The moon watched everything.
Cold. High. Unchanging.
On a cliff that seemed to tear through the sky, 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, sewn to hide any trace of humanity. No exposed skin. No visible faces. Only motionless silhouettes against the pale glow of moonlight.
Below them, far below, a village pulsed with life.
Torches fastened to stakes illuminated narrow streets. Houses of wood and stone 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 that of smoke.
It was a simple village.
It was a living village.
The five figures watched in silence.
The wind blew stronger on the cliff, making the cloaks undulate like dead wings.
Then, the figure positioned furthest to the left took a step forward.
"Tonight…" he said, his deep voice echoing under the hood "…is my night."
None of the others moved.
"I don't want interruptions," he completed, with a low laugh, laden with something that wasn't joy.
Without waiting for an answer, he advanced.
The cliff was left behind.
The body fell.
There was no scream. No hesitation. Only the free fall toward the illuminated village, like a predator diving upon defenseless prey.
---
In the village, the night continued normally.
Near a central bonfire, three orc warriors competed in arm wrestling, pounding on the improvised table and guffawing when one of them lost. Women passed by carrying baskets. Children played hide-and-seek among the houses.
Until one of them stopped.
The orc child, small, greenish skin still smooth, looked toward the village entrance.
Something was wrong.
Between two torches, a figure approached slowly.
Tall. Wrapped in a black cloak that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. From his hand hung a long, heavy chain that dragged along the ground. At the end, an enormous flail scraped the earth, leaving deep grooves.
The metallic sound echoed.
Dragged. Rhythmic.
The child felt their heart race.
"Father…" they murmured.
An adult orc noticed the child's gaze, turned… and froze.
Instinct took over.
He grabbed the child by the shoulders and pushed them back.
"Run." His voice came out low, urgent. "Go warn the others. Now."
The child obeyed without question.
The orc then advanced a few steps, puffing out his chest, gripping firmly the improvised spear in his hands.
"Hey!" he shouted. "You there! Who are you?"
The figure stopped.
A heavy silence fell.
"This is an orc village," the warrior continued. "We don't like intruders."
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, under the hood, something moved.
A smile.
The chain began to spin.
The sound changed.
The air was cut by the whir of the flail gaining speed.
"Let's see if you entertain me…" said the figure, his voice vibrating with contained excitement. "I'm furious today."
The attack came without warning.
The flail crossed the distance like lightning.
The impact was dry.
The orc's head simply ceased to exist.
Fragments of bone, blood, and flesh scattered across the ground. The body fell to its knees, blood gushing from the open neck, before toppling heavily.
For a moment, the village fell silent.
Then—
Screams.
Panic.
Women dropped baskets and ran. Children cried. Orcs turned without understanding what was happening.
The black-cloaked figure advanced.
"No…" he said, slowly opening his arms. "Don't run."
He ran.
The massacre began.
The flail spun like a black sun. Each impact was definitive. Skulls crushed against walls. Bodies thrown too far to remain whole. The ground quickly became slippery with blood.
A woman fell when she stumbled. He stepped on her head without stopping.
Two children tried to hide under a table. The flail went through wood and flesh in the same blow.
The village screamed.
And he laughed.
In the chaos, a child ran toward the village exit.
The flail was thrown.
The chain serpentined through the air—
CLANG!
The attack was intercepted.
A sword stopped the flail at the last instant.
The black-cloaked figure stopped.
An orc appeared in front of the child.
Tall. Muscular. He wore worn plate armor, marked by ancient battles. The sword in his hands trembled, not from fear, but from rage.
He pushed the child back without looking.
"Run," he ordered.
The cloaked man tilted his head.
"Oh…" he murmured. "Finally."
The smile under the hood widened.
"Someone serious to play with."
The orc assumed a combat position, his feet firm on the blood-covered ground.
"You're going to pay," he said, his voice steady. "For each one of them."
The flail began to spin again.
The air seemed to vibrate.
The attack came with full force.
The impact hit the ground.
The explosion opened an enormous crater, launching debris and bodies into the air. Nearby houses collapsed instantly.
The orc jumped at the same instant.
In the air, he raised his sword above his head and dove toward the enemy.
The cloaked man reacted quickly.
He pulled the chain violently, wrapping it around his arms. A second flail appeared in his other hand.
