The clash of steel against iron shook the street with a violent crack, sending ripples through the rain-slicked puddles at their feet. Sparks burst with every impact, flashes of ember illuminating the storm-soaked darkness. Langston's sword rang out as it deflected another thunderous strike from Orgrim's war hammer—its sheer weight and force almost too much to bear.
There was no mistaking it: Orgrim had always been a force of nature. Even back during Langston's tours through the Vol'dunin plains, he had quietly feared what might happen if the Warsong Chief ever abandoned his peaceful ways. Had Orgrim shared Zhor's lust for conquest, the outcome of that war would've looked very different. Vol'dunin would've burned in days.
Langston slashed across Orgrim's torso—deep, clean, practiced. But the wound vanished before his eyes, sealing shut in a hiss of fire, flesh reknitting, cloth mending, as though it had never been. Whatever power ran through Orgrim now… it wasn't natural.
The orc retaliated, swinging his hammer in a brutal arc. Langston caught the blow with his blade, steel screaming against blackened iron—but the force was overwhelming. It launched him backward, his boots skidding, body slamming against the pavement. He tumbled across the wet asphalt, coming to a breathless stop, his sword clattering somewhere between them.
Orgrim stalked forward, looming like a shadow cut from flame. He glanced down at the sword before sending it skidding across the ground with a swift, contemptuous kick. The blade scraped to a stop just inches from Langston, now on his hands and knees, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
"Pick it up," Orgrim said.
He raised his hammer, veins of flame pulsing down its length.
"Pick it up."
Langston didn't move.
"Pick it up!" Orgrim roared, the sound reverberating through the street like a quake.
Langston's hand trembled as he reached for the hilt, fingers wrapping around it with effort. He staggered to his feet, soaked, bloodied, but still breathing. Still standing.
"Zhor wanted you and your tribe dead," Langston said through clenched teeth. His grip on the sword faltered, the hilt trembling in his hand "And the first thing you did after selling your soul to Nemesis… was butcher the orcs of Blackrock?"
"Every. Last. One," Orgrim confirmed. "Every man. Every woman. Every child. Every orc who bore the black mark. Every tribe that offered them shelter. Every soul who still clung to their wretched cause."
His amber eyes narrowed.
"For seven days and seven nights, the rivers of Vol'dunin ran red. The skies choked with smoke. Mountains of corpses, piled high as the clouds. The air thick with the stench of scorched flesh, of hair, of ash. The cries of the dying, the screams of the broken—" his voice dropped, quieter now—"snuffed out, one by one."
He paused.
"And still, even surrounded by ruin, the fire in me burned hotter. Because the one truly responsible still lived. Still walked free. Unburdened. Untouched. And I swore—" his grip tightened around his hammer—"I would never rest. Never stop. Not until he sees what I saw. Feels what I felt."
"The blood of your tribe is on Zhor's hands—and mine!" Langston shouted, ragged with fury and guilt. "But you—you murdered those who had nothing to do with our betrayal!" He spat onto the rain-slicked ground, eyes blazing. "And now you speak of retribution, as if the world owes it to you? Don't fool yourself, Orgrim. In the end, you're no better than he was."
His gaze dropped.
"No better than I am."
A long silence hung in the air, broken only by the rain.
Then Orgrim spoke, low and steady. "Better?" he repeated. "What gave you the impression I was trying to be better?"
Langston looked up.
"How deluded are you to think I ever meant to rise above Zhor? Above you? No, Langston. I'm not better than you. Not better than the beasts we used to hunt on the plains." He took a slow breath. "And I'm done pretending I ever wanted to be."
"I spent too long believing in peace. Living in the comfort of lies. But there's a truth we orcs have always known—one carved into our bones: blood begets blood. Death begets death."
His fingers flexed around the shaft of his hammer. "Zhor forgot that truth. Grew fat on stolen land. Thought no one would ever reach him. And for a long time… he was right." He stepped forward. "Until he met me."
He pointed his hammer at Langston.
