The warlord waited like a mountain wreathed in smoke.
The disciples reached him first.
Nyzekh led the strike. Sabers flowed in curved lines of death, each step folding intention into inevitability. His Eclipsed Fang blades shimmered with conceptual edge, bypassing flesh and thought alike. He opened with Nullstep Feint, flickering into the orc wedge's flank, vanishing before a counter could manifest.
Bruga was next, a furnace roaring. He hurled forward in a Burstline Charge, flame blooming behind him. His Pyrebite axe sang with internal pressure. He struck the wedge tip, and it cracked like split wood. Flame exploded outward in a Pyroclastic Fist, launching bodies into the mud.
Ryoku darted in third. The Iron Refrain burned steady in his limbs, each step a beat, each breath a blade. Kensho danced in echo, slashing once, twice, then rebounding from his own rhythm. His follow-up with the Resolve Blade cut through an orc's armored flank, too fast, too precise.
The orc wedge shuddered.
Wen Tu advanced, Verdance raised. He summoned the Inner Grove Domain, roots anchoring him as qi surged in spirals of healing and protection. A green-gold shimmer flared around the disciples, blocking incoming bolts and arrows. A hammer strike bounced off his Livingroot Lamellar, then he countered with Verdant Spiral Bloom, vines coiling and crushing an enemy under pressure.
"Hold!" Bruga roared. "Hold! ... Break!"
Kael swept in from the side. Wind hissed around him. Shadows bent. He activated Whisper Veil, vanishing into trailing afterimages. His Whisperdraw blades snapped into motion, one to the neck, one to the knee, another hurling through a war-drum bearer. Then his Shadow Blade Domain unfurled like a collapsing lung. Inside, perception twisted. Enemies staggered, striking at illusions while Kael disassembled them from behind.
The warlord did not yield.
He met them with brutal grace.
The cleaver he wielded was not crude, it was an extension of a martial system bred in bone. The Orc Path of Flesh-Kin, their ancestral form of battle. No qi, no aura, just raw, internal mastery of muscle and motion. His strikes bore the hallmarks of Stonehide Pressure, focusing tension through limbs like wound cable. His footwork was Beastroot Pivot, using sheer strength to redirect momentum. His arms bent impossibly fast, twisting mid-swing with Tuskrend Form, designed to disarm or destroy.
He parried Ryoku's flurry, then smashed his pommel into the disciple's ribs, sending him sprawling.
Kael struck low. The warlord sidestepped, cleaver snapping down. Wen Tu barely raised a barksteel ward, which cracked from the impact.
Bruga unleashed a flame arc.
The warlord didn't flinch. He roared, absorbing the heat, using the burst of steam to vanish into smoke. When he reappeared, his cleaver cleaved Bruga's shoulder armor, nearly shattering the plate.
Then the shamans moved.
Twin orc shamans stepped forward from behind the warlord. One bore a staff of gnarled bone with fetishes of fangs and feathers. The other floated slightly above the earth, green mist rising from his bare feet. They spoke in guttural sync:
"Ulh'Makro... Rokh'Tul."
Green flesh pulsed. Rot-spells coiled through the battlefield.
Bruga growled as necrotic filaments gnawed at his wounds. Wen Tu's shields flickered under a wave of black vines. Kael felt his blood tugged, marrow boiling under cursed pressure.
Wen Tu struck back, channeling his domain into Qi Reclamation Pulse, healing Bruga while absorbing the rotting energy around them. Rootbound Counter burst upward, seizing a shaman's totem and snapping it.
Kael warped behind them, blades flashing. One shaman turned, too late. A Whisperdraw buried in his eye.
Nyzekh appeared from void with a stab meant to end them both. But the shamans hissed and unleashed Spiteward Pulse, a magickal backlash that shattered illusion and forced him into view.
Stormguards pressed their own battle.
Elite orc guards surrounded them, bigger, smarter, bone-armored. Their martial techniques were savage yet refined, borrowing from the Flesh-Kin style: shoulders as fulcrums, limbs as levers, jaws even as weapons. Shields clashed. Iron met tusk.