Sword and flail collided.
Sparks illuminated the night.
The real combat began.
The clash between sword and flail echoed through the destroyed village like the sound of a funeral bell.
The orc spun his body in the air and landed hard, opening grooves in the bloodied ground. Before he could catch his breath, the chain whistled again.
The flail came low.
He jumped.
The impact destroyed what remained of a house behind him, scattering wood and stone in all directions.
The black-cloaked man advanced, now wielding two flails. The chains crossed, spun, whipped the air with calculated violence. Each step he took transformed the terrain into ruin.
The orc attacked first.
The sword described a perfect arc, aiming for the neck.
The man blocked with his forearm wrapped in the chain. The impact made the metal grind, but there was no retreat. He responded with a direct blow to the orc's chest, who was thrown several meters back, going through a wall.
The orc rolled on the ground, spat blood… and stood up.
His eyes burned.
He advanced again, jumping between the rubble, using the destruction as cover. The sword struck from top to bottom.
This time, it hit.
The blade sank into the black-cloaked man's stomach.
Blood flowed.
The orc held his breath, expecting a scream. A moan. Any reaction.
Nothing.
The man looked down.
Then… laughed.
"Ah…" he said, with genuine pleasure in his voice. "Is that all?"
His hand closed around the blade.
The orc tried to pull the sword back, but it was as if it were stuck in living stone.
"Leave that there," the man murmured. "Now you come with me."
He pulled the orc forcefully and collided his own head against his.
The sound was dry.
The world spun.
The orc fell to his knees.
Before he could react, he was hit by a brutal blow from the flail to the chest. The impact threw him backward, tearing the armor, breaking bones, making him roll on the ground like a broken doll.
He tried to get up.
His legs failed.
The cloaked man approached slowly, the blood dripping from the wound in his stomach as if it were irrelevant.
"Get up," he taunted. "It entertains me more that way."
The orc, breathing with difficulty, grabbed a fallen sword nearby. With the last remnant of strength, he threw it.
The blade spun in the air.
It hit the man's face.
The impact tore the skin, opening a deep cut.
The hood fell.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze.
The revealed face was bald, marked by old scars. Cold eyes, empty of any empathy. The face of someone shaped only by war and death.
Blood ran down the cut… and the smile disappeared.
"…" His silence was worse than a scream.
The man walked to the orc.
Grabbed him by the foot.
And began.
He slammed his body against the ground.
Against a house.
Against another.
The sound of breaking bones mixed with the crack of shattered wood. Each impact extinguished a little more of what remained of that warrior.
When he finished, he dropped the deformed body on the ground.
Spat on it.
Turned.
The village was dead.
Silence.
He walked out of the village, climbing again toward the cliff.
Up there, the other four watched as if watching a common spectacle.
"Looks like it wasn't that fun after all," one of them laughed.
"Shut up, Herd," the man replied, wiping the blood from his face with his forearm.
A third, leaning against a tree, finally spoke. His voice was low, controlled.
"Did you kill everyone?" he asked. "Nobody saw your face, Grund?"
Grund took a deep breath.
"Yes," he answered. "Everyone."
The man pushed himself off the tree.
He began to walk.
Each step he took made the surrounding leaves stop moving. The wind ceased. The world seemed to hold its breath.
When he reached the cliff's edge, he raised his arm.
Pointed.
"So…" he said calmly "why is that child still alive?"
Grund felt his blood freeze.
Down below, among broken trees, a small figure was hiding. The orc child trembled, feeling a chill run down their spine, as if something was watching them 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.
An absurd explosion shook the cliff, creating a wind wave so violent it tore off the hoods of the other three. Only the leader's hood remained intact.
Grund fell to his knees.
"Please…" he begged. "Forgive me…"
The leader turned his head.
In the blink of an eye, he was before him.
His hand closed around Grund's head.
A dry sound.
Nothing more.
The body fell lifeless.
One of the survivors approached in silence, offering a cloth. The leader calmly cleaned his hands, as if nothing had happened.
Another looked at the sky.
A different star now shone. Clear. Intense.
"Leader…" he said. "It seems the time has come."
The man raised his gaze.
"So new players are coming…" he murmured.
An invisible smile formed under the hood.
"You can never have too many new pawns on my board."
And they remained there.
Watching the star.
Watching the beginning of the game.