Free Web NovelChapter 11: The First Cut
Bor the one-eyed general had always been a real thorn in the side of the entire clan. He was a loud, heavy-handed bully who held onto his power by making everyone around him live in fear. Threats and sudden bursts of violence kept the others in line. No one spoke against him unless they wanted to end up broken on the stone floor. Nym had quietly handed Ruk the sharp tool he needed to start cutting away at that power. The first real cut was about to begin. freewebnoveℓ.com
For the next two full days, Ruk moved through the twisting upper tunnels with total focus. His body felt honed and dangerous now, every muscle working together after hours of careful hunting. He stalked his prey in the dim passages, striking fast and clean each time. With every kill, a small rush of satisfaction hit him as his evolutionary energy bar inched upward. Those little victories mattered. They built strength. Yet even as he hunted, his thoughts kept drifting far away from the tunnels. His mind stayed locked on the fighting pits and the careful plan growing inside him.
Nym’s information had sunk deep roots in his head. "He visits the fighting pits every third day to show everyone he’s still the strongest... He gets too confident, and his guard drops completely." It was a clear pattern, a soft spot in Bor’s armor. Ruk knew better than to walk straight up and challenge the massive general. That would be a fast way to die screaming. Instead, he wanted something quieter, something that would creep in slowly. He planned to plant one small seed of doubt in how the whole clan saw their leader. Make Bor look weak and foolish in front of everyone. In this harsh world where strength was the only thing that truly mattered, even the hint of weakness could destroy a warrior faster than any blade.
The main cavern the clan called home stretched out like a giant underground world of its own. Massive rough walls reached high overhead, covered in patches of pale glowing moss that cast a soft greenish light across everything. Thin cracks near the ceiling let in faint rays of sunlight during the day, painting long bloody-red shadows when evening came. Smoke from many small cook fires drifted lazily through the air, carrying the rich smells of roasted meat, burning herbs, and the sharp tang of sweat and old blood.
Tunnels branched off in every direction like dark veins—some wide and well-traveled leading to hunting grounds, others narrow and hidden for sleeping spots, and a few deep dangerous ones that most orcs avoided talking about. Life here was loud and rough. Constant grunts, arguments, the scrape of stone weapons, and heavy laughter echoed off the walls from morning until the deep hours.
On the third day, as the weak sunlight from above began to fade and stretch those long red shadows across the cavern floor, a different kind of energy started to build. Warriors who had eaten their fill after the day’s hunt began drifting toward the far end of the huge space. Their heavy footsteps mixed with low, excited voices. The fighting pits were calling.
The arena itself was nothing fancy, just a wide bowl dug deep into the packed earth and surrounded by rings of stained rocks and crude seating stones. Old blood had soaked into the ground over years, leaving dark permanent marks. Flickering torches stood around the edges, throwing jumping light and deep black shadows that danced across the spectators. This place served as the clan’s main entertainment and pressure valve. Old arguments got settled with fists and axes. Young orcs tested their courage and climbed the ranks. Blood spilled freely, both for sport and to prove who mattered. The crowd always came hungry for it.
This time Ruk didn’t slip away to his usual hidden crevice. He moved carefully through the growing mass of bodies and claimed a shadowed spot near the edge of the crowd. His shorter, compact build let him blend in easily among the taller, broader orcs. He became almost invisible, just another shadow watching everything unfold.
Two young warriors climbed into the pit first. They puffed up their chests and gripped their rough stone weapons tight. They circled each other slowly, trading loud grunts and crude taunts that bounced around the bowl-shaped space. The crowd shouted and stomped, eager for violence. When the two finally crashed together it was all clumsy power—wild swings, heavy tackles, and brute force with very little real skill. The spectators roared louder, feeding on the raw energy in the air.
Then Bor made his entrance.
His huge frame pushed through the crowd like a boulder smashing downhill. Scars covered his thick green arms and chest. His single eye gleamed with pure arrogance. He stopped at the rim of the pit, watched the young fighters for a moment with a disgusted sneer twisting his scarred face, then let out a loud bored sigh and dropped heavily into the arena.
