Soul Forging System

And the Great Chief began to fall.

The Great Chief's massive frame shuddered, his tusked jaw tightening as if sheer will alone could keep him together. His warriors watched with wide, unblinking eyes, praying their leader would rise, that he would roar and shatter the human's smug grin.

But the crimson line glowed brighter.

Shhhhk!

With a sickening finality, his body split cleanly in two. From shoulder to hip, the mighty Chief of Gomora, the orc who had led countless battles, who had stood against elves and storms and famine, was severed like rotten wood beneath Belanor's invisible blade.

His two halves slammed into the blood-soaked dirt with a thunderous crash, the earth trembling beneath the weight of his fall.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, chaos.

The orcs screamed, some collapsing to their knees, others clawing desperately at the gates to flee. The chant of "Great Chief! Great Chief!" died in their throats, replaced by the shrieks of a broken people.

"Rest in piss, oh Great Chief," Belanor muttered with a grin as he drifted down, threads retracting into his fingers like shadows returning to the night. His boots touched the blood-stained earth with a casual grace, as though he hadn't just slaughtered their strongest warrior.

He turned slowly, his crimson eyes sweeping across the trembling Orcs that remained. Their weapons shook in their hands. None dared move.

"Now then…" Belanor's voice rang out, mockery dripping from every word. "…who's second in charge?"

Silence. Not a single orc dared to speak. Their gazes darted to one another, but their throats had locked shut.

Belanor's smile widened into something crueler. "I won't ask again."

A shiver rippled through the ranks. Finally, one terrified Orc, his tusks chattering against each other, raised a trembling finger toward the stands, up to where Rikon stood, pale and sweating.

Belanor's gaze followed the finger. His eyes lit up with delight. "Ohh… you. Poor Orc." His laughter echoed like broken glass across the ruined coliseum. "I can see your knees knocking together from all the way down here. You're really about to shit your skirts, aren't you?"

Rikon's heart hammered in his chest. Every word was a knife.

Belanor tilted his head, smile stretching nastier. "Come down here."

Rikon's body locked in place, his legs refusing to obey. Fear gripped him like chains.

Belanor's smile darkened, voice dropping to a low, venomous purr. "Ahhh, so you want me to beg? To climb up there and fetch you? Don't make me come up, Orc scum." He chuckled, cruel and nostalgic all at once. "Heh… that's what my mama used to say every time I fucked up."

The laughter was the final straw. Rikon's body moved before his mind caught up. He leapt down, hitting the ground with a stumble before collapsing into a bow. His forehead pressed to the dirt, sweat dripping freely. He couldn't raise his head.

The arena was deathly still. The only sound was Belanor's slow, deliberate footsteps, and his voice, serpentine, mocking, inescapable.

The surviving Orcs watched in silence. None dared breathe too loudly. None dared to move. They knew one truth now, undeniable and absolute.

They had no Chief.

No savior.

Only Belanor.

"Ugh, come on now, don't be shy," Belanor said with a mocking pout. "You're free to raise your head."

Rikon hesitated, his shoulders trembling, but slowly lifted his head. His eyes met Belanor's, those blood-red orbs that seemed to peel the flesh from his soul, and his stomach lurched.

Belanor burst into laughter, sharp and cruel. "Shit! You look super terrified for someone who should be happy."

"...Happy?" The word slipped out of Rikon's lips before he could stop it.

"Oh, come on, don't act stupid, big guy," Belanor teased, tilting his head like he was speaking to a child. "You are the happiest Orc alive right now. You should be thanking me."

"For… for making what happen?" Rikon stammered, his voice cracking, laced with dread.

Belanor spread his arms wide in mock grandeur. "For making this happen! I took out the top dog. The Great Chief, gone. Dead. Dust." His smile sharpened, eyes gleaming. "Don't pretend you didn't prefer him out of the way. A heavy shadow, lifted! A crown waiting to fall into someone's lap."

Rikon's throat tightened. His tusks clenched, but he said nothing.

Belanor's grin stretched into something almost serpentine. "Ahh, silence. That's as good as a confession. Don't worry, I get it." He waved dismissively. "But enough reminiscing about the dead, dusty old heroes bore me."

Belanor leaned closer, his presence pressing on Rikon like the weight of a mountain. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

"I assume… you already know why I called you down."