"And you… and your Tower?" he sneered. "You're just like him. Proud. Arrogant. You think yourselves untouchable—beyond judgment, beyond consequence. But we've crawled out of the blackest pits of Hell to remind you... no one is."
Langston closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the heaviness settle in his chest before he spoke again. "I always feared my sins would come back for me—and that when they did, the price would be more than I could bear." His gaze rose to meet Orgrim's. "I was weak. Misguided. And above all… afraid."
Rain trailed down his face like tears he refused to shed. "I watched as good men—boys—fell on the battlefield. The Tower kept sending them, one after another, and I buried more of them than I could ever count. Sons who never knew the taste of drink. The touch of a woman. Futures stolen before they'd even begun." He drew a trembling breath. "And when the chance came to end it all… to send the rest of them home alive—I took it."
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Knuckles pale against the rain-slicked steel. "It wasn't my call to make," he said quietly. "And for that… I am sorry."
He drew a breath, steady but heavy, each word weighed with years of buried guilt. "I know how hollow that sounds. I know it won't bring them back, or erase what's been done. There's no redemption for this. No justice, not really. Just scars."
"I know your wrath. I know you've spoken my name like a curse in the dark. I know you dream of my death to silence the storm inside you."
Langston stepped forward, sword low, exposed. "If that's what you need—then take it. I give it to you freely. No defiance. No resistance. If my death grants you peace, I'll meet it with open arms."
His gaze dropped, then lifted again, sharpened with anguish. "But why…" he gestured to where Iris lay, broken and still. "Why her, Orgrim? She had nothing to do with this. Why did you have to take her?"
For a moment, there was only rain—the soft, relentless patter on stone and steel, the steady rhythm of grief. Then, Orgrim laughed. Low at first. Bitter. A sound carved from pain and madness.
"I told you, blood begets blood," he echoed, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. "And death… begets death. She's just the first. One more life snuffed out. Another name carved into your beloved ledger of acceptable losses. More collateral for the sins you've never truly reckoned with."
He narrowed his gaze to Langston, eyes burning amber beneath the downpour. "For twenty years, I've asked that same question. It clawed at my mind every waking moment—why. Why them. Why my family. Why my tribe. Why not you. And if I'd split your skull the moment you stepped into my camp, maybe—just maybe—they'd still be alive."
He tilted his head. "You ask me why I killed her." His fingers flexed around the hilt of his weapon. "But I think you already know the answer." His smirk faded into a snarl. "And if you don't… you're about to learn it—the same way I did."
Without warning, Orgrim vanished in a whirl of smoke and fire. All that remained was a sudden void, a gust of scorched wind, and the flash of glowing embers swirling in the downpour.
He reappeared a heartbeat later, materializing in a plume of shadow directly in front of the Captain. Langston barely had time to raise his blade before the hammer struck. Steel met steel.
And then steel broke.
The blade of Langston's broadsword exploded into a dozen jagged fragments, shards of silver ringing through the air as if the heavens themselves had shattered. The force of the impact sent him flying—his boots skidding across the flooded street before he slammed into the ground with a sickening thud, the breath ripped from his lungs. He rolled once, twice, before settling in a heap, the remains of his sword clattering several feet away.
Rain hammered down without mercy. The street, dimly lit by the flickering neon of storefront signs and amber streetlamps, glistened like obsidian glass. Langston groaned, lifting his face just enough to spit blood into a nearby puddle. His chest heaved, his fingers clawing at the slick asphalt.
Heavy footfalls broke the silence.
Orgrim approached slowly; every step punctuated by the low grind of his war hammer dragging behind him. He stopped a few feet away from the Captain's crumpled form, staring down at him without pity.
"You know," he said at last, "I actually thought you'd give me more than this."
Rain trickled down his face, mixing with soot and ash.
