Two weeks and three days had passed since Zen began his training, marking the same time since Falia's departure. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the training grounds as he guided another stream of mana into his core. What had once been uncertain ripples now flowed with growing confidence, and more than half of his first star pattern gleamed within.
"The transformation in your control is... noteworthy," Carac observed, breaking his usual silence. "Seventeen days to reach this point – most take months to achieve half as much."
Zen maintained his focus, feeling the familiar burn as energy coursed through his channels. Each session brought new challenges, new refinements to his technique. The half-formed star pulsed with gathered power, its points reaching outward like crystalline fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he guided another stream of mana into place.
"Your dedication serves you well, young master," Carac continued, his dark eyes studying the subtle fluctuations in Zen's aura. "Though I wonder if—"
A horse's frantic gallop shattered the evening's peace. The sound echoed off the manor walls, followed by shouts of alarm and the crash of gates being thrown wide. Zen's eyes snapped open, his concentration broken as a rider burst into view.
The guard's armor was shattered, hanging in blood-soaked pieces from his frame. Deep gashes crossed his chest and arms, and one eye was swollen shut. He swayed dangerously in the saddle, his mount's flanks heaving with exhaustion.
"Lord... Lloyd..." the guard's voice emerged as barely a whisper before he slipped sideways from his horse.
Lloyd, who had been reviewing documents in the courtyard, reached him first, catching the soldier before he hit the ground. "Water!" he commanded, and servants scrambled to comply. "Easy now, soldier. What news of Falia's campaign?"
The guard's remaining eye was wild with terror, his breathing ragged. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "We... we were winning at first. Lady Falia's strategy was perfect. The orcs... they fell before us like wheat before the scythe."
He coughed violently, and Lloyd supported his head as a servant brought water. After a few desperate sips, the guard continued, his voice stronger but thick with shame and fear.
"Then everything changed. An Orc Lord... it appeared from nowhere. Our lines... our perfect formations... they shattered like glass. Lady Falia..." His voice broke. "She ordered an immediate retreat, but the beast was too fast. Too strong."
Lloyd's face darkened. "What of Falia?"
"She chose three of us... ordered us to warn you. Said the Briar domain had to know what they faced." Tears mixed with blood on his face. "She stayed behind... covered our escape. I saw her engaging the beast directly. The other two messengers... they fell on the road. I'm the only one who made it."
The guard's eye rolled back as consciousness finally fled him. Lloyd's voice was tight with controlled fury as he ordered, "Get him to the healers. Now!"
Within minutes, Lloyd had summoned his family and closest advisors to the manor's study. He paced like a caged lion while Sarella sat rigid in her chair, her face pale but composed. Zen and Tess stood near the doorway, watching their father's barely contained rage, while Carac remained in the shadows, his expression unreadable.
"I should have gone with them," Lloyd growled, his fist striking the heavy oak desk.
"My lord," Carac stepped forward from the shadows, "let me go. I can—"
"No." Lloyd's voice cut like steel. "You're needed here. Zen's training... it cannot be interrupted. Not now."
Sarella rose from her chair, her grace unwavering despite her obvious distress. "Then go yourself, my love. Bring our people home. Bring Falia home."
Armin, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. "My lord, take the Elite Twenty. These aren't ordinary guards – they're five-star warriors, each capable of challenging six-star threats. Against an Orc Lord..."
"Have them ready within the hour," Lloyd commanded, already striding toward the door.
Tess suddenly gripped his sleeve, her eyes wide with fear.
Lloyd embraced her fiercely. He turned to Zen, his eyes hard. "Continue your training. Grow stronger. We'll need every advantage in the days ahead."
The journey to Rowena was a race against darkness itself. The Elite Twenty rode in perfect formation around their lord, their armor catching the blood-red light of sunset. As they crossed into Rowena's territory, the first carrion birds appeared, circling lazily overhead.
The stench hit them first – death and something fouler. Then came the sight that would haunt them all. At Rowena's entrance, Lloyd's company drew their mounts to a horrified halt.
Heads mounted on crude spikes lined the path – some human, some orcish. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, torn apart by inhuman strength. The orcs that blocked their path were nightmares made flesh – eight feet of corded muscle and bestial fury. Their faces were a twisted fusion of boar and man, yellowed tusks jutting from massive jaws. Crude iron armor, stained with blood and worse, covered their hulking frames. Each step they took made the earth tremble.
Lloyd had faced orcs before, he had seen how a single one could tear through five trained soldiers with ease. Their strength was legendary – five times that of a strong man. But an Orc Lord... those were different. Ten times stronger than their lesser kin, and far more cunning.
"My lord," one of the Elite Twenty warned, "there are signs of fresh battle. The Orc Lord..."
A roar split the air – not animal, not human, but something worse. Something that made even the battle-hardened Elite Twenty flinch. Lloyd's hand found his sword hilt as images of Falia and his men, torn apart by those monstrous hands, flashed through his mind.
"Form up," he commanded, his voice thick with barely controlled fury. "We end this. Tonight."
The orcs advanced, their massive forms casting long shadows in the dying light. Behind them, something larger stirred in the growing darkness, and Lloyd's heart turned to ice. The shadows seemed to part, revealing a figure that dwarfed even its massive kin. The Orc Lord stood nearly ten feet tall, its muscles rippling like steel cables beneath scarred hide. A massive iron maul rested on its shoulder, still dripping with what Lloyd prayed wasn't the blood of his people.
Lloyd's sword rang as he drew it, the sound like a death knell in the gathering dusk. "For Briar," he whispered, thoughts of Falia – if she still lived – driving him forward. "For Falia."
The Elite Twenty responded in kind, their blades catching the last rays of sunlight. As darkness fell completely, the only sounds were the heavy breathing of the orcs and the thunder of Lloyd's heart in his ears. The moment stretched like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
Then the Orc Lord roared again, and hell itself seemed to answer.