Chapter 2

The night for Neron was a brutal reminder that he found himself in a place where survival does not come easily. As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, the orc village took on a different life. The noise that during the day served as a backdrop to daily activities transformed into darkness filled with brutal sounds. Neron lay in a cramped wooden cage, his body pressed against the hard bars that prevented him from settling comfortably. Every movement he made elicited a creak from the wood, and his bare skin rubbed against the cold, rough timber, causing an discomfort he could not escape.

Around him, a dark, terrifying symphony of nocturnal life filled the village. In the distance, he could hear the weeping of neighboring villagers, their desperation seeping through the night. Men sobbed silently, stifling their sounds, as if fearing that the orcs would hear them and exploit their weakness. One villager could not contain himself—his quiet lament was like an echo of loss and hopelessness. "They took them... my wife, my children..." he whispered endlessly, as if repeating those words would somehow make the pain go away. But it did not. Not for him, and not for anyone else in that cursed cage.

Neron tried to ignore them, though he understood their suffering; their lives held little value for him. Along with the cries of the people came other sounds—the joyful, brutal laughter of the orcs that echoed among the huts. The sound of carefree laughter was unbearable, especially as it contrasted with the despair of the people confined next to him. It was as if their misfortune was merely entertainment for these beasts.

However, it was not the laughter that was the worst. Neron heard other sounds—noises of sex coming from one of the huts, violent and full of brutal passion. The woman's scream, although initially surprising, quickly blended with the raw, almost animalistic energy of the orcs. Every sound, every collision of bodies reminded him where he was—in a world where brutality and violence were the natural order of things. A world full of raw energy and wildness, where the weak were crushed.

Neron could not sleep. He tried to close his eyes, to focus on his own thoughts, but even there he found no solace. He still felt the pain from the blow dealt by that orc female, and the fatigue and muscle pain from his training made it difficult to find a moment of respite. Every movement he made pressed the wooden bars into his back, shoulders, and legs. He felt his body becoming increasingly overwhelmed by discomfort, but he could not allow himself weakness. He had to survive.

"Show aggression," he reminded himself of Asmodar's words. They were the only words keeping him afloat, the only thing preventing him from succumbing to this grim reality. He built a plan in his mind, but he constantly met a wall—lack of strength, lack of experience, lack of anything that could give him an advantage over these brutal beings. "But I am not lacking in determination," he thought, trying to focus on what he could do instead of what limited him.

As Neron finally slipped into an uneasy sleep, his mind would not allow him complete peace. He dreamed of orcs, their brutal, muscular forms and the wild, primal instinct that ruled this place. His dreams were saturated with images of violence and death, yet he felt something within him pushing him forward. A thought of survival, of fighting had taken root in his mind.

As the first rays of sunlight began to fall on his face, Neron jolted awake. Slowly, he opened his eyes, feeling stiffness and pain in every muscle of his body. It had been a long, nightmarish night, but he had survived. "I will not give up so easily," he thought, trying to gather strength for what the future might bring.

The morning in the orc tribe had a raw but organized character. Neron, though exhausted after a sleepless night, observed everything with growing fascination. While most people in the neighboring cages still lay in a half-sleep, engulfed in depression and sorrow, the orcs seemed to function in full harmony with their brutal everyday life.

At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight pierced the dark sky, the orc village awakened to life. The wooden huts built from thick beams and covered with the skins of wild animals began to open, and orcs poured out from within, immediately throwing themselves into their duties. Their day began early, but in a way that suggested they had a predetermined hierarchy and order in daily life.

In the center of the village, in the square, the orcs were setting up long, crude tables. A group of elder orcs, clad in heavy armor and hides, were issuing commands to the younger warriors. They were responsible for assigning tasks for the entire day. Some took on the repair of weapons and armor, others prepared food, while yet others ventured outside the camp to hunt.

Neron noticed that the orcs, despite their brutal nature, had a certain system and discipline. They placed great importance on strength, but it was not just about brutal violence. It was a strength built through labor and teamwork. The young orcs trained their bodies, sparring in brutal fights where they did not hold back against one another, while the elder orcs taught them tactics and the art of survival.

Interestingly, the orcs also had their own morning rituals. In one of the larger huts, Neron saw a group of shamans gathered around a fire, murmuring something under their breath in rhythmic, deep tones. They moved around the fire, throwing various items into it—animal bones, strange herbs that emitted a sharp smell, as the smoke rose into the air, filling the surrounding space.

Sitting in the cage, Neron watched these scenes with curiosity. He was fascinated by how the orcs balanced brutality with an organized, ritualistic approach to life. Their society was savage, yet it had a logic that he could not ignore. It reminded him of ancient stories about warriors who lived and died with a sword in hand, where each day was a fight for survival, yet with a clearly defined purpose.

As the morning progressed, the orcs prepared breakfast—a simple but hearty meal consisting of roasted meat and thick, heavy cakes. Each portion was shared among the tribe members, and the smell of fat wafting through the air began to tease Neron's nostrils. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was already hungry. The orcs seemed to ignore the people locked in cages, as if they were merely an addition to their daily lives.

