A group of orcs charged forward without a thought for survival, driven only by the frenzy of battle. They roared like beasts as they buried their blades into the tendons of a giant near me, hacking through flesh and miasma in desperate strikes.
Others climbed onto its back, scaling the living mountain that was that creature, trying to reach its joints. But their efforts were almost useless, the monster's ligaments were like tempered iron, too hard and too dense to cut. Even after dozens of blows, all they achieved was a trickle of black, foul-smelling blood oozing like burned oil.
'Standing still will get me killed.'
Without time to hesitate, I sprinted through the chaos, dodging broken spears and chunks of molten steel until I found a sword lying on the ground. It was rough and strange, made of something that looked like petrified wood but pulsed with a faint magical resonance.
I noticed that the orcs wielded theirs with ease, as if the weapons were extensions of their own bodies—so I decided to take the risk.
The body I inhabited now was not fragile.
It was strong, steady, built for combat.
Elastic muscles, quick reflexes, dense bones, this elf was definitely not just a mage.
I tried channeling my magic, but nothing happened.
The flow of mana was powerful, yet it refused to obey my will.
Whatever his affinity was, I still didn't understand it. So I took a deep breath, let instinct take over, and directed my spiritual energy straight into the blade.
It vibrated.
A pale light coated the edge, dense and uneven, and in a single leap, I hurled myself upward, twisting my body with all the strength I could muster.
The strike landed exactly on the giant's Achilles tendon, right where the orcs were concentrating their attacks.
"CRACK!"
A sharp snap echoed, followed by the deep, drawn-out sound of the Phantom Moon. "CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!"
The result was immediate.
The monster lost its balance. One of its feet gave way, and the ground shook like an earthquake. Dust, rocks, and bodies were flung into the air.
"ATTACK!!!" someone roared, their voice lost amid the pandemonium.
No one stopped to question what had happened.
No one tried to understand the miracle.
On that battlefield, any spark of luck was seized in desperation.
And in that moment—amid chaos and blood—even the moon seemed to scream for more war.
At the same time, a group of elves stepped back and raised their hands to the sky, forming a semicircle around the fallen giant. Their voices merged into an ancient chant, deep and dragging, rumbling like thunder beneath the earth.
Each word echoed in layers, calling upon the very essence of the forest—a living, ancient, and terrifyingly aware power.
From the blood that stains the soil, the seed of return shall sprout.
From the flesh of the enemy, we raise the roots of balance.
By the moon and the sap, let the forest reclaim what is hers.
The giant, wounded and enraged, tried to rise. Its body crashed against the ground, opening craters and making the earth scream under its weight. The air twisted from the sheer density of mana building around it. Then, the soil beneath it began to boil, cracking and splitting as if alive.
From the fissures, golden roots burst forth like starving serpents. They coiled around the monster's legs, climbing to its thighs and stabbing in like spears. The first roar was deafening. The creature thrashed, tearing up entire hills, but the roots kept climbing, relentless.
In seconds, they multiplied like a plague, binding its arms, neck, and torso. The ground rose under the force of the roots pushing upward until the giant was completely immobilized—pinned to the earth like a living offering.
Then came the grotesque part.
The roots began to search for openings—and they found them.
Through its eyes, thin, pulsing roots burrowed inward, piercing the eyeballs. Others invaded through the ears and mouth, shredding flesh and cracking teeth as they advanced. From its nose, black blood gushed in thick streams, but not even that slowed them down.
The giant's body convulsed violently, every muscle tightening like cords about to snap. The roots, now thicker and wilder, fed on its life force, growing and intertwining until the sound became unbearable—bones snapping, cartilage tearing, flesh being crushed from the inside out.
In moments, the roar turned to silence.
What remained was a monstrous, motionless shape—a colossal cocoon made of living wood and coagulated blood.
The roots kept pulsating, breathing slowly, as if the giant were still alive inside... merely transformed into fertile soil for something greater.
And for an instant, golden light glimmered through the cocoon, as if the forest had just claimed another soul for itself.
Even with the momentary victory, the scene around us was a cruel portrait of hell. The ground trembled with the distant echoes of battle, and the air stank of burnt iron and charred flesh. Bodies—or what was left of them—were scattered everywhere. The orcs who had bravely thrown themselves at the giant were now nothing more than bloodstains and crushed bones beneath the craters formed by its colossal hands.
A few elves staggered nearby, coughing up blood, their veins pulsing black beneath their pale skin. One by one, they collapsed, the light fading from their eyes as their bodies shriveled, turning gray and hollow—drained of life. It was an agonizing spectacle—and I was standing right in the middle of it.
