"Hey, have you heard? The One Eyed Beast is heading north to handle the assault," said a soldier, leaning over his tray in the bustling canteen.
"Feel bad for the enemy," another muttered, shaking his head. "They're not just up against an army—they're up against him. He doesn't just defeat his enemies; he tears through them like a storm. Cruel, relentless. They won't last long."
One of the newer recruits looked up, his curiosity piqued. "Who… who is the One Eyed Beast?"
The veteran smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Let's educate the greenhorn. Listen up."
His name was Vorrak Stoneclaw, though few dared to speak it without awe or fear. Among the Four Great Generals of the empire, Vorrak stood apart. Known as the One Eyed Beast, he commanded a fearsome elite army of 100,000 soldiers, each handpicked for their resilience and ferocity. His title was earned not only from his brutal tactics and overwhelming force but also from his hulking frame, scarred face, and the singular, piercing eye that burned with intensity. No one knew the true story of how he lost the other eye—some said it was taken by an enemy commander in a duel; others whispered he gouged it out himself in defiance of fear.
The battle that helped forge his legend occurred during the Great Empire War, where three rival empires joined forces to crush their empire. Vorrak, then just a budding general, was tasked with holding the southern line against an invading probe army of 50,000—nearly double his forces. His orders were clear: Hold the line at all costs. Delay them so our main army can prepare an offensive against the enemies real force.
But Vorrak had no intention of dying as a sacrificial lamb.
As night fell over the southern plains, Vorrak's soldiers gathered around their campfires. Nervous murmurs filled the air, but the hulking figure of their general soon silenced them. He stood before them, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering flames, his voice a guttural growl that demanded attention.
"Listen up!" Vorrak roared, his voice cutting through the night. "The empire wants us to hold the line. To stand here and die while they prepare. Do you want that? Do you want to die like lambs, slaughtered for someone else's gain?"
A murmur of dissent rippled through the ranks, growing louder as he paced.
"NO!" he shouted. "We are not lambs—we are wolves! And wolves do not wait for death! We fight, we tear, we kill! These bastards think they can march into our land, take what's ours, and crush our people. I say we march on them, rip out their throats, and send them running back to their masters!"
The soldiers erupted in a cheer, their fear turning into fervor.
Vorrak raised his hand, silencing them once more. His tone darkened, heavy with reality. "Make no mistake—many of you will die tomorrow. War is no game. It's blood, mud, and screams. But if you're going to die, die with your enemy's blood on your hands. Die knowing you stood, you fought, and you broke them. Those who can't stomach it—leave now. I won't stop you."
No one moved.
"Good," Vorrak said, his single eye gleaming. "Then feast tonight as if it's your last. At dawn, we march."
As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the morning mist, Vorrak's army stood poised for battle. The dull hum of tension filled the air, broken only by the metallic clinking of armor and the occasional snort of restless horses. Their steel glimmered in the golden light, but their hearts shone brighter, bolstered by the presence of Vorrak himself. At the forefront of the formation, the commander towered over his men, his battered yet imposing armor bearing the scars of countless battles. His monstrous axe rested on his shoulder, its jagged edge catching the light like a predator's grin.
The distant rumble of enemy drums grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic thunder of hooves. From the tree line ahead, the enemy emerged—a wave of men and steel, banners flying proudly as they marched in perfect unison. Their sheer numbers dwarfed Vorrak's force, a fact that hung heavy in the air. Yet, none dared falter. Vorrak's presence alone was enough to harden their resolve.
He raised his axe high, its weight nothing to the mountain of a man who wielded it. His voice boomed across the ranks, cutting through the din. "CHARGE! Glory to the empire! May we live eternally in its name!"
A primal roar erupted from his soldiers, their voices merging into a thunderous cry as they surged forward. Vorrak led the charge, a force of nature barreling toward the enemy line.
The collision was catastrophic. Vorrak hit the enemy ranks like a boulder hurled from a catapult, his axe carving through shields and spears as if they were made of parchment. The first man to face him barely had time to scream before the blade tore through his chest, splitting armor and flesh in a single swing. The impact sent a spray of blood across Vorrak's face, but he didn't falter, his single eye blazing with an unrelenting fire.
