The moon watched everything.

  Cold. High. Unchanging.

  On a cliff that seemed to tear the sky apart, five figures emerged from the darkness. They didn’t walk there—they simply were. As if the night itself had decided to take form.

  They wore thick black cloaks, tailored to hide any trace of humanity. No exposed skin. No visible faces. Only still silhouettes against the pale moonlight.

  Below them, far below, a village pulsed with life.

  Torches stuck in stakes lit narrow streets. Wooden and stone houses formed irregular circles. Orcs walked freely, laughing loudly, arguing, living. Children ran with pieces of bread in their hands. The smell of roasted meat mixed with smoke.

  It was a simple village.

  It was a living village.

  The five figures watched in silence.

  The wind blew stronger over the cliff, making the cloaks flutter like dead wings.

  Then, the figure on the far left stepped forward.

  — Tonight… — the voice, deep and echoing under the hood, said — …is my night.

  None of the others moved.

  — I don’t want interruptions, — he added, with a low laugh carrying something far from joy.

  Without waiting for a response, he advanced.

  The cliff disappeared behind him.

  The body fell.

  No scream. No hesitation. Just a free fall toward the illuminated village below, like a predator diving onto unsuspecting prey.

  In the village, the night continued normally.

  Near a central fire, three orc warriors arm-wrestled, pounding the makeshift table and laughing when one lost. Women carried baskets along the streets. Children played hide-and-seek among the houses.

  Until one stopped.

  A small orc child, skin still smooth and green, looked toward the village entrance.

  Something was wrong.

  Between two torches, a figure slowly approached.

  Tall. Wrapped in a black cloak that seemed to absorb the light around it. From one hand hung a long, heavy chain dragging across the ground. At the end, a massive flail carved deep grooves into the earth.

  The metallic sound echoed.

  Dragged. Rhythmic.

  The child’s heart raced.

  — Father… — he whispered.

  An adult orc noticed the child’s gaze, turned… and froze.

  Instinct took over.

  He grabbed the child by the shoulders and shoved him back.

  — Run. — his voice low, urgent. — Warn the others. Now.

  The child obeyed without question.

  The orc advanced a few steps, chest puffed, gripping his improvised spear tightly.

  — Hey! — he shouted. — Who are you?

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The figure stopped.

  Silence fell heavy.

  — This is an orc village, — the warrior continued. — We don’t like intruders.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then, beneath the hood, something moved.

  A smile.

  The chain began to spin.

  The sound changed.

  The air was cut by the whirring of the flail, gaining speed.

  — Let’s see if you can entertain me… — the voice vibrated with contained excitement. — I’m furious tonight.

  The attack came without warning.

  The flail shot through the distance like lightning.

  The impact was sharp.

  The orc’s head simply vanished. Fragments of bone, blood, and flesh scattered across the ground. The body dropped to its knees, blood gushing from the severed neck, before collapsing heavily.

  For a moment, the village was silent.

  Then—

  Screams.

  Panic.

  Women dropped baskets, children cried, orcs turned without understanding.

  The figure in black advanced.

  — No… — he said, opening his arms slowly. — Don’t run.

  He ran.

  The massacre began.

  The flail spun like a black sun. Every strike was final. Skulls crushed against walls. Bodies thrown far enough to be beyond recognition. The ground quickly turned slippery with blood.

  A woman fell as she tripped. He stepped on her head without pause.

  Two children tried to hide under a table. The flail passed through wood and flesh in the same swing.

  The village screamed.

  One child ran toward the exit.

  The flail was thrown.

  The chain slithered through the air—

  CLANG!

  The attack was interrupted.

  A sword intercepted the flail at the last second.

  The figure in black stopped.

  An orc stepped in front of the child.

  Tall. Muscular. Wearing worn plate armor, marked by countless battles. The sword in his hands trembled—not from fear, but from rage.

  He shoved the child back without looking.

  — Run, — he ordered.

  The hooded man tilted his head.

  — Oh… — he murmured. — Finally.

  The smile beneath the hood widened.

  — Someone serious to play with.

  The orc took a combat stance, feet firmly planted on the bloodied ground.

  — You will pay, — he said, voice firm. — For every single one of them.

  The flail spun back into motion.

  The air seemed to vibrate.

  The attack hit the ground.

  The explosion carved a huge crater, sending debris and bodies flying. Nearby houses collapsed.

  The orc leaped at the same moment.

