Chiron Zhou A capitin in the Zhou Family Guard
This had to be the stupidest thing anyone in the Zhou household had ever done.
And Chiron had once witnessed the second young master try to build a flying device using pure natural science—absolutely no magic. Something about airspeed, lift, and upward momentum.
Sometimes, the second young master was too smart for his own good.
The twin young ladies of the Zhou family, though—they were supposed to be the sensible ones. The ones who listened. The ones who didn’t go poking at every shiny death trap that flickered with mana. They weren’t wallflowers by any means, but they’d always been respectful, levelheaded, careful.
Apparently those days were over.
Now they’d walked straight into what was clearly an active pocket dimension, guided by a woman so metaphysical she practically qualified as fiction—and he and his men had been left standing outside the Gate for days, waiting like a pack of neutered dogs.
Suffice to say, Captain Chiron was not a fan of this situation.
He’d been a guard captain for five years—distant kin to the family, though no one could quite remember how far back the bloodline ran. Twenty-five when he joined, strong but poor, no schooling, no prospects except the muscle on his bones and the stubbornness in his jaw. The patriarch had taken him, his mother, and his two siblings in, given them a home.
It hadn’t been easy. He’d earned everything.
He’d learned the Zhou sword method, and years ago he and the second young master had refined the family’s mana method. That collaboration had changed his life. Within seasons he’d gone from a solid guard to one of the most dependable fighters in the house. The family’s sword form might be middling, but his execution of it was anything but.
At Level Five of the Human Stage, strength stopped scaling linearly—it warped. A good foundation made that leap exponential. Chiron was stronger and tougher than most Level Fives; he could even hold his own against early Sixes. Last year he’d fought a peak Six to a standstill, though it had left him limping for weeks.
That reputation earned him his place in the Traveling Guard—a kind of in-house escort corps. It was good pay, decent travel, and the perfect blend of discipline and freedom.
Which had brought him here.
He didn’t mind escort duty for the twins. Everyone adored the Twin Flowers of the Zhou household. They were sweet and polite; the brightside of the Zhou house. Which was exactly why his blood pressure spiked watching his two young mistresses step into a Gate without proper protection. It made his hands itch to hit something.
Leiden, his second-in-command, hovered nearby. “Sir,” he said, voice tight. “It’s been forty-eight hours. When do we decide to go after them?”
Chiron shook his head. “We wait for the moment.” He didn’t sound confident, but he meant it. “That woman—Serenya—was not normal. If she says they should go, then we have no choice but to trust her. We can’t embarrass the Ladies, and the last thing we want to do is offend the second young master’s wife—or the Imperial Princess. That would be a disaster.”
Leiden couldn’t help but agree.
Before he could answer, a scout burst through the treeline, running hard enough to make the ground shake. Neelin—one of the youngest—was covered in blood and half out of breath. He half-slid, half-fell to one knee before Chiron.
It was even worse than Chiron imagined.
“Neelin!” Chiron barked, then softened. “Healers—now! Someone get over here!” He knelt, grip steady on the boy’s shoulder. “What is it? Speak.”
Neelin gulped air like a drowning man. “Captain… there’s something beyond the ridge. Monsters. I—I’ve only ever seen them in books.”
“What kind?” several men demanded, closing in.
Neelin stared past them toward the forest edge, as though he could still see the creatures. “They look like orcs, but their skin—red. Eyes black. They move wrong. Their rhythm, their gait—it’s all wrong. I think…” His voice broke. “I think they’re High Orcs.”
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Silence fell heavier than the words.
High Orcs were legends. The stories said they had taken oaths to demon gods of the void, warped beyond recognition. Things of nightmares, half-forgotten since the Demon War.
Leiden’s jaw tightened. “High Orcs? Impossible. Those don’t exist.”
“That’s what I thought,” Neelin rasped. “Until I saw them.”
Chiron, less versed in orcish lore, turned to his lieutenant. “High Orcs? What are they, really? Explain.”
Leiden’s face went grim. “Orcs corrupted by demon magic. When the Great Demon War ended, the survivors said the demons twisted entire populations of species into abominations. The High Orcs were the worst—creatures that processed mana differently, rhythmically, until it broke them. They became engines of destruction. If the stories are true, they don’t die easy.”
Chiron’s pulse pounded in his ears. “We need to take this threat seriously. Show me.”
The climb was short but steep, the air sharp with mountain wind. The forest thinned as they neared the ridge; the trees leaned inward like they wanted to hide what lay beyond. The men moved quietly, every footfall deliberate, every weapon drawn but low.
When they reached the top, Chiron froze.
The valley beyond was crawling with things.