"Time after time, I've replayed this very moment. Pictured our last meeting a thousand different ways. The clash of steel, the fury of old wounds. You, standing tall and defiant… me, relentless and burning." His grip on the hammer tightened. "But this? You helpless, broken, and at the mercy of the one you betrayed?" He shook his head. "Yet, all I feel is… cold."
Langston didn't flinch. His gaze remained downcast.
"Take what you came for," he murmured. "Finish it."
Orgrim drew a long breath. His muscles coiled as he raised the hammer high, its head crackling with a dull ember-glow—
Then came the crash.
Something dropped from the sky like a thunderbolt, landing between them with explosive force. The head of the hammer met iron—not Langston's blade, but another. Sparks erupted as steel ground against steel, and the pavement beneath their feet spiderwebbed with fractures.
A tall figure stood protectively over the fallen Captain, braced behind a massive greatsword, its blade wide and humming with mechanical energy. Neon glinted off his soaked uniform.
"Bastion…?" Langston croaked, stunned.
The young soldier flashed a strained smile, even as his knees threatened to buckle beneath the force of the blow. "Hey, Cap. You know, I was planning on calling it early tonight. Hot bath. Maybe a book." He growled. "But you just had to make a mess."
With a sharp grunt, Bastion twisted, forcing the hammer back. Orgrim was shoved a few steps away, just enough to reset his stance.
The greatsword's engine hissed. Bastion rolled the grip like a throttle—runes along the weapon's spine flared to life in brilliant orange, steam hissing between glowing seams.
"Exceed mode—engaged," a mechanical voice intoned. "Limit Break!"
Bastion's fingers gripped the trigger nestled beneath the guard.
"Clim—" He brought his blade down, fire trailing his arc. "—hazard!"
A flaming crescent burst from his blade with a deafening roar, the heat distorting the rain midair. It carved through the darkness like a scythe, screaming toward the orc. Orgrim snarled, planting his feet wide. His hammer spun like a wheel, smashing the wave apart with one savage sweep. Flames scattered, vanishing in the downpour.
Smoke coiled around him. His amber eyes fixed on the new arrival.
"So…" he rumbled. "You must be the Reinhardt."
Bastion stepped forward, his massive sword resting across one shoulder. His mismatched eyes burned with quiet defiance.
"Damn right I am."
****
Bastion's eyes swept across the wreckage around them, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The street was in ruin—the asphalt beneath their feet fractured and cratered, scorched black where flame and fury had collided. The front of the diner was half-collapsed, windows shattered into glittering shards, the metal counter inside twisted and bloodstained.
Then he saw her.
Iris.
Her body lay still, crumpled against the base of the counter. Crimson smeared across the chrome like a brutal painting. His eyes went wide, just for a moment. Long enough to feel it twist in his gut. Long enough for the rage to find a place to root.
He tore his gaze away, jaw clenched, and brought it back to the orc looming before him.
"I knew your grandfather, boy," Orgrim said. "And I must say… you remind me of him." His amber eyes flicked to the crimson blade resting on Bastion's shoulder. "That sword of yours—it reeks of Wilhelm's stubbornness. He too had a taste for weapons too big for the hand."
His gaze hardened. "My hammer never crossed blades with Overdeath's axe, but… I used to wonder how it might have ended."
Bastion exhaled, his grip tightening around the hilt. "You're one to talk," he muttered, nodding toward the war hammer. "S'not exactly travel-sized."
Orgrim cracked a faint grin, but the moment was broken by the distant rumble of engines.
They turned.
From both ends of the street, a dozen Clock Tower vehicles tore into the scene—armored cruisers and heavy-response transports kicking up fountains of water as they stopped hard across the road. The glow of red and blue lights bathed the rain-slicked buildings, dancing like warning flares on the broken walls and broken glass.
Doors slammed open. Boots hit pavement.
Armored AEGIS Guardians poured out, swords raised and wands at the ready. Every man and woman clad head to toe in riot gear, faces hidden behind visors, breath fogging their helmets. The rain clattered against their suits in a deafening chorus as they formed a perimeter, weapons trained squarely on Orgrim.
