The sun began to sink below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Kairos, exhausted from the day's march, signaled his followers to stop. They had traveled for hours, pushing themselves to their limits while carrying the spoils from the village they had raided.

  "Make camp," he commanded, his voice resonating through the trees. "Gather firewood and set up the tents. We will rest here tonight."

  As darkness enveloped the area, Kairos sat by the crackling fire, observing his followers as they indulged in the ale and alcohol they had plundered. A wave of satisfaction washed over him. These men, once a band of ruthless marauders, were now his instruments, his tools. He had reshaped them, consumed their will, and instilled in them a new sense of purpose.

  The old leader, now known as "Krell," approached him, his face a mix of respect and apprehension. "Kairos," he began, "there's news that in about a week, a caravan of royal knights will pass through these woods."

  Kairos raised an eyebrow. “Royal Knights? How well equipped are they, and how strong are they exactly?”

  Krell recalled, "They serve one of the so-called Champions. Heroes. An order of knights who are heavily armed, and most of them possess basic divine spellcasting abilities.”

  Kairos felt a surge of annoyance. These Champions, these self-proclaimed heroes, had taken the worship that rightfully belonged to his god. They had led the people away from the true path, steering them astray.

  "These Champions," Kairos said, his voice laced with venom, "are nothing but pretenders. They are false idols, misleading the people. They have forgotten the true god, the one who granted them life."

  He paused, letting his words resonate. "But we will not forget. We will remind them of their forsaken god. We will show them the true path, the path of obedience and submission. In due time, his followers will be rewarded for their loyalty."

  “But not yet, haste makes waste.” Kairos ponders about his next move. “Tell, is there are nearby villages, tribes, dungeons where we can bolster our equipment.”

  The sun peaking over the mountains, the march through the dense forest was arduous. The humid air clung to their skin, the oppressive heat sapping their energy. But Kairos pressed on, his eyes fixed on the prize: the Ironfang Tribe, a notorious band of orcs known for their ferocity and their stockpile of weapons and armor.

  His newly acquired followers, though still rough around the edges, were proving surprisingly effective. The former bandits, now imbued with a newfound sense of purpose, moved with a newfound discipline, their fear replaced by a chilling sense of anticipation.

  "Blood of the faithful, fuel my blade!" he chanted, the blade glowing with an eerie crimson light. This time, however, the glow was more intense, more focused. He felt a surge of power, a connection to something ancient and primal.

  With a satisfied smirk, he sheathed his weapon. This enhanced buff would give him the edge he needed in the upcoming battle.

  As they neared the enemy encampment, the air grew thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The sounds of grunting, laughter, and the clanging of metal echoed through the trees.

  "In god's name, I weave this shield, Their fate entwined, their will concealed. My protection, a chilling grace, For those who serve, in this dark place." He chants. “Shield of Fate.” The followers felt a sharp pain as their own blood seeps through their skin and create a layer of crimson translucent armor. “Your fate is in your hand, the strongest your faith in our god, the stronger your protection will be”

  “Krell, you take the charge, we are outnumbered, but these monsters are but primal barbarians, distract them long enough for me to claim their leader head, once their morale broke it will be as if stomping ants”

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  Krell, his face, under the gladiator helmet is grim determination, nodded. "As you command, Kairos."

  He turned to the assembled bandits, his voice booming through the clearing. "For the true god! Charge!"

  “I haven’t given out the signa-”, Kairos was not fast enough to stop them. With a bloodcurdling roar, the bandits surged forward, a tide of fury and steel crashing into the unsuspecting orc encampment.

  “Fuck it, we roll then”, Kairos began chanting before vanishing, “The veil of night, I now embrace, A ghost I become, in this shadowed space. Vanish and strike, a phantom's grace.”

  The air crackled with the energy of impending battle. Krell, his face a mask of grim determination, stood at the forefront of his men. The once-bandits, now transformed into something more – something darker – exuded a newfound confidence. Beside him, Kairos, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light, watched the orc encampment with a chilling sense of anticipation.

  "For our LORD!" Krell roared, his voice echoing through the trees. "For the true god! ATTACK!"

  With a terrifying shout, the bandits rushed forward, a wave of rage and steel crashing into the unsuspecting orc camp. The orcs, taken by surprise, were thrown into chaos. The first wave of bandits, wielding rusty axes and swords, engaged the orcs in a brutal clash of flesh and metal.

  Krell, a flurry of movement, smashed through the orc lines. His warhammer, a relic of his past as a bandit leader, struck with deadly precision. He roared with savage delight, each kill feeding his bloodlust. But the orcs were no easy adversaries. They were larger, stronger than the average human, and their raw ferocity belied their rough appearance.

  The initial advantage quickly faded as the orcs regrouped, their war cries resonating through the chaos. Sensing the tide shifting, Krell took a deep breath. Suddenly, the crimson glow surrounding him, fueled by his faith in Kairos, drew him closer to the one true god, empowering him through his belief. His movements became more fluid, his strikes more forceful. He felt a surge of strength, a connection to something far greater than himself. He charged into the heart of the battle, his hammer a storm of destruction. He smashed through orcs with alarming ease, their crude weapons splintering against his divinely enhanced armor. He became a whirlwind of havoc, a beacon of hope for his struggling comrades.

  “Shadow Step.” Kairos meanwhile, moved through the chaos with a silent grace, a ghost among the living. He avoided the main clash, slipping through the gaps between the fighting orcs, his senses alert for any sign of their leader.

  He finally spotted him. The orc leader, a hulking beast of a beast, was a whirlwind of violence, his axe cleaving through the bandit ranks. He was a formidable opponent, his every move a testament to his years of combat experience.

  Kairos, observing the leader, saw his opportunity. The orc, focused on the onslaught, was momentarily distracted, his guard down. This was it.

  With a silent whisper, he reappeared directly behind the orc leader, his sickle raised high. The orc, caught completely off guard, let out a roar of surprise.

  But the orc was quick. He spun around, his axe flashing out in a desperate counterattack. Kairos, anticipating the move, sidestepped, the axe whistling harmlessly past him.

  The two warriors locked in a deadly duel. The orc, enraged, unleashed a flurry of blows, his axe a whirlwind of deadly force. Kairos, agile and swift, dodged and weaved, his sickle a blur of motion.

  “Blood ignites, a crimson fire, Blind and burn, with infernal ire. CRIMSON FLARE!” , the scimitar slicing in the palm of Kairos' palm before flinging the blood outward as they boil and explode mid air creating a flare to momentarily stun the orc boss. Kairos then dashed forward and violent attacks with a barrage of slashes using his sickle and scimitar.

  Just then he baited out a swing from the orc. “PARRY!” the orc's axe went flying out of the its arm. “TWIN-BLADE DASH!”, ducking down with a fluid motion Kairos reappeared behind the orc with its large head ejected into the air before the headless body even touched the ground. He sheathed his two blades.

  With the leader dead, the orc resistance crumbled. Their morale shattered, they fled in disarray. “Good thing, my build is centralized on one on one combat.” Kairos, panting slightly, surveyed the carnage. He had achieved his objective. The orc leader, the heart of their resistance, was eliminated.

  He turned to Krell, who was still battling a group of orcs. "The fight is over, Krell," he announced, while still panting, recovering from the fight. "Secure the encampment and their armory."

  Krell, sensing Kairos's presence, turned to see his leader standing amidst the carnage, his sickle dripping with orc blood. Kairos, with a satisfied smirk, turned away. The path of strength continues, one brutal victory at a time.

  To be continued…