn the bike," Kuro's voice cut through sharply. "It's coming this way."

  "Oh shit—" Fenric yanked the handlebars hard to the right at the last possible second, Beretta's wheels skidding across the snow-slicked road. The projectile sailed past them, close enough that they felt the displaced air, and crashed into the road behind them with a wet, heavy thud.

  It bounced once, twice, leaving a spray of dark liquid across the white snow before coming to rest.

  Kuro and Fenric both turned to look.

  It was a head.

  An orc's head, severed cleanly at the neck. Two thick horns curved from its skull, and its jaw hung open, revealing dull, yellowed teeth. The eyes were still open, glazed and lifeless. Blood pooled beneath it, steaming in the cold air.

  "Holy shit," Fenric breathed, his body relaxing slightly as relief washed over him. "It looks like someone got to them before us. And whoever it is, they're strong. Really strong. Phewww..." He let out a long, relieved sigh. "Well, that's that, then. We don't need to—"

  "Drive."

  "Huh?" Fenric turned to look at Kuro. "We don't have to hurry anymore. Whoever's dealing with the orcs is clearly—"

  "Drive, idiot." Kuro's tone was arctic, cutting through any argument.

  Fenric's response died on his lips. Without another word, he shifted gears and accelerated, the engine roaring as they raced toward the battle.

  As they drew closer, the sounds became unmistakable—the sharp hiss of blades cutting through air and flesh, the wet splatter of blood hitting ground, the deep groans of pain, the heavy thud of massive bodies collapsing.

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  The Battlefield

  Fenric brought Beretta to a stop before a small cliff overlooking the village. Both he and Kuro stood—Kuro rising in the sidecar, Fenric still straddling the bike—and took in the scene below.

  It was a graveyard.

  Dozens of Horned Orcs lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, their massive bodies broken and dismembered. Arms lay separated from torsos. Heads rolled in the dirt. The snow had turned from white to deep crimson, trampled into pink slush by countless feet.

  "Wait..." Fenric's eyes tracked to the side of the battlefield. "Is that...?"

  A sleek machanical wagon sat abandoned near the tree line.

  In the midst of the carnage, a lone figure moved with deadly grace.

  A woman, slicing left and right through the oncoming orcs with fluid precision. Her sword was a blur of silver, never stopping, never hesitating. Each movement was economical, perfect, wasting not an ounce of energy.

  The orcs themselves were massive—eight or nine feet tall, their bodies thick with corded muscle. Two long horns curved from their foreheads, and their faces were brutal mockeries of humanity—crooked noses, small tusks protruding from their lower jaws. They wore torn animal skins as crude armor and wielded enormous swords and spiked clubs that would have crushed a normal human with a single blow.

  But against this woman, they might as well have been children.

  She dodged their attacks with minimal movement, reading their strikes before they came. In one fluid motion, she severed an orc's leg at the knee. The creature fell directly onto her blade, and its head rolled free as cleanly as if she'd been cutting through butter.

  Behind her, terrified civilians ran for their lives, scrambling toward the woods. She positioned herself between them and the orcs, a living barrier of steel and determination.

  "...Ella," Fenric whispered, his voice a mixture of confusion and recognition.

  Kuro noticed the change in his tone. "Ella? You know her?"

  "Yes. I told you about her before." Fenric's eyes never left the battlefield. "She's one of the Dragonbloods I mentioned—the one who 'stole your kill' on Ravmor." He smiled slightly, testing the waters.

  Kuro gave him a sharp look but didn't correct the statement. There was no point in continuing the lie anymore. "Hmm."

  Ella stood like a scarred siren amid the apocalypse, her sword raised defiantly against the horde. Her long coat clung to her frame like a second skin—clearly made for combat, belted tight at the waist to allow freedom of movement. Her light blonde hair was pulled back into a practical half-tie, shining with an almost golden hue in the afternoon light. Her face bore no fear, only cold certainty.

  Even though she'd already killed dozens of them, more orcs kept coming. They showed no fear of her, no hesitation despite witnessing their comrades fall. They charged at her in waves, and she continued her deadly work—jumping from weapon to head, slicing through them like they were made of paper rather than flesh and bone.

  She looked tired, Kuro noticed. The subtle slowing of her movements, the slight deepening of her breathing. But her speed hadn't decreased. If anything, she was moving faster, as if drawing on reserves of desperation.

  "Too bad you can't fight," Fenric said with obvious relief. "She's more than enough to take care of them. Though I wonder why she's here..." He trailed off, scanning the battlefield. "But I have to say, the orcs' numbers are a lot higher than I expected. Hmm... something doesn't add up. Hey, I heard they have a King. Can you see him? There's so much chaos down there, I can't pinpoint—"

  He stopped.

  Kuro was watching the battle closely, but he wasn't looking at Ella or the orcs she was fighting. His gaze was fixed on something far in the back, sitting in the shadows among the ruined houses.

  Slowly, deliberately, Kuro reached for Mosvmora and drew the blade.

  "Ah? Partner, what are you doing?" Fenric's relief evaporated instantly. "You don't have to fight. Trust me, she can take care of it."

  "Hm. Maybe." Kuro stepped out of the sidecar, but as his feet touched the ground, a sudden sharp pain lanced through his shoulder. He grabbed it instinctively, his fingers pressing hard against the cursed mark. The pain was intense, almost blinding.

  It felt like recognition.

  Like a call.

  "It looks like it's my fight," Kuro said quietly.

  "What do you mean?" Fenric leaned forward, genuinely curious and concerned.

  Kuro didn't answer. He started walking toward the battlefield, then stopped and turned back. "Beast."

  "Hm?"

