The fall of the mines came fast and brutal, like a storm that had been building for days finally breaking loose. Every goblin resistance crumbled one by one—barricades shattered under orc boots, traps sprung too late or not at all, hidden groups of fighters cut down before they could even raise their weapons. The tunnels echoed with screams and the wet thud of axes meeting flesh. Blood painted the walls in long, sticky streaks, and the air grew thick with the iron smell of death. Goblins ran or hid, but there was no escaping the green tide pouring in from every entrance. The orcs were unstoppable now, every path cleared, every corner turned into a slaughter pen.

In the main area. Kraghul straddled Byung's small body, pinning him to the cold stone floor with knees like iron clamps. The goblin's arms were trapped, his knife long gone, scattered somewhere in the dust and debris. Kraghul's fists came down like hammers from a forge, each punch a thunderclap that filled the space with the sickening crack of bone and the wet smack of splitting flesh. Byung's face was a ruined mess—swollen beyond recognition, one eye pulped shut, the other staring up through a haze of blood and tears. His skull felt like it was cracking open slowly, pressure building with every blow, his brain rattling inside like a broken toy. Even if he survived this, a big if, with stars exploding in his vision and darkness creeping in at the edges, there was no way he'd come out whole. Permanent damage—memory lost, thoughts slowed, maybe never even regaining mobility again like he was in his past life. Each fist drove deeper, turning his head into pulp, the pain a white-hot scream that drowned everything else.

Byung gasped, trying to twist free, but Kraghul's weight was a mountain. The orc leaned in closer, tusk bared in a grin that showed no mercy, just pure enjoyment.

"Hold still, little one," he growled between punches.

"Almost done breaking you," Kraghul muttered under his breath.

Then, from quite some distance, two small voices pierced the haze.

"Stop! Please!" The voices begged in unison.

Sneegle and Poggle burst into the scene, their tiny goblin frames shaking as they skidded to a halt. They were young and frightened, faces smeared with dirt and tears. They had been hiding deeper in, but the screams had drawn them out. Now they stood frozen, eyes wide at the sight of Kraghul's massive form pounding Byung into the stone.

Kraghul paused mid-swing, his bloodied fist hovering. He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing in irritation. Where were they all coming from? First the female orcs, then the cannibal, now these runts? They kept popping up like weeds in a garden. His glare hit them like a physical blow—cold, empty, promising pain. The boys shook so hard their knees knocked together. Every instinct screamed at them to run, to hide, to save their own skins. But they saw Byung, their leader, their hero, the one who had given them hope, broken and bleeding, and something stronger than fear held them there.

"We have save him," Sneegle whispered to Poggle, voice trembling.

"Together," Poggle nodded, swallowing hard. They knew this was suicide.

They charged.

Two small goblins against one of the most powerful orcs. Sneegle with a broken spear-shaft, Poggle with a rock clutched in his fist. They screamed as they ran, high and desperate, throwing themselves at Kraghul's legs.

The orc didn't even stand.

His free arm swung out in a lazy backhand, catching both goblins at once. The blow was casual, like swatting flies, but the force behind it was devastating. Sneegle's spear snapped like a twig; his body flew sideways, crashing into the wall with a crunch of small bones. Poggle's rock tumbled away as he was lifted off his feet and hurled across the air, landing in a limp heap against a pillar.

Kraghul barely glanced at them. Just pests. He turned back to Byung, fist rising again.

"Time to end this,"

-

Drekk crouched in a hidden crevice, heart pounding as he watched the tide of death flow past. He had been directing and watching orcs, picking off the ones that wander too far or let their guard down—hit and run, slow the orcs down—but now he saw the odd pattern. More orc bodies than goblin in some spots which shouldn't be possible.

"They're coming from the shadows," Drekk muttered under his breath.

"Like ghosts," Drekk's nose twitched; the scents were wrong too—familiar goblin mixed with something sharper, hungrier.

At first, an orc here or there didn't come back from a patrol. Then the bodies appeared—orc bodies, piled in dark areas or slumped in pools of their own blood. Throats slit clean, heads bashed in, guts ripped open with claw-size that didn't match that of a goblin. It shouldn't be possible. The major fighters, Maui, Byung, Vrognut, were locked in battles deeper in, holding off the main push. These kills were scattered, quick, silent. How were the weak, starving goblins doing this?

The orcs were being killed and unless Maui could be at multiple places at the same time, there was no way the goblins could do this.

Drekk knew these weren't fighters, the goblins in these mines had no experience when it came to fighting.

Then he saw it: an orc with its back turned, standing alone at a tunnel fork, sniffing the air like they smelled prey.

This was an opportunity.

Drekk gripped his knife tight, slipping from his hiding spot on silent feet. The orc was big, armored, but exposed—helmet off, neck bare. Drekk's breath came shallow as he closed the distance. Ten paces. Five. Three. He raised the knife, aiming for the spine.

Then it hit him. Fear, Drekk froze in place.

True, bone-deep fear that locked his muscles like ice. His hand froze mid-strike. His knees buckled. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even blink. The knife trembled in his grip, inches from the orc's back.

The orc turned slowly, red eyes gleaming with indifference.

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