"Enough of this pup play!" His powerful voice crashed out and silenced the entire cavern in an instant. He backhanded one of the young warriors so hard the orc flew sideways and slammed into the dirt. Then he kicked the second one straight out of the pit. "You call that fighting? You’re both a disgrace to the Black-Tusk name."
Bor planted his feet wide in the center of the pit, chest pushed out proudly, his single eye slowly sweeping across the watching crowd. freewёbnoνel.com
A cruel smile pulled at his lips, showing yellowed teeth. "Who among you has the guts to face a real warrior?" he bellowed, voice thick with challenge and mockery.
"Who wants a proper lesson in pain?"
This was his regular ritual. Every third day he dragged some eager but unskilled young orc into the pit and broke him down in front of the whole clan. It kept fear alive. It reminded every single one of them exactly where they stood in the hierarchy.
Ruk stayed low and quiet in the shadows, his sharp eyes moving carefully over the group of younger warriors. He could see the fear mixed with burning ambition on their faces.
Some shifted nervously, wanting to step forward but knowing the risk. He quietly activated his *ANALYZE* skill on several of them, letting quick streams of information flash through his mind as he searched for the perfect piece in his plan.
Then he spotted him.
A young orc named Ugron stood out. Bigger and stronger-looking than most others his age, with thick powerful arms and broad shoulders. Yet his eyes showed clear uncertainty—the look of someone full of hunger to prove himself but still lacking real hard-won experience. Ruk focused his skill deeper on the young warrior.
[Target: Ugron]
[Race: Orc (Warrior)]
[Level: 4]
[Disposition: Ambitious, Eager to Please, Naive]
[Strengths: High Physical Strength, Natural Athlete]
[Weaknesses: Inexperienced, Lacks a Killer Instinct, Vulnerable to Feints, Weak Left Ankle from an Old Injury]
That weak left ankle jumped out at him. It was exactly the small crack he needed.
Bor’s single eye finally locked onto Ugron. A nasty, satisfied grin spread slowly across his scarred face. "You," he grunted, jabbing a thick finger forward. "Big one with the dumb look on your face. Get in here! I’m going to teach you how to hold an axe like a real warrior."
Ugron’s expression shifted rapidly—fear and nervous hope fighting on his face. He stepped down into the pit anyway, gripping his heavy stone axe with both hands so tightly his knuckles went pale. He looked exactly like a young lamb walking straight into the wolf’s mouth.
The fight began exactly as everyone expected. Bor toyed with the younger orc like a cat playing with a helpless mouse. He slipped easily around Ugron’s wild, clumsy swings, laughing loudly so the whole cavern could hear his amusement. Every few moments he landed a casual punch to the stomach or a sharp kick to the ribs—just hard enough to cause real pain and deep embarrassment, but never enough to finish it quickly. The crowd jeered and laughed, all their mockery aimed squarely at the struggling young warrior.
Ruk stayed completely focused, his mind tracking every movement and pattern from both fighters. He waited patiently for the perfect moment. Bor was growing sloppier by the second in his arrogance, too busy showing off and drinking in the cheers to notice the small things happening around him.
Ugron swung his axe in a wide, desperate horizontal arc. Bor ducked under it with an exaggerated sigh, rising back up with that same mocking grin still fixed on his face.
That was the exact opening Ruk had been waiting for.
From his hidden spot in the shadows, Ruk bent quickly and scooped up a small, sharp stone. He didn’t aim it at Bor or even at Ugron directly. He tossed it lightly so it landed on the ground right in front of Ugron’s left foot. The tiny click was completely swallowed by the roaring crowd.
But Ugron noticed it. His senses were stretched tight, desperately looking for any advantage. In that single heartbeat, instinct took over. The weak ankle. The stumble. The feint.
As Bor came up from his duck, ready to deliver another painful humiliating blow, Ugron let his left ankle roll naturally. He stumbled forward hard, his axe slipping from his fingers. It looked completely genuine—like a clumsy, pathetic mistake from an inexperienced kid who had finally tripped over his own feet.
The crowd let out a loud groan of disappointment.
Bor’s grin stretched even wider. He stepped forward confidently with his guard completely dropped, ready to plant his heavy boot on the fallen warrior’s chest and claim his easy victory.
Then Ugron exploded upward without warning.