Among them, one figure stepped out—uncovered by armor, but no less commanding.
Sheriff George Hartshorne.
The rain hit him full-force, soaking his trench coat to the bone, but he strode forward with the measured steps of a man with purpose. His face was grim, carved from stone.
Langston rose shakily to his feet, clutching his side. His ribs screamed in protest, but he forced himself upright, the weight of everything collapsing around him.
His voice cracked as he turned to the Sheriff. "George? What is this? How… how did you know I was here?"
Bastion flicked his gaze to the older man. A short, humorless scoff escaped his lips—but he said nothing, not yet. His blade remained on his shoulder. His stance ready.
The rain poured harder. The street, shattered and war-torn, stood still once more. Everyone waited for the Sheriff to answer. For what would come next.
Orgrim, however, didn't move. He just watched.
"It's over, Darqtide," Hartshorne called out, cutting through the rainfall like a bullet. "You're surrounded and outnumbered. So, here's how this goes—come quietly, and maybe I'll show you a shred of mercy. Tell me where Valerian and the rest of your little pack are hiding, and perhaps I'll see to it you get a cleaner death than you deserve."
Orgrim let out a quiet chuckle, more amused than threatened. "Sheriff Hartshorne," he said slowly, turning his amber eyes toward the man with icy disdain, "how fitting that the Director would send one of his most loyal hounds to do his bidding."
He glanced toward Langston, then back at the growing wall of armed men. "And to think… you'd use your golden boy as bait." His lip curled. "Even for you, that's low."
Langston's eyes widened, the words sinking in like cold steel. "George?" he asked, stepping forward. "What the hell is he talking about?"
Hartshorne said nothing. His face remained set in stone.
"Answer me!" Langston barked, louder. "What the hell does he mean?!"
But there was no answer. Only silence, punctuated by the steady patter of rain.
Orgrim shook his head with mock disappointment. "Lambs," he muttered. His gaze swept over the riot guards, each one frozen in their stance, fingers trembling against their weapons. "So eager to be led to slaughter."
His eyes returned to Langston. There was no hatred there. Only finality.
"One of many, Langston," he said quietly.
Langston felt his heart drop. "Orgrim…"
The orc's fingers closed tighter around the hilt of his hammer.
"Their blood is on your hands now."
"No—Orgrim, wait—!"
But the words came too late.
With a flash of embers and smoke, Orgrim vanished. The air where he'd stood crackled with lingering heat. He reappeared behind the first guard before the man even had time to scream.
The hammer came down like divine judgement.
Bone shattered. Flesh crumpled. Blood sprayed in an arc across the asphalt.
The body hit the ground in a twisted heap.
Orgrim turned.
Another swing.
Another scream.
Another life ended in an instant.
"Shit—!" Hartshorne's mask of composure cracked as he drew his wand. "Kill him! Kill him now!"
The command roared across the street. Chaos erupted. Spells cracked through the air. But Orgrim was already moving—dancing through the storm, a phantom of smoke and wrath. And one by one, the wolves were torn apart.
Bastion charged, both hands locked around the hilt of his greatsword, boots pounding against the rain-slick asphalt. A guttural roar tore from his chest as he swung the blade in a wide arc, the metal shrieking through the air.
Orgrim pivoted gracefully, just out of reach—the blade missed by inches and slammed into the street, carving a deep, molten scar in the pavement. Before Bastion could recover, the orc spun, his war hammer already in motion. It collided with Bastion's blade mid-guard, the sheer force of the strike hurling the young warrior backward like a ragdoll.
He crashed into the side of the building opposite the diner, the wall spiderwebbing on impact. A cry tore from his throat as the air was forced from his lungs. He slumped to one knee, dazed, struggling to suck in breath.
Orgrim raised a hand, and the wall behind Bastion darkened—inky portals bled into the brick like open wounds. From them, blackened ropes slithered out, coiling with serpentine precision. They snapped around Bastion's limbs and torso, yanking him against the stone, binding him tight.