A soldier lunged at him from the side, but Vorrak caught the blade mid-swing with his gauntleted hand. He twisted, snapping the sword in two before bringing his axe down in a vicious arc. The enemy crumpled to the ground, lifeless, as Vorrak roared and pressed forward.
Behind him, his men followed, emboldened by the whirlwind of destruction their commander unleashed. Vorrak's ferocity was unmatched, his movements almost inhuman. Each swing of his axe sent enemies sprawling, their screams swallowed by the chaos of battle. Blood stained the ground beneath his boots, turning the earth slick and treacherous, but he moved with the certainty of a predator.
The enemy line wavered under the relentless onslaught. Soldiers scrambled to regroup, only to be cut down by Vorrak's axe or trampled by the wave of his forces. The battlefield became a blur of clashing steel, screams, and crimson spray.
An enemy general, young and desperate, charged through the fray toward Vorrak. His sword gleamed as he raised it high, a cry of defiance on his lips. Vorrak turned to meet him, his movements deliberate and precise. As the blade descended, Vorrak caught it effortlessly with his gauntlet. The sound of snapping steel echoed like thunder as he crushed the weapon in his grip.
He seized him by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The young man struggled, his eyes wide with fear. Vorrak's voice was a low, guttural growl, heavy with contempt. "Your leaders sent you to die. I'll make sure you see the cost of their arrogance." With a bone-crunching squeeze, he ended the man's life and flung the lifeless body aside like a discarded rag.
The enemy forces, witnessing the fate of their general, faltered further. Vorrak seized the moment, driving deeper into their ranks. His axe sang through the air, cutting through armor and flesh with every swing.
Hours passed, the sun climbing high before beginning its descent. The battlefield was a sea of carnage, bodies strewn across the blood-soaked ground. Vorrak stood at its center, his armor caked in gore, his breathing heavy but unbroken.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the enemy's resolve finally shattered. Their lines broke, and soldiers fled in all directions, casting aside weapons and banners in their desperation to escape. Vorrak raised his axe high, a grim monument to the battle's end. His men erupted into cheers, their voices filled with triumph and exhaustion.
Vorrak gazed across the battlefield, his eye narrowing. The empire had won this battle, but war was an endless tide. Still, he would face it head-on, as he always had—with axe in hand and fire in his heart.
When the cheering settled, Vorrak stood amid the wreckage, his armor battered, his axe coated in blood. His soldiers, though battered themselves, stood victorious. Vorrak turned to them, his voice cutting through the silence.
"This is war," he said. "You fought, you bled, and you lived. Remember this day—not for the glory, but for the cost. Every man who fell here deserves to be remembered, not as a number, but as a warrior."
The veteran soldier finished his tale, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. The canteen had grown quieter as more soldiers leaned in to listen, hanging on every word. He glanced at the wide-eyed recruit, whose face had turned pale.
"So, greenhorn," the veteran said, chuckling as he thumped the table. "Still curious about the One Eyed Beast?"
The recruit stammered, his hands trembling slightly. "I—I didn't realize he was... that ruthless. That unstoppable."
The veteran roared with laughter, joined by a chorus of knowing chuckles from the others at the table. "Ruthless? Kid, that doesn't even begin to cover it. Vorrak doesn't just fight battles—he ends them. That's why he's a legend."
Another soldier leaned over, grinning. "Best hope you never end up on his bad side. But if you're lucky enough to fight under him, you'll understand why even the gods fear him."
The recruit swallowed hard, his mind racing with the vivid imagery of the tale. His hands tightened into fists, and despite his initial fear, a flicker of determination lit in his eyes. "I hope I get to see him fight someday."
The veteran smirked and shook his head, lifting his mug in a toast. "You might regret that wish, kid. But if you do, you'll see what it really means to face the storm. To Vorrak Stoneclaw—the One Eyed Beast!"
The group raised their cups, their laughter echoing through the canteen as the recruit sat quietly, lost in thought. His heart pounded with both dread and anticipation, the legend of Vorrak forever burned into his mind.