"Shit..." I muttered, a shiver of despair crawling up my spine. I wasn't sure I could survive a few more hours here.
Before me, the horizon was devoured by an endless army of deformed titans. Each step they took made the ground tremble. And for every one that fell, dozens of elves and orcs died in return. It was a war without truce, without reason—a collective suicide disguised as divine trial.
"What is the purpose of this trial?" I murmured, my throat dry, heart sinking. No answer came — only the distant roar of beasts and the sound of hope being crushed into the earth.
The wind shifted.
At first, it was just a subtle breeze — cold, gentle — sliding across the ravaged plains, a whisper of hope carried between the echoes of explosions and screams. But it soon became a reinvigorating gale, carrying an ancient, almost sacred fragrance that flooded our lungs as if life itself had decided to pour back into us. The throbbing pain of wounds lessened, the air grew lighter, and for an instant... despair recoiled.
The sky, once stained with infernal red, began to change.
Greenish lines intertwined among the clouds like roots of light, tearing through the heavens in a silent spectacle. And then we saw it — a tiny point, a golden glimmer cutting through the winds above the legions, as small as an insect before the chaos that devoured the world.
But a single instant was enough. Its mere presence was enough.
"Itzamna... Itzamna... Itzamna... Itzamna..."
The chant began low, like a timid echo, and grew into a colossal march. Thousands of voices — elves and orcs alike — rose as one, striking weapons against shields, makeshift war drums reverberating across the battlefield.
The being floated above us — an elf in ceremonial robes, adorned like a high priest. His golden miter gleamed like a miniature sun, and three greenish orbs orbited him, pulsing in rhythm with his heart.
One of the orbs detached, rising into the skies. And, in a divine gesture, it exploded.
Not in light — but in life.
An emerald rain fell over the battlefield. The droplets glowed like mystical spores, and wherever they touched, miracles happened: wounds closed in an instant; the infected elves coughed up writhing miasmic worms that evaporated into the air; the orcs, once blinded by madness, regained focus and returned to battle with renewed roars.
But the balance didn't last long.
The ground split open with a thunderous roar.
From the heart of the enemy army, a colossus emerged — a two-headed giant clad in obsidian armor, wielding a flaming spear wrapped in black fire. Each step cracked the earth, and the air itself trembled around him.
He leapt, aiming straight for the elven priest.
Space around him warped, dimensional sparks ripping through the sky like electric serpents.
And then—
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
A colossal impact.
Another figure had appeared before the elf.
An orc, but not an ordinary one.
His green skin radiated with luminous hues, his eyes burned like emeralds, and his golden armor shimmered — light and fluid like woven radiance. Behind him, a vast magic circle opened, spinning like a sun of runes.
From within that circle, a titanic hand emerged — covered in armor made of pure energy — clashing against the tip of the black spear. The impact split the battlefield in two, raising a wall of dust and energy that swept through everything nearby.
And amidst the blinding light, as the world still echoed with thunder, the chant changed.
"Xolotl... Xolotl... Xolotl... Xolotl..."
This time, the roar did not come only from throats — it came from souls.
Two divinities now walked the battlefield.
The fighting resumed with the same frenzy as before, but now the armies of elves and orcs advanced together, pushing the horde of giants back. The atmosphere boiled with screams, magic, and steel — and that pulsating chaos set my blood on fire. Before I even realized it, I was marching, swept by the collective euphoria, my legs moving like those of a fanatic soldier charging toward the next enemy.
Even so, amid all that insanity, the questions wouldn't stop.
'Am I in Atlas this time? Is this some historical event that actually happened? I've never heard of a dungeon rift this massive... could I be witnessing the first wave? And who are these two figures? Even stranger, why are elves and orcs fighting together? I thought they hated each other...'
The doubts mingled with the sound of thunder and roars as the gods of war clashed in a titanic duel.
Xolotl, the orc in golden armor, fought the two-headed giant with a fury that tore through the air. Behind him, the magic circle spinning on his back expanded until it opened a portal, from which emerged a colossus of pure energy — a titanic luminous armor, even larger than the enemy. Its steps rang like war bells, and every strike made the ground quake.
At the same time, in the sky above, Itzamna hovered serenely amid the chaos. His orbs spun in harmony, and a golden magic circle slowly formed around him. With each passing second, the sacred symbol expanded by hundreds of meters, encompassing the entire battlefield, while lines of ancient runes danced within its light.