He struggled, teeth bared, but the more he fought, the tighter the tendrils constricted. His greatsword slipped from his hand, clattering onto the asphalt just out of reach.
"Stay put, boy," Orgrim growled, glancing over his shoulder. "Would be a shame if the grandson of the great Overdeath met his end so senselessly."
"Coward!" Bastion spat, writhing against the bonds. "Face me!"
But Orgrim was already gone, swallowed by smoke and embers.
He reappeared amidst the fray, a demon loosed upon the living. His hammer spun with unnatural speed, cleaving through armor, bone, and flesh alike. Spells struck him—blasts of fire, bolts of arcane energy—but they did little more than sear his skin before it stitched back together in trails of ember and smoke.
Swords found their mark, but Orgrim didn't falter. Every wound vanished in a hiss of steam. His hammer found its mark again, and again—skulls crushed, limbs torn asunder. Blood painted the street like a butcher's floor.
The air was filled with screams.
And the rain kept falling.
Hartshorne watched in horror as his men were butchered, one after the other. His lips parted, no words coming, just a strangled breath. Then he stumbled back.
"Get in there, you fools!" he bellowed, shoving the next line of guards forward. "He's just one orc! Kill him!"
But the guards hesitated. They knew what awaited them.
"No—enough!" Langston cried, stumbling forward before collapsing to his knees. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from the tears. "Please… stop this!" he choked out.
But Orgrim advanced.
As the last of Hartshorne's men fell, their lifeless bodies sprawled across the rain-slicked street, the Sheriff's legs gave out. The orc let out a guttural roar as his hammer came crashing down on the final guard—skull splattering, the sound of bone shattering muffled only by the downpour. Blood pooled beneath the body, mixing with the water and swirling down the gutters.
Amber eyes locked on Hartshorne.
The sheriff staggered back; his breath caught in his throat. Then he turned and ran—sprinting in a desperate, clumsy panic.
Orgrim watched him flee, his lip twitching in disgust. His eyes fell on the armored transport beside him—heavy, plated steel, built to withstand magic and impact. It didn't matter.
He shifted his grip on the war hammer, then roared, muscles tightening as he brought it down.
The weapon struck the front grill of the truck with such ferocity that the entire vehicle reared into the air. Tires squealed and twisted. Orgrim spun and slammed his hammer again—this time into the exposed undercarriage—launching the vehicle like a cannonball into the sky.
It flipped once, twice, a flaming hulk sailing end over end through the rain.
Hartshorne, mid-sprint, turned at the sound—eyes widening in horror.
A scream ripped from his throat.
And then—a blur.
A younger figure shot into view, robes whipping around him in the wind. Salazar's teeth clenched; wand drawn in a steady hand.
"Zoltraak!" he shouted.
From the tip of his wand, a brilliant beam of raw magical energy burst forth—searing through the air. It struck the truck mid-flight, exploding through its engine block in a deafening blast. The vehicle erupted, a fiery blossom of smoke and steel.
Flaming debris showered down toward them.
Salazar's eyes flashed green.
"Protego!"
A shimmering dome erupted from his wand, encasing both himself and Hartshorne. Burning chunks of twisted metal hammered into the barrier—clanging, rolling, sliding down its surface—before falling harmlessly away into the street.
The shield faded with a whisper, leaving only the soft patter of rain in its place.
Salazar stepped forward slowly, wand still raised, emerald eyes locked on the figure ahead.
Orgrim stood amidst the wreckage, smoke curling around him. His expression was unreadable. No words. No fury. Just a cold, unshaken calm.
He tilted his head. And then—he smiled.
"That was quite the show, lad." Orgrim rested his war hammer across his shoulder, eyeing the boy with quiet curiosity. "It's been years since I laid eyes on someone that deft with magic."
Salazar smirked, though his fingers betrayed a slight tremble around his wand. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said. "But that was only a taste."
His stance tightened, emerald eyes narrowing. With a flick of his wrist—
"Sectumsempra!"
