Hot wind from the chasm below swept across Kenji's face as he stepped onto the old stone bridge. Smoke curled up from cracks in the rock, carrying the stench of sulfur and embers—as if the earth itself was growling, thirsting for blood. Beneath him, lava flowed slowly like a river of molten red, its every bubble a reminder that time was no ally tonight.
Before Kenji stood a massive, dark figure—like a mountain—Grommash.
Wounded, cast aside, but not destroyed.
Three nights ago, Grommash had vanished after being defeated. But he hadn't gone far. In secret, he rallied the remnants of his loyal forces among the ruins of an old fortress and attacked the new settlement Kenji had built with the orcs and humans who had chosen peace.
The attack failed. But Grommash issued a final challenge—a duel to the death, one-on-one, on the ancestral Firebridge of the Bloodfang clan. A sacred place, once used for the ritual purification of clan leaders.
If Kenji won, he would be accepted as the rightful leader. If he lost, Grommash would slaughter them all.
Kenji knew this wasn't just a fight. It was about legacy. The future. And whether the flames beneath the bridge would be destroyers… or forgers of a new generation.
"You've come, half-human brat," Grommash growled, gripping the Dar'Kuur War Axe, a legendary weapon that had beheaded dozens of his political enemies.
Kenji said nothing. He took a deep breath, feeling the heat embrace his skin. His hand tightened around the hilt of a special dagger—not a large weapon, but light and swift, perfect for the strategy he had rehearsed for days.
Because he knew: strength could not overcome strength. But cunning? That had always been his weapon.
Grommash's first step shook the stone. He charged like a war train, axe sweeping wide, ready to cleave Kenji in two. But Kenji rolled to the right, letting the blade slice through nothing but scorching air.
The axe crashed into the stone, sending up a spray of sparks. Grommash spun around, but Kenji had already moved back several paces—toward the center of the bridge, where he had earlier poured a thin layer of highly flammable orc resin oil.
"Running like a coward!" Grommash roared, eyes blazing.
"Not running, Grommash," Kenji said calmly. "Just dancing within your fire."
Blow after blow came. Grommash was a storm of fury. But the more he attacked, the more he was pushed toward the trap.
Kenji stepped back once more. He glanced quickly at the edge of the bridge. There, hidden behind the statue of an orc ancestor, waited a small torch—its flame still alive.
In one swift motion, Kenji snatched the torch—and hurled it onto the bridge floor.
FWOOSH!
Flames erupted. Orange light burst from the cracks in the stone, encircling Grommash's feet. He recoiled in shock—but too late. The resin ignited fast. The fire reached up to his thighs, and he howled in pain.
"Cheater!" he bellowed, batting the flames from his waist. "You use filthy magic!"
"No," Kenji replied. "I learned from nature—and from your own deceit."
Half on fire and overflowing with rage, Grommash charged wildly. But his movements were erratic now. His breath labored. Old wounds and fresh burns weighed on his body.
Kenji sidestepped, then performed the maneuver he'd practiced all night: a spin to evade the slash, followed by a stab of his dagger into the ribcage—not to kill, but to destabilize.
Grommash staggered. His foot slipped on the burning resin.
One final slash—sharp, quick, and decisive—cut through the air from Kenji's hand. He didn't aim for the head, nor the chest. He aimed for Grommash's belt, where the Dar'Kuur War Axe hung.
The strike sliced through the thick leather strap.
Grommash's axe dropped.
And as he reached to retrieve it, Kenji shoved him with every ounce of strength he had.
Grommash toppled toward the edge of the bridge.
"KENJIIII!!!"
His final scream echoed as his body plunged into the fiery chasm, swallowed by the lava below like an offering to a death god.
Silence.
Kenji stood at the edge of the bridge, breathing heavily. His eyes stared down into the abyss, where the shadow of the past had been consumed by fire.
Then he knelt and picked up the Dar'Kuur War Axe, lying on the searing stone.
It was heavy—not just from metal and history, but from the meaning it carried.
With the axe in hand, he slowly walked back across the bridge. On the far side, dozens of eyes watched him.
Orcs. Some had once knelt to Grommash. Some had even fought against Kenji. But tonight, there was no more doubt.
One by one, they knelt.
Captains bowed their heads. Warriors pounded their chests with open hands—the orc symbol of honor.
A raspy but reverent voice rose, "Kenji… heir of fire. Shaper of a new age."
Kenji looked at them. There was no smile on his face—only the weight of exhaustion etched into every line.
But in his eyes, a small fire burned. Not one of destruction… but of hope.
That night, there were no grand feasts, no drunken revelry as in Grommash's era.
Instead, a single bonfire was lit in the central field, and everyone sat around it—orc and human, old and young. Kenji placed the Dar'Kuur War Axe at the center of the circle, gazing at it for a moment.
"This axe is no longer a symbol of tyranny," he said. "But a reminder that power must be carried with honor, not fear."
He turned to the former enemies now kneeling before him. "We've all seen what power without heart becomes. So starting today, we build a new clan. One that honors not just strength—but also wisdom."
The people exchanged looks. There were nods. There were tears.
And for the first time in Bloodfang orc history, a song of peace was heard—not from a poet, but from a small human child, singing his mother's lullaby… and joined by towering orcs nodding solemnly to its rhythm.
The fire still burned that night—but not to destroy.It burned to light a new path that had, at last, been opened wide.