The moon hung low, fat and red, over the village of the Orcus Viridi clan.
It was a rare night. One without war drums, without hunting cries, without the stench of human blood on the wind. The orc camp pulsed with quiet, peaceful life. Fires burned low as the chieftain, Grukk Ironjaw, sat cross-legged outside his hut, cradling something far more fragile than any axe or blade.
A child. His newborn son.
The boy was small — his skin pale green, eyes barely open — and for the first time in many winters, Grukk felt something other than hunger or rage stir in his chest. Pride. Hope. Perhaps even... peace.
His mate, Brekka, lay nearby, exhausted but smiling. The elders had gathered earlier, offering thick-stalked herbs and blessings for strong tusks and a fearless heart. The younglings had finished their evening sparring and clustered around the fire to listen to the oldest among them tell the story of the Great Hunt — the day their ancestors repelled the human raiders from the west. A day of glory. A day of unity.
They were not monsters tonight.
They were simply living.
Warriors stripped of their iron plates lounged around the fire, swapping crude jokes and gnawing on salted wolf meat. The blacksmith's hammer was silent for once. Even the whelps, usually wild and unruly, sat in quiet curiosity, peeking at the new cub wrapped in bearskin.
The smell of rain clung faintly to the night air, mixing with the woodsmoke. Somewhere, a lone flute drifted from one of the huts — an old orcish lullaby, sung for newborns and dying warriors alike.
Grukk looked down at his son's tiny hands, barely strong enough to grip his finger, and muttered under his breath:
"Kik... welcome to this ugly world, little one. But you'll make it strong. Stronger than me."
The elders nodded in approval. Tomorrow there would be feasts, and new names, and the sharpening of blades. The world was always dangerous beyond their wooden walls — but here, for now, they were safe.
Or so they believed.
High above them, hidden beneath the black canopy of leaves, two crimson eyes watched from the treeline.
Daemon sat silent on the back of Caldrin, his stallion. Beside him floated Nyxtriel, her pale hands twitching like a child who couldn't wait to unwrap a gift.
"Such a sweet little scene," she whispered, voice soft as silk. "They look so... peaceful, father."
Daemon's gaze never wavered.
"Peace is an illusion," he muttered. "And tonight, they'll learn it."
The sound of soft boots landing in the center of the camp echoed like a stone dropped in still water.
Nyxtriel stood there, pale and calm — her silver-white hair catching the moonlight, her crimson eyes gleaming like the devil's lanterns.
The moment the orcs saw her, the air shattered.
"Kik... intruder!"
The cries of alarm rang out, crude voices howling through the village as the warriors scrambled for weapons. Battle instincts flared. The old, the young, the strong — all surged forward, their pride roaring louder than their fear.
One by one, they charged.
But Nyxtriel didn't even blink.
"You green bastards tried to hurt my father," she whispered, voice soaked in venom. "Now I'll turn your village into a desert."
Her hands melted into sleek blades, black and curved like a predator's fangs — and the massacre began.
Limbs and heads fell like ripe fruit beneath her blades. Blood sprayed the wooden walls. The orcs' battle cries turned into wet gurgles, one after another. She moved like a phantom — too fast, too sharp, too merciless.
In the chief's tent, the guards burst in, faces pale, voices trembling.
"Kik! Chief! Intruder... too strong! She—she's cutting them down like twigs!"
Grukk Ironjaw, the chieftain, bared his tusks. His newborn still swaddled behind him.
"Kik... you woke me for this insult?" His pride hissed in his throat. "A warrior answers insult with blood."
He grabbed his axe, the metal still cold from its last sharpening, and stormed out.
What greeted him was a graveyard.
His entire clan was strewn across the ground — their bodies ripped, limbs severed, skulls crushed under Nyxtriel's blades.
"Kik... my clan... my people..." His voice cracked, a raw mixture of rage and grief. His muscles tensed as he raised his axe, his aura flaring in full force.
But before he could step forward, the ground quaked.
Daemon landed, soft and unhurried, a shockwave splitting the earth as his boots touched down.
"Hello, green bastard," Daemon said, brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes. "Do you remember me?"
The chief froze, tusks twitching.
"Kik... impossible... thought you dead."
"Not really," Daemon smiled, tying his hair lazily. "Thanks to you, I've grown stronger. I even found my sword."
"Kik... you bastard human...!"
Daemon rolled his shoulders, stretching like a cat before the hunt. His voice dropped to a quiet, almost polite tone.
"Before we fight, let me show you a little trick."
The chief tilted his head, confused.
Daemon's voice darkened.
"Hell's Echo."
The world lit up.
A blooming mushroom cloud of hellfire swallowed the edges of the village — turning huts, walls, and earth into black glass. Where once stood orcs, only jagged statues remained, their faces twisted in the last moments of agony, locked in blackened, eternal screams.
The chief staggered, helpless, as his home, his history, his people burned away.
"Kik... no... my clan... my son...!" His roar cracked the sky. "I'LL KILL YOOOUUU!"
But the moment he lunged, Nyxtriel shifted — her body melting back into the blade, sliding into Daemon's waiting hand.
Daemon's eyes glinted.
"Too slow."
With one clean stroke, the orc chief's head rolled off his shoulders.
Daemon wiped the blade on the chief's fur cloak, standing amid the ash and ruin.
"Pathetic," he whispered. "In the end, all of you were just kindling for the fire."
The village was silent.
Only the crackle of fading flames answered back.