"IT IS NOT THE PAIN OF LIVING THAT CRUSHES THE SOUL, BUT THE KNOWLEDGE THAT ALL OF IT LED TO A MISERABLE END." -excerpt from the God of orcs.
—-
Death did not come with light.
There was no tunnel, no warmth, no kindly voice calling him home.
It came as pressure—crushing, suffocating pressure—like the world itself had decided he was excess weight and needed to be removed.
He lay on cold concrete, cheek pressed against something damp and sticky. The smell hit him before the pain fully registered: rusted iron, oil, and blood. His blood. The sound around him blurred into distant echoes—shouting, a car horn screaming too late, someone crying his name or maybe someone else's.
He tried to breathe.
His chest refused.
So this is it, he thought dimly.
Twenty-seven years of life reduced to a single mistake. A truck driver running a red light. A body too slow to react. A future that would never happen.
No wife.
No legacy.
No meaning.
His vision darkened from the edges inward. The weight on his body grew heavier, unbearable, as though gravity itself had doubled just to make sure he stayed down.
And then—
Everything stopped.
Not faded. Not dissolved.
Stopped.
He awoke screaming.
A raw, animal sound tore out of his throat, ripping his lungs apart with pain. His body convulsed violently, limbs flailing as something hot and viscous coated his skin.
His scream echoed back at him—louder, harsher, deeper.
That was wrong.
His voice wasn't supposed to sound like that.
He sucked in air, choking as liquid flooded his mouth and nose. Instinct overrode panic. He rolled, coughing violently, expelling thick fluid onto the ground.
The air burned his lungs. It smelled of smoke, iron, and earth.
Earth?
His eyes snapped open.
The world assaulted him in sharp, vivid clarity. Flickering orange light danced overhead, casting shadows against rough stone walls. The ceiling was low and uneven, smoke curling along its surface. Wooden beams, blackened by fire and age, crisscrossed above him.
He lay on a bed of fur and straw.
His hands—no, not hands—were huge. Thick fingers, greenish-gray skin, nails more like blunt claws than human nails. Veins bulged visibly beneath his skin, pulsing in a slow, powerful rhythm.
He froze.
Slowly—terrified of what he would see—he raised one hand closer to his face.
It was massive.
Ugly.
Not human.
A strangled sound escaped his throat.
"No… no, no, no…"
The words came out broken, guttural, thick with an accent he had never learned.
His heart hammered violently in his chest, each beat thunderous, heavy. He could feel it more clearly than he ever had before—feel the blood surging through his veins like a tide under pressure.
He scrambled upright, knocking over a wooden bowl that shattered against stone. Pain flared across his body, but it was distant, muted beneath the shock.
Something reflective caught his eye.
A cracked metal plate leaned against the wall.
He staggered toward it.
The face that stared back at him was monstrous.
Broad, flat nose. Heavy brow ridge. Tusks protruding slightly from the lower jaw. Skin the color of damp moss and stone. Eyes glowing faintly amber in the firelight.
An orc.
The word surfaced in his mind with horrifying clarity.
"This is a dream," he whispered.
The orc in the reflection whispered back.
His knees gave out.
He collapsed onto the floor, fingers digging into the dirt. His breathing turned ragged, mind spiraling.
I died.
I was hit.
I'm not human anymore.
Memories crashed into him—not his—flooding his consciousness like a dam breaking.
A child running through rocky plains under a red sky.
The crack of a fist against his jaw for failing to lift a stone.
The roar of a bonfire celebration.
The taste of blood after a trial of strength.
Two lives collided inside his skull.
He screamed again, clutching his head as foreign thoughts fused with his own. Names, customs, instincts—all of them knitting together violently, painfully.
And then—
Silence.
He lay there, gasping, sweat soaking his body. The fire crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a horn bellowed—a deep, primal sound that vibrated through the stone walls.
He understood it.
Morning call.
That realization frightened him more than the tusks.
Hours passed.
Or maybe minutes.
Time felt strange, stretched and compressed, like the moment before impact in a crash.
By the time footsteps approached the chamber, he had managed to sit upright. His breathing steadied, though his mind still churned.
The door opened.
A massive figure ducked inside—taller than him, broader, muscles layered like stone slabs beneath scarred skin. An older orc, judging by the white streaks in his braided hair.
The elder's yellow eyes narrowed.
"You live," he said.
The words were rough, but clear.
The man—no, the orc he now was—nodded slowly.
"Yes," he replied.
The sound of his own voice still felt foreign. Too deep. Too heavy.
The elder studied him closely, head tilting. "You screamed like a newborn. The disease must have done its work. For a moment, I thought your soul had fled your body."
It almost did, he thought.
Aloud, he said nothing.
The elder grunted. "Get up. Today you hunt."
Hunt.
The word sent a shiver down his spine.
"I—" He stopped himself.
Instinct whispered caution. Orc society valued strength. Weakness invited punishment—or worse.
He forced his legs to move.
They felt powerful. Too powerful. Each step carried weight, like the ground acknowledged him more than it had ever acknowledged his human body.
As he followed the elder outside, the world revealed itself.
Stone huts clustered together beneath jagged cliffs. Smoke rose from dozens of fires. Orcs moved about with purpose—sharpening weapons, hauling carcasses, sparring in open rings.
The sky above was copper-red, clouds drifting like smoldering embers.
This was not Earth.
This was Pulan.
The name settled into his mind naturally, pulled from the orc's memories.
Planet of struggle.
He waddled forward, still unfamiliar with the weight and balance of his new skin, eyes roaming over the strange, cavernous expanse around him. Everything felt too large, too vivid—like the world had been turned up a notch without his consent. He might have lingered there longer, lost in the novelty of existing, if not for the heavy hand of his elder settling against his back and urging him onward.
So this was it.
A rite of passage. An orcish tradition as old as the stone beneath their feet.
"Augir," the elder said, voice even and unhurried, as if discussing the weather rather than the fate of a boy. "You stand on the edge of a rare honor. To learn of your attunements before being cast into the Plane of Akashi is a privilege most are never afforded."
Augir.
So that was his name. A little on the nose, even for an orc. But wait—attunements? Akashi? And did he just say cast?
His steps faltered.
A hunt?
What kind of world had he been dragged into?
"The Chief, in his wisdom," the elder continued, guiding him forward without breaking stride, "has decreed that all young men who reach sixteen this year will take part. Our tribe may be small, but our pride is not. Steel your heart, young Augur. What awaits you will shape the rest of your days."
The elder's grip tightened briefly, not unkindly—but with finality.
And just like that, the wonder of a new world gave way to something colder.
Expectation.