"To kill me?" Rikon asked, voice trembling.

Belanor laughed, a low, dangerous chuckle that echoed in the ruined coliseum. "Kill you? No… no, big guy. Why would I kill something I've liberated?" His eyes gleamed red as his smile stretched. "Unless, of course… when the time comes."

Rikon froze, his throat tight.

Belanor stepped closer, hands behind his back as if delivering a lecture. "Since you look like you don't have the faintest clue about what I'm saying, though I know you do, I'll enlighten you." His voice dropped into a silken whisper that somehow carried to every ear in the hushed arena.

"I will give you the same offer I gave your Great Chief. I am building an army against humanity. There are others like me here, some weak, some powerful, and I assure you, they pose a greater threat to your race than I ever will. My sole goal is simple: to eliminate them. Every single human that crossed into this realm."

The surviving Orcs exchanged uneasy glances. Rikon swallowed, sweat dripping down his temple.

"You are very powerful," Rikon said cautiously. "If you can wipe out an entire Orc army alone… then why do you need our help?"

Belanor grinned wider, teeth flashing. "Ah… a good question...."

Belanor stroked his chin as though pondering how much to reveal.

"You are merely going to serve as pawns in a bigger game," he said smoothly. "You see, I prefer to preserve my strength for enemies worthy of it. And believe me when I say...there are plenty among my fellow humans." His crimson eyes flickered with a dangerous gleam. "Another thing… I'm not familiar with this strange little realm of yours. I need eyes and ears if I'm to succeed."

Rikon's jaw clenched. What a bastard… he thought. He doesn't even bother hiding the fact he means to use us like tools.

"And what exactly is your goal… if you don't mind?" Rikon forced out, his voice low but edged with defiance.

Belanor chuckled darkly, tilting his head as though savoring the question. Then he leaned in close, smiling that same murderous smile that had never once left his face.

"To become a god."

The words hung heavy in the air, colder than steel, and every Orc within earshot felt their stomachs knot in dread.

"Now," Belanor said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "I believe I don't have to explain what is required of you all. I assume you know the drill…"

No one answered. The only sounds were the faint crackle of dust settling and the labored breathing of the wounded.

Belanor raised a finger and pointed at what was left of the Great Chief's body, split and broken in the blood-soaked earth.

"This is not a democracy," he said coldly. "Joining me is not optional. Refuse… and you will share his fate."

A heavy silence fell. The remaining sixty Orcs exchanged fearful glances, each one realizing the same truth: there was no choice. Bow… or die sliced apart by invisible threads.

Rikon was the first to move. His knees hit the ground with a thud, his forehead pressing into the bloodied dirt.

"All hail the new Great Chief," he muttered, voice trembling but clear.

The others hesitated, some from pride, some from shock. But slowly, one by one, they followed. Soon, the entire Coliseum floor was filled with Orcs bowing low, their voices rising together until the walls shook:

"All hail the new Great Chief!"

Belanor smiled, savoring the sound like music.

"Great Chief?" he said, his tone mocking yet amused. "That's a fancy little title for a human like me…" He paused, his grin stretching wider. "…but if you insist, I'll keep it."

His crimson gaze swept over the Orcs kneeling before him, warriors great and small, now bound to his will. They were his now—his army, his pawns. And soon, he would turn them against his true prey.

"What's left," Belanor whispered, raising his fingers as if plucking unseen strings, "is to find the other players in this realm…"

His voice dropped, sharp as a guillotine.

"…and cleave them in half."

The Orcs did not rise. They remained bowed, foreheads pressed into the dirt, trembling, afraid that even the smallest movement might draw Belanor's threads across their necks.

Belanor studied them in silence. Sixty battered Orcs. Sixty broken wills. Sixty pawns.

Against the other S-rank players, they would be nothing more than fodder, meat to be carved and discarded. But fodder had its value. They would buy him time, distractions, and openings to study his opponents. Against A-rank players and below? He wouldn't even need to exert himself. He could simply unleash his new beasts, let them swarm and tear, then step in at the last moment to deliver the killing stroke.

The thought sent a thrill through him.

"Now this…" Belanor said, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the ruined Coliseum, his smile stretching too far across his face, "…this is what I call winning."