A ripple of force tore through the rain. Orgrim flinched as a deep, invisible slash opened across his ribs. Blackened blood spilled down his side, thick as oil.
He glanced down, blinking. "Well now… that's new."
"Come on, then." Salazar shifted his weight, wand raised. "Let's see what the Sword of Damocles is really made of."
The surprise in Orgrim's face gave way to grim satisfaction. A predator's grin stretched across his scarred mouth. With a roar, he charged, war hammer raised, the veins of flame along its blackened surface glowing bright.
"Sectumsempra!" Salazar shouted again, slashing his wand in the air. Another gash tore into the orc's chest. Then another. And another.
Each strike left crimson-black arcs across Orgrim's body—ripping into skin and muscle, splattering the soaked street—but he didn't stop. Every wound burned shut in seconds, molten lines stitching him back together as steam hissed where rain touched fire.
As he closed the distance, Orgrim vanished in a flash of smoke and embers, reappearing behind Salazar with the hammer mid-swing.
Salazar spun instinctively. His wand carved a glowing arc—
"Protego!"
The barrier shimmered into existence just in time. The hammer collided with it, a blast of force knocking Salazar back a step. He gritted his teeth, bracing against the pressure.
"Brave lad," Orgrim said with a grin. "Braver than most. You've done nothing to earn my wrath. Stand down, and I'll spare you."
Salazar's eyes met his—and for a flicker of a moment, Orgrim paused.
The boy's emerald eyes were no longer human. They'd shifted—serpentine, golden-amber with slit pupils.
Salazar smirked. "And miss all the fun?" he said coolly. "Perish the thought."
He thrust his wand forward.
"Repello!"
The shield burst outward, flinging the hammer away and staggering the orc.
Salazar didn't hesitate. "Serpensortia!"
A bolt of blue light exploded from the wand, and from it, a spectral cobra launched forward. It sank its fangs into Orgrim's face. The orc snarled, ripping the serpent away and hurling it aside, but the second he looked back, Salazar's wand was already glowing with dangerous power.
Orgrim's eyes went wide.
"Tonitrus!"
The spell fired like a cannon blast—lightning crackling through the rain, the roar deafening.
Orgrim brought his hammer up just in time. The head of the weapon drank in the bolt with a screech of metal and flame. With a thunderous cry, he hurled the power skyward. The clouds above split open, streaked with light, before sealing shut again.
The street fell still. Steam rose from Orgrim's shoulders. Salazar stood his ground, chest heaving, wand steady in his grasp. Rain slid down his jawline, mixing with sweat.
Orgrim looked at him, his breath heavy. For the first time, there was no mockery in his voice.
"…Well met, lad," he said, slowly. "What's your name?"
Salazar didn't falter. "Slytherin. Salazar Slytherin."
The orc nodded once. "I'll remember it."
Sirens began to wail in the distance—faint at first, then steadily louder. Orgrim turned his gaze toward the sound, then back at Langston. His lip curled into a smirk, not with mirth but with simmering wrath.
"Looks like death eludes you once again, Captain." He took a breath. "But I've waited twenty years. I can wait a little longer."
He began to turn away, boots sloshing through puddles. Over his shoulder, his voice darkened.
"Perhaps next time," Orgrim said, "you can tell me how it went—when you looked her parents in the eye and told them their daughter is gone. That she no longer breathes because of you. That everything she was… everything she might have become… was taken from her, all because of what you did."
He swept a hand across the bloodied street, the dozens of broken bodies strewn in the rain.
"Along with the rest of them."
Langston's breath caught. His face twisted with fury.
"Orgrim!"
But the orc was already gone—vanished into a coil of black smoke and glowing embers, as if the storm itself had swallowed him whole.
"That rage—cling to it, Langston!" Orgrim's words echoed down the broken street, more specter than man. "Hate me. Curse my name. Dream of the day you end me. Let it fester, let it rot you from within… just as it did me."