Torvik continued his story, his voice steady but grim.
The first few years after the realization of our merging worlds were tense but not catastrophic. There were territorial clashes, of course—skirmishes between the native species of our world and the so-called invaders from the other. But for a time, nothing escalated into full-scale war.
As conflicts raged on the surface, others turned their attention elsewhere. Scholars, adventurers, and the reckless alike began to investigate the ancient ruins that had begun appearing throughout the continent. They were unlike anything our world had ever seen.
Massive stone structures covered in intricate carvings, impossible architecture that defied the logic of our builders. The walls bore scripts in unknown languages, but with careful study, patterns began to emerge. The carvings depicted creatures of immense power, battles that spanned across time and space, and—most unsettling of all—humans wielding the elements.
These were not myths. These were records of something real.
At first, the significance of these discoveries was not understood. The ruins were ancient, remnants of a world long forgotten—or perhaps, a world just now being remembered. But as the fragments of the other world continued to appear, more information surfaced.
Meanwhile, the clashes with the orcs grew more frequent, and the casualties mounted. The fragile peace that had existed at the start began to crumble. Villages on both sides were burned, warriors fell in battle, and the rift between our people deepened.
Then, everything changed.
The first awakenings occurred.
At first, it was just a few—scattered individuals who suddenly found themselves capable of feats beyond normal human limits. Some grew unnaturally strong, capable of wielding weapons far too heavy for an ordinary person. Others could summon flames in the palm of their hands or control the very air around them.
Magic—true magic—had returned to humanity.
The awakened changed everything. Humans were no longer helpless in the face of the orcs' brute strength. The battles evened out. Soldiers who once barely stood a chance now became warriors capable of cutting down orc raiders. Even those who did not awaken were not useless. They trained harder, refining their skills. And from among them, the first aura users emerged—fighters who could wield their very life force as a weapon, standing against the awakened as equals.
For a time, peace seemed possible once more. The fighting slowed, and for the first time since the fusion began, both sides took a breath.
But peace is fragile. And every beginning has an end.
The end came far sooner than expected.
The orcs grew more aggressive. They were no longer just raiders or wandering warriors—they were organized. Their strategies became sharper, their numbers more disciplined. And then, their leaders began to arrive.
The shamans.
These were not simple magic-users. The orcish shamans were masters of mana, wielding a form of sorcery unlike anything humans had ever encountered. They called upon the rift, summoning nightmarish creatures to fight by their side. Entire villages fell overnight to these new horrors, their defenders overwhelmed by beasts that should not have existed.
The tide of war turned.
The native species—humans, dwarves, and elves—were pushed back. The awakened, once the hope of humanity, now found themselves hunted. The orc shamans targeted them relentlessly, as if they feared what they could become.
Then came the plague.
Diseases spread across the land, wiping out entire towns. No one knew whether it came from the rift, the orcs, or something else entirely. But famine soon followed. Crops failed, animals died, and desperation grew.
The Dreadmore Zone itself turned against us.
Creatures more terrifying than anything we had ever seen began to emerge. Enormous winged beasts attacked from the skies, reducing entire settlements to ashes before disappearing into the night. No one knew where they came from, or if they even had a home at all.
Hope was beginning to fade.
But in the darkest moments, light shines the brightest.
We captured a shaman.
It did not speak easily, but after enduring what some would call interrogation—and others would call torture—it revealed something we had never even imagined.
The rift was not just a gateway for monsters. It was not only a means for destruction.
It was an opportunity.
The shamans did not merely summon creatures from the rift. They formed bonds with them. And humans—if we were strong enough—could do the same.
The key was a magic circle, a complex structure formed through mastery of mana manipulation. But the captured shaman's knowledge was incomplete—some of the most crucial nodes were missing. Without them, the ritual was useless.
That was when we looked back at the ruins.
The symbols on the ancient walls—the ones no one had been able to decipher—were the missing pieces.
And so, for the first time, humans entered the rift willingly.
The first expeditions were disasters. Those who sought only power fell quickly, their bodies crushed by the very creatures they tried to command. It was not a matter of strength alone—there was a limit, something we called summoning strain. No one could form a bond with a beast beyond their own mana capacity.
We had to start small. The first successful summons were weak—mere shadows compared to the nightmares the shamans controlled. But they grew. And as they did, so did our understanding. Soon, the rift was no longer just a battlefield. It became a resource. We discovered plants with healing properties, leading to the rise of the first alchemists. The first potions were brewed, capable of healing wounds that would have once been fatal.
Humanity adapted. We learned, we specialized, we evolved. And for the first time since the war began, we stood equal to the orcs.
The fighting reached a standstill. For decades, neither side could gain the upper hand. The war did not end—but for a time, it paused.
Until now. Torvik fell silent, his words lingering in the air like a ghost. No one spoke. No one even breathed. Because we all knew what his last words meant.
The war was no longer in the past...
Rufus finally stepped forward, clearing his throat. "And that, students, is the foundation of our history. The truth that is often forgotten."
I stared at my desk, absorbing everything. The orcs weren't the enemy. The war wasn't about conquest. It was about survival—two worlds trying to coexist, two civilizations struggling to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs. And the Dreadmore… It wasn't just a jungle. It was a doorway, still open, still shifting. A place where the past, the present, and the unknown future met.
And something told me—our history with it wasn't over yet.