Pop. It sounded as if the two had just emerged from the viscous depths of a slime's body. The white-haired youth and the orc Barsaka stepped out from the other end of the portal, space itself settling smoothly around them without even the faintest ripple, a testament to the youth's flawless control. The detection wards placed throughout the area didn't so much as stir; none sensed their arrival.

"Hm. No different from before," the white-haired youth murmured, sweeping his gaze across the surroundings. "The orcs' so-called progress still relies on the same crude foundations as it did ages ago. This, of course, is precisely why it must be handled separately."

He extended his senses through flowing magic, letting it spread outward like a tide. Every anomaly, every faint trace of power that might obstruct their coming task was delivered to him in a steady stream of awareness.

They had arrived in the heart of the Bloodfang Empire, the capital itself. Compared with the wild territories beyond, this place was clearly more developed. The huts of hide and timber had given way to houses of brick and stone. Even so, to eyes accustomed to the refined cities of other races, this "capital" still resembled a rough border town.

The "palace" of the Bloodfang king was little grander than a noble's estate in Aleisterre. Outside stood guards whose strength brushed the threshold of grand knights, even legends.

Yet despite their strength, not one of them sensed the intruders' presence.

With a lazy flick of his fingers, the white-haired youth isolated all the shamanic sigils and wards in a sheath of warped space.

The power meant to detect intruders folded in on itself, its signals caught in an endless loop. For a brief time, every means of surveillance within the area fell completely silent. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Let's go," he said, gesturing toward the palace doors sealed before them. "Let's see what sort of state our host is in."

Barsaka gave no reply. He followed without hesitation, his heavy steps echoing faintly.

"..."

Though the great doors barred their path, the instant the white-haired youth laid a hand upon them, their surface rippled like water.

The two stepped through. The doors offered no resistance. A faint shimmer spread outward in concentric waves, and within moments they were inside.

They passed through broad corridors, the youth deftly nullifying each shamanic ward as they went. The palace—or, more fittingly, manor—was guarded by warriors even stronger than those outside: grand knights and a few legends among them.

Yet none reacted. Not one of them turned their heads. The perfection of their concealment bordered on the impossible.

"They still haven't changed..." Barsaka muttered, brow furrowing, a shadow of anger flickering beneath his calm tone.

"Exactly," the youth said with an easy smile. "That's why we're here. Some things won't change unless we make it happen."

He shrugged, half amused, half weary.

Barsaka said nothing, only quickening his pace until he reached the heavy door at the end of the guarded corridor. He laid a hand upon it.

This time, the door did not melt away like the others. Something within stirred to life, and the great slabs slowly parted. Outside, the guards stiffened in shock, then immediately bowed low, heads bent in reverence toward the doors.

"How grand."

The white-haired youth chuckled softly, glancing back at the guards who dared not lift their eyes. Then he followed Barsaka inside.

The doors closed behind them, sealing the chamber in muffled quiet. Only then did the guards straighten once more, resuming their posts with solemn focus, as if they hadn't just allowed two intruders to walk straight into their king's chamber.

The room was warm, lit by gentle lamps. The air carried the herbal scent of shamanic incense, soothing and serene. At its center stood a modest, yet dignified bed, upon which lay the king of the Bloodfang Empire.

"Who's there?!"

The sound of the doors had not roused him, but the moment the two came within ten paces, the aged orc bolted upright. His eyes snapped open, sharp as ever.

Once, his frame had been powerful enough to defy legendary blades. Now it was withered, the muscle shrunk and frail. Yet his reflexes had not dulled. He snatched a dagger from a hidden slot in the bedframe, a weapon etched with interlocking runes so intricate they glowed with lethal energy.

"Easy," said the white-haired youth.

He lifted his hand. Threads of magic lanced through the air, striking the dagger. Several of its energy nodes collapsed, dispersing the gathered power in a harmless puff.

"Honestly... how long have you been clinging to this life?" The youth smiled faintly. "Look at you: so weak, so old. You once stood unarmed against legends, and now you hide behind trinkets. Aside from your perception, there's hardly anything left of the orc I once knew."

With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the illusion that had veiled him and Barsaka. Their true forms emerged beneath the lamplight. The old orc's breath caught. His eyes went wide with disbelief as the dagger slipped slightly in his grasp.

"You... it can't be. You're supposed to be dead!"

"Nothing so dramatic," the youth said with a soft laugh, plucking the dagger from the king's trembling hand. "I didn't die. I simply took a very long detour. And now that I'm back, there are things I must finish."

The king of the Bloodfang Empire, Caslope, steadied himself, forcing calm into his aging voice. "Tell me," he said slowly, "what do you want from me?"

The white-haired youth's smile returned, faint but cold. He nodded in satisfaction, clearly pleased that Caslope had asked the question himself.

"Your name," he said. "I need to borrow it."

"W-What?"