Iron Hand Saran led the wedge formation, a living wall of darksteel and aurichalcum. His voice cut through the chaos: "Stormguards, brace. Hammer forward."
Their helms bore no faces. Each moved like forged statues come to life, blades flashing with unerring precision. Their shields became extensions of will, some locked, others struck in arcs.
Stonewheel Reversal rippled through the line as orc strikes were caught and returned. Mirror Edge bashed jaws and turned blades. Their spears flowed in Serpent Wind Form, coiling through gaps in the orc defense.
Saran's voice rang again. "Wedge, break and re-form! Decurion formation! Engage the big ones—hold the line around the disciples!"
The Stormguards moved as one, as if born from the same forge. No hesitation. No pause. Ten-man cells pivoted, and locked shields in circular defense. Some Decurion units engaged the largest orcs head-on, anchoring them in brutal melee. Others formed square formations around the disciples, cutting off any who might aid the warlord. The Stormguards moved like a war engine—precise, seamless, practiced beyond thought. Every pivot, every shield-lock, every strike was muscle memory carved by years of war.
Decurion Kesh's line buckled under the force of a brute's charge. For a heartbeat, the formation faltered—but then locked again with a grinding roar of shields. Kesh drove his spear through the brute's throat, anchoring the line in blood and resolve.
They were overwhelmed, but they did not break.
Until the warlord came crashing through.
He struck with a roar that shattered a shield and hurled a Stormguard into the mud.
Kael coughed blood. Wen Tu collapsed to a knee. Ryoku staggered, Kensho cracked.
The disciples regrouped, but the warlord still stood. Bleeding, grinning.
He raised his cleaver. "You... break now."
Then a new voice entered the battlefield.
Calm. Clear. Absolute.
"No. They will rise. You will fall."
Altan stepped onto the field.
He wore the same armor of the Stormguards, unadorned, no helm, his long black hair flowing. He only wore shin guards, barefoot. But when he walked he seemed like drifting.
The warlord paused.
Altan glanced at the shamans. "You're in my way."
He raised two fingers.
A breath.
A fold.
The Fourth.
Reality shuttered. The space between seconds tore.
Altan vanished, then appeared between the shamans.
With one motion, his fingers blurred through the air.
"Folding Thought: Unweaving Bones."
Both shamans screamed as their bodies convulsed and collapsed, first skin, then muscle, then bone, folding in upon itself until nothing remained but robes.
The warlord roared and charged. His cleaver struck with enough force to level stone.
Altan caught it with one palm.
The disciples stared.
Altan's voice remained steady. "This is a glimpse of what lies beyond. The Fourth Fold, where intent splits even the moment."
Flame surged up his left arm, Searing Palm from the Fire Sutra. Wind coiled around his ankles, Returning Wingbreak of the Whispering Path. Earth rippled from his spine, Dust Veil grounding his stance. Water shimmered across his ribs, Tide Shift. His spirit glowed through his chest, Chamber of Echoes open.
He twisted.
The warlord's cleaver shattered.
Altan stepped forward. His palm met the orc's chest.
"Folded Pulse: Shattering Vein."
A soundless shockwave tore through the warlord. His limbs spasmed. His mouth opened in a howl that never left his lungs. His body caved inward as if reality rewrote him.
He dropped, lifeless. Cleaved not by blade, but by will.
Silence followed.
The disciples stood.
The Stormguards paused in their final clashes. The elite orcs faltered.
Altan lowered his hand.
"Rest," he said to the fallen. "I'll carry the weight now."
From the northern ridgeline, hoofbeats thundered.
Stormriders charged into the fray. Their spears crackled with bound lightning. War-stallions crushed goblins beneath iron hooves. Lances impaled fleeing orcs. Stormrider squires fired volley after volley of arrows, while war mages on horseback chanted invocations and hurled streaks of magick into the backs of retreating foes.
The last remnants of the horde died screaming beneath thunder and steel.
Smoke drifted. The battlefield stilled.
And from the silence, only Altan remained standing, calm, unbroken, bearing the storm's final breath.