  In midair, he raised his sword above his head and dove toward his enemy.

  The hooded man reacted swiftly.

  He pulled the chain with force, wrapping it around his arms. A second flail appeared in the other hand.

  Sword and flails collided.

  Sparks lit the night.

  The clash echoed through the ruined village like a funeral bell.

  The orc spun in the air and landed, carving grooves into the bloodied ground. Before he could recover, the chain whistled back.

  The flail came low.

  He jumped.

  The impact destroyed what remained of a house behind him, scattering wood and stone in all directions.

  The hooded man advanced, now wielding two flails. The chains crossed, spun, whipping the air with calculated violence. Every step turned the terrain into ruin.

  The orc struck first.

  The sword described a perfect arc, aiming for the neck.

  The man blocked with his chain-wrapped forearm. The metal groaned under impact, but he did not retreat.

  He countered with a direct strike to the orc’s chest, sending him flying several meters, crashing through a wall.

  The orc rolled across the ground, spat blood… and rose.

  His eyes burned.

  He advanced again, leaping through the wreckage. The sword descended.

  This time, it hit.

  The blade sank into the man’s abdomen.

  Blood dripped.

  The orc held his breath, waiting for a scream. A moan. Any reaction.

  Nothing.

  The man looked down. Then… laughed.

  — Ah… — he said, genuine pleasure in his voice. — Is that it?

  His hand closed around the sword.

  The orc tried to pull it back, but it was as if it were stuck in living stone.

  — Leave it, — the man muttered. — Now you come with me.

  He yanked the orc toward him and slammed his own head against the orc’s.

  The sound was dry.

  The world spun.

  The orc fell to his knees.

  Before he could react, he was hit by a brutal flail strike to the chest. Bones broke, armor shattered, he rolled across the ground like a broken doll.

  He tried to stand.

  His legs failed.

  The man in black approached slowly, blood streaming from his abdomen as if it were irrelevant.

  — Get up, — he taunted. — Amuses me more this way.

  The orc, struggling for breath, grabbed a fallen sword. With his last ounce of strength, he threw it.

  The blade spun through the air.

  It struck the man’s face.

  The impact tore skin, opening a deep gash.

  The hood fell.

  For a moment, everything froze.

  The revealed face was bald, scarred from countless battles. Cold, empty eyes. The face of someone forged only by war and death.

  Blood ran from the cut… and the smile vanished.

  — … — his silence was worse than a scream.

  The man walked toward the orc.

  Grabbed him by the foot.

  And began.

  He smashed the body against the ground. Against one house. Against another. Bones cracked with every impact.

  When he finished, he dropped the mangled corpse.

  Spat on it.

  Turned.

  The village was silent.

  He walked out, climbing back toward the cliff.

  Above, the other four watched, like spectators at a mundane show.

  — Seems it wasn’t that fun after all, — one laughed.

  — Shut up, Herd, — said the man, wiping blood from his face with his forearm.

  A third, leaning against a tree, finally spoke. Voice low, controlled.

  — You killed them all? — he asked. — No one saw your face, Grund?

  Grund took a deep breath.

  — Yes, — he replied.

  The man stepped from the tree.

  Every step he took made the leaves around him still. The wind stopped. The world seemed to hold its breath.

  When he reached the cliff’s edge, he raised his arm.

  — Then… — he said calmly — why is that child still alive?

  Grund felt blood run cold.

  Below, amidst broken trees, a small figure trembled, feeling a gaze beyond comprehension.

  Grund began to sweat.

  — Leader… I…

  The sky darkened.

  A colossal shadow formed above the destroyed village.

  A black star was born among the clouds.

  It fell.

  The meteor descended like the end of the world.

  The impact obliterated everything.

  The cliff shook violently, ripping the hoods from the other three. Only the leader’s hood remained intact.

  Grund fell to his knees.

  — Please… — he begged. — Forgive me…

  The leader turned.

  In the blink of an eye, he stood before him.

  His hand closed around Grund’s head.

  A dry sound.

  Nothing more.

  One of the survivors silently offered a cloth. The leader wiped his hands calmly, as if nothing had happened.

  Another looked to the sky.

  A different star shone now. Bright. Intense.

  — Leader… — he said. — Seems the time has come.

  The man raised his gaze.

  — Then new players arrive… — he murmured.

  A smile invisible beneath the hood.

  — There are never too many pawns on my board.

  And they stood there.

  Watching the star.

  Watching the beginning of the game.