The old orc faltered, his voice uncertain, as though unwilling to believe what he had just heard.

"Was I not clear enough?" The youth rolled his eyes. "We need your identity, the title you bear as King of the Bloodfang Empire, monarch of the orcs, ruler of a nation. That title you've clung to for all these long years."

"If it were possible, I would not mind," Caslope said after a pause, his voice heavy, deliberate. "But it's impossible. The orcs will never acknowledge a foreigner as their king. Even you—especially you—could never be accepted."

Caslope stared at the white-haired youth's eyes.

The white-haired youth's smile only deepened. "You're not wrong. But tell me, have you thought about how I entered this chamber? You, of all people, should understand what it means when an orc's inheritance is bypassed. And even if there were a way to make them recognize us, you would never have given it up willingly. If you had, you would have done so long ago."

He didn't press further, merely letting the old king's thoughts unravel on their own.

"...No. No, that's impossible," Caslope whispered.

His body froze, eyes widening with disbelief greater even than when he had first recognized the youth's identity. His frail frame trembled uncontrollably.

"That's right," the youth said with a soft laugh. "If I, long dead, could return once more—then what's so impossible about another being, one with your same qualifications, appearing again?"

But Caslope no longer heard him. His gaze was fixed instead on the orc standing silently before him: Barsaka.

"Are you that afraid of death?" Barsaka asked quietly.

The question was calm, almost gentle, yet it stripped away all pretense. The decrepit figure before him bore no resemblance to the legend Barsaka remembered. That withered shell—where was the might, the fire, the pride of a once-mighty hero?

He did not need to ask how Caslope had survived this long. Basakar could already sense it: the waters of the Elves' Tree of Life, the stasis potions brewed by human herbalists, the life-forging rituals of orcish shamans...

Caslope had taken countless desperate measures in defiance of the inevitable. Each might slow decay, strengthen the flesh, or stretch a lifespan—but before the endless march of time, even a legendary body had its limits.

Caslope's existence had been nothing but a miserable struggle since that bygone era, an endless postponement of the death he so feared.

"You don't understand!" the old orc roared, trembling with fury. "You cannot imagine that terror when everything you know slips away with time! All that you possess, all that you are, dissolves into nothing! Power itself turns to dust, a fleeting illusion!"

His voice rose several pitches higher than before, shrill with anger, despair, and naked fear.

Barsaka remained composed. "As for the flaws of the orcish bloodline, did you ever fulfill your promise to remove them? From what I've seen, the orcish kingdoms has changed little from the past."

"Why should I?" Caslope spat. "You and I never had the same goals in mind! That promise was made under duress. What other choice did I have? I chose not to act. The orcs' bloodline is as it should be. They are warriors; we are rulers. The fury that drives them is their birthright. There is nothing to ‘fix.'"

His words grew more frenzied. In a sudden, desperate motion, his thin arm darted beneath his pillow and drew a blade, which he thrust toward Barsaka's chest.

Steel met flesh with a shriek of metal. The swordpoint struck Basakar's abdomen, but his body was too resilient, his skin as unyielding as iron. The blade could pierce no further.

A strong hand clamped around Caslope's throat.

"You're right," Barsaka murmured. "We were never the same. I suppose I'll never understand your way of thinking. So be it. I'll handle the rest. There's no need to hope for your understanding."

With a swift, practiced motion, he twisted his hands. The old king's head snapped to the side, lifeless.

"I told you," said the white-haired youth calmly, "if we don't enact change, nothing ever will. Don't worry. What we must do now is simply finish the work he failed to complete."

As he spoke, streams of magic and void energy coursed over Barsaka's body, reshaping his features, molding his form until he was indistinguishable from the late king of the Bloodfang Empire.

"The orcish kingdoms have hardly changed through the centuries," the youth went on, glancing toward the chamber door. "Their strength has grown, yes, but their essence remains the same. Still, their unique method of inheritance means some among them surely remember us. We'll have to deal with that first."

He gestured. The corpse of the true king was cast into a rift in space, its body shredded to dust by the raging fractures. Then he reached out across the void, linking himself to distant structures bound to his spirit and soul, unsealing them one by one.

"Truly," he mused, "if he'd only bothered to study the latest theories from the scholars on the continent, he might have found a simpler way to prolong his life. With the resources he hoarded, it would have been easy enough. But no, he chose to close the gates of his kingdom. None of that newfound knowledge ever reached him."

He gave the corpse's absence one last, indifferent glance, then pushed open the doors of the royal bedchamber. The newly crowned king of the Bloodfang Empire, Barsaka in his borrowed flesh, stepped out, greeted by the respectful bows of the orcish guards.

Meanwhile, far away upon the battlefield where the fighting had nearly ceased, the ground began to tremble. From beneath the soil, spires like those ancient relics buried within the orcish kingdom thrust skyward, rising like submarines breaching the surface, tearing through unseen depths, bridging together two realms that had long been kept apart.