  "Aren't you going to try to save the people?" Kuro's dark eyes met Fenric's ember ones. "I thought you would." Not that I care.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Fenric's eyes widened, then dropped, unable to hold the gaze. Shame colored his features.

  Kuro jumped down from the cliff, landing with barely a sound, and began walking toward the threat that was calling to him.

  Kuro walked through the battlefield with measured steps, his gaze fixed straight ahead, one hand pressed against the sharp pain in his shoulder. Seeing the orcs up close for the first time, he felt a grim satisfaction.

  What other disgusting beings am I going to witness in this world? The thought brought a small, cold smile to his lips.

  Ella, still in the midst of saving civilians and cutting down orcs, noticed the new arrival. "Hm?" She dispatched another orc with a precise thrust. "What's with the outfit? Are you a soldier?" She looked past Kuro, trying to spot the rest of his unit. "Hey! Are you alone? Where are the rest of your—"

  People screamed, running past them both in blind terror.

  Kuro didn't answer. He kept walking, eyes fixed forward.

  This prick... Ella's irritation flared visibly. "You bastard, are you deaf?" She sliced through another charging orc, the creature's death groan cut short. "Do you have a death wish, walking in here alone?!"

  "And you're an idiot," Kuro countered without breaking stride, "fighting minions instead of finishing their commander."

  "What did you just call me?! An idiot?!" Ella's voice rose in genuine outrage. "Can't you see what I'm doing?! Saving people comes first! And if you're going to talk shit, you'd better help them be—"

  She stopped mid-sentence.

  Her eyes had caught sight of the sword in Kuro's hand. For just a heartbeat, she froze completely, her expression shifting from anger to shock to something approaching awe.

  An orc chose that moment to charge at her exposed back. She snapped back to awareness instantly, moving with fluid grace, her sword carving through the creature in one fast, economical motion. The orc fell in pieces.

  When she looked back to where Kuro had been, he was gone.

  She scanned the battlefield and spotted him—already moving at increased speed, dodging orc attacks with minimal effort, charging straight through the chaos toward the back of the settlement.

  Toward the King.

  "Wait!" Ella shouted, cutting down another orc without looking. "That's not a normal orc king! That's a Crown Horn! You'll die!"

  But Kuro had already reached his destination.

  The Crown Horn

  The King of the Horned Orcs sat among the ruins of what had once been someone's home. He was in the process of feeding, tearing chunks of flesh from the corpses of humans and chewing them with deliberate, grinding motions. Blood and fragments of bone dripped from his tusks.

  Kuro paid no attention to the survivors whimpering in the collapsed house nearby, too terrified to move, hoping the monster would overlook them.

  The Crown Horn orc sensed Kuro's approach. He stopped his meal, dropped the mangled corpse, and rose to his full height.

  He was less a biological entity and more a geological event given flesh.

  Standing at thirteen feet tall, he dwarfed even his massive subordinates. His skin had the rough texture of weathered granite, stretching over vast tectonic plates of muscle that seemed to grind against one another with every movement. His anatomy wore itself like natural plate armor, each inch designed for devastation.

  His head was a crown of organic violence. Four jagged horns erupted from his skull—not smooth and polished like his lesser kin, but pitted and raw, as if carved from volcanic rock. His jaw jutted forward in an underslung trap of yellowed ivory, massive tusks protruding from the lower lip. It suggested that his primary language was violence, his vocabulary limited to destruction.

  Fenric watched in horror as the abomination rose to its full height, blotting out the sun. What kind of orc King is that? The thought raced through his mind, panic rising in his chest. Does the orc king even grow that large?

  He scratched the back of his head nervously, his tail instinctively tucking between his legs. Damnit. His gaze shifted to Kuro. Standing before that titan, his partner looked no bigger than an insignificant ant.

  "Gods, he's nuts," Fenric whispered, his voice trembling. "I don't know if he can survive that... can he?" If Ella joined the fray, but she is busy with saving humans.

  Then, Kuro's parting words echoed in his ears: Try to help the humans.

  Fenric gritted his teeth. Memories flashed before his eyes—the disgusted looks he received by humans in the past, the way they hurried away from him, the years of being treated like a filthy beast, like dirt. Why should I lift a finger for them?

  But then he looked at Ella. She was a blur of motion, tearing through the lesser orcs, throwing her body between the monsters and the screaming villagers without a second thought, struggling to help all of them.

  The Crown Horn orc sized up Kuro with pitch-dark eyes that had no visible eyelids. The gaze was ancient, hungry, utterly without mercy.

  Slowly, deliberately, it reached its right arm toward a half-destroyed home. Its massive hand closed around something buried in the rubble—the handle of its weapon. With casual strength, it pulled the blade free, sending chunks of stone and splintered wood flying.

  The weapon was less a traditional sword and more a tripartite executioner's slab, forged from the jagged logic of nightmare itself. It appeared as a singular, massive engine of war constructed from three distinct blades fused into one devastating silhouette—a sword that seemed to have devoured two of its siblings and emerged as something greater and more terrible.

  The Crown Horn lifted the massive blade and placed it across its armored shoulder. Then, for the first time, it spoke. The voice was deep, resonant, carrying the weight of stone grinding against stone.

  "COME."

  The word wasn't a command. It was an invitation.

  An invitation to death.

  Kuro's hand tightened on Mosvmora's hilt. The cursed mark on his shoulder burned like fire, but the pain no longer felt like a warning.

  It felt like recognition.

  Like coming home.

  He raised his blade, the afternoon sun catching on its edge, and smiled—a genuine, cold, anticipating smile, so you can talk, huh?

  Then he charged.