Orcs—but wrong. Big, even for their kind—eight feet, nine in some cases—bodies packed with corded muscle under crimson hide. Their skin wasn’t just red; it burned, an oily hue that shimmered faintly, as though alive. Every few seconds a pulse of darker energy rolled through them, and the flesh beneath their armor bulged like it wanted to tear itself free.
Their eyes were pits—black, lidless, reflecting no light. Their movements were heavy, deliberate, horribly synchronized. Every step hit the earth like a drumbeat.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Chiron’s men crouched low behind the rocks, breath shallow.
There were hundreds—maybe more. Rows upon rows, spilling across the valley like a spreading wound. They weren’t a raiding party. They were an army.
Between the ranks lumbered larger figures—commanders, perhaps. Their horns curved backward like hooks. Black tar leaked from the seams of their armor. They carried weapons fused to their flesh—blades growing from bone, hafts sunk directly into muscle.
Chiron’s stomach twisted. “Void take me,” he whispered. “They’re… fused.”
Leiden’s voice was hoarse. “Fused with what?”
“Demons,” Chiron said quietly. “They’ve been grafted. Twisted.”
Below, one of the monsters tilted its head, as if listening. Then it howled—a deep, metallic sound that shook the ridge beneath their feet. The rest answered, and the air turned to thunder.
The entire horde began to move.
Not a march. A purpose.
They were heading south. Straight toward the valley where the Gate stood.
“They’re not wandering,” Chiron said. “They know exactly where they’re going.”
Leiden turned to him. “You think they’re after the Gate?”
“I think they’re after what came out of it.”
The thought hung between them like the weight of a sword waiting to fall.
“The Gate’s active,” Chiron said at last. “Whatever power’s been awakened here has already drawn attention from the darkest corners of creation.”
He straightened. “Send word—house, Empire emergency relay, independent cities. Tell them the south’s about to burn.”
Neelin hesitated. “I will have to travel out of sight to get a message out. And what of the Ladies inside the Gate?”
Chiron looked toward the cliffs, where faint ripples of mana shimmered like heat haze.
Leiden’s voice was tight. “Sir, what’s the order?”
Chiron’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away from the red tide below. “You go Neelin. Now. We go back. We form up and get ready to move. If the Ladies leave the Gate, we get them downriver—no arguments, no delays. We stay with them, follow the river south, back to the estate. Send for the cavalry and dig in. The wards there are strong and the manor’s defensible. Then we warn everyone who’ll listen that something’s gone very wrong.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the men. “We’re not facing those things head-on. Not with fifty guards and a prayer. Not today.”
Leiden hesitated. “Captain, if they’re demon-touched—”
“They are and I am counting three distinct units, the demon blade grafted, the orcs and those humanish guys with the black swords” Chiron cut him off. “And that means this isn’t a skirmish. It’s an omen. If demon-possessed creatures are walking this plain again after three hundred years, then whatever’s inside that Gate is either something the gods want protected—or something the demons want destroyed. Either way, it’s far above our pay grade.”
Neelin, pale and still trembling, swallowed. “And if the women don’t come out in time?”
Chiron’s eyes stayed on the horizon. “Then we hold the line as long as we can—and we pray. To the gods, the old ones, and to anyone still listening—that we remember our lessons.”
He sheathed his sword. “Leiden, we go back and break camp. Pull the healers and supply mages. Double the wards around the Gate. I want defensive anchors in the ravine and along the treeline. No lights or fires. They don’t seem to be in a hurry, so maybe we’ll have time to either run—or face them.”
“Yes, sir.”
They descended quickly. Orders spread through the camp. Men packed gear, tightened formations, prepped mounts. Brayden’s unit collapsed their casting rigs, stacking them on the carts. The air filled with the scent of oiled leather and burned mana.
By nightfall, the camp was a fortress of quiet purpose. Wards glowed faintly underfoot, interlocking like scales. Armor gleamed, blades were blessed, arrows dipped in silver ink.
Chiron took one last look over the parapet. The valley was still for now, but the horizon pulsed with red light—steady, patient, inevitable.
The High Orcs were coming. Maybe in a day. Maybe less.
He turned to Leiden. “No alarms or heroics. We wait. If we have to run, we run. If we have to fight—”
He let the rest hang. Leiden nodded grimly.
Chiron looked once more at the shimmering Gate, whispering under its own light. “Let’s hope,” he murmured, “that whatever they’re doing in there is worth the time we’re buying.”
The men settled into their posts. The night stretched long and taut, the quiet before the kind of storm that changed history.
And Chiron, for the first time in years, found himself praying—not for victory, but for dawn.