Some younger warriors cast fleeting, mocking glances at the prisoners, their laughter piercing through the monotonous noise of the morning village. They were proud, and in their eyes lurked a mix of contempt and superiority. They were the masters of this place, and the people in cages were merely victims destined for something more, something Neron did not yet fully understand.

Neron continued his morning training, disregarding the disdainful looks. He exercised because he knew it could be his only path to survival. Suddenly, he noticed Kraga, an orc woman with a mohawk, the same one who had struck him earlier, approaching the cages. A heavy axe still rested on her shoulder, and her eyes were filled with cold indifference.

She stopped in front of the cages and tossed the prisoners something that was supposed to be food—pieces of hard bread and some indistinct meat.

Kraga stopped in front of Neron's cage, and he instinctively prepared himself for another wave of mockery. He expected the orc woman would want to toy with him again—maybe throw him a scrap of bread or strike him once more to emphasize her superiority. However, what happened next completely surprised Neron. Instead of the small portion of bread that the other prisoners received, Kraga threw him three large steaks—barely smaller than those eaten by the orcs themselves. A portion that seemed almost generous by the tribe's standards was unimaginable for a man locked in a cage.

Neron stared at the food for a moment before shifting his gaze to Kraga, who was watching his reaction with a cold expression. What the hell was she planning? He couldn't believe what he saw. Why was she giving him so much? He quickly began analyzing the situation in his head. Was this some form of psychological game? Did she want him to gain weight so she could eat him later? Or maybe there was some other, more complicated plan behind it? Questions began to overwhelm him, but he couldn't voice any of them as Kraga suddenly broke the silence.

"Eat," she growled, looking at him coldly. "If you don't eat it, I'll force-feed you... in front of me." Her voice left no room for dissent; within that one sentence was a threat that was better not ignored.

Neron raised an eyebrow, trying to sense if there was any chance of wriggling out of this situation, but seeing the steely glint in her eyes, he knew it was better not to play with fire. He understood that he needed to regain strength if he was to carry out his training plans, and this meat, even if it came from the hands of brutal orcs, was necessary fuel. He had to strengthen himself to survive—and to train his newly discovered magical abilities tonight.

Slowly, he reached for the first piece of meat and began to eat, although questions swirled in his head. Why is she giving me this? he thought, chewing the steak. Is she fattening me up to eat me later? Or is this some sick test, or is she preparing me for something worse?

Kraga stood in silence, arms crossed over her chest, watching him with an inscrutable expression. Her stance was unyielding, as if she didn't care what Neron thought, as long as he was eating. The man, though vigilant, knew he had to do it. He remembered Asmodar's words—"Show aggression." Perhaps the orc woman was testing him, checking his endurance. Maybe she wanted to provoke him.

With each subsequent piece of meat he slowly consumed, Neron felt his body gaining energy, although his mind was still filled with uncertainty. What if all this had a different purpose? Do they want me to fight? Is Kraga watching me because I'm different from the others?

He finished the last bite, and without a word, Kraga turned and walked away toward the village. Her figure—tall, massive, with distinctly sculpted muscles—was admirable. Despite all the brutality and wildness, Neron couldn't take his eyes off her backside, which swayed in rhythm with her step, clad in leather straps. He felt that these thoughts were out of place, but at that moment, his mind was in chaos. Kraga left without saying a word, leaving Neron with a full stomach and even more questions than before.

What is she planning? he wondered, glancing at the cages around him.

.

All day, Neron dedicated himself to training. He practiced methodically, ensuring he didn't overstrain his body. Occasionally, he took breaks, carefully analyzing his abilities and the confines of the cage he was in. He felt his muscles gradually strengthening with each movement, but he knew he had to be cautious. His body, although trained, was not indestructible.

However, what happened next completely captured his attention. A group of orcs returned to the village, carrying something massive on their shoulders—a carcass of a powerful beast. As they approached closer, Neron recognized it as a troll. The creature was enormous, with skin in shades of grayish-green, marked with furrows and scars, as if it were a living history of battles and skirmishes. Its body was mangled, bearing the marks of brutal combat—one of its arms hung limply, likely torn from its shoulder, and the troll's leg was shattered into pieces.

The monster's face, though motionless, still inspired respect—a large visage with protruding teeth, resembling a more primitive and powerful version of an orc. Its huge eyes were now lifeless, but they must have shone with wild fury not long ago. Neron noticed that a battle axe was still embedded deep in the troll's skull, as if it were the final blow that ultimately ended the creature's life. Its body was covered with numerous wounds, and the troll's blood continued to seep out, leaving bloody traces on the ground as the orcs dragged it along.

As the orcs gathered around the campfire, young orcs—likely apprentices or those still earning their place in the tribe—began to dismantle the troll's body. With skill, they cut away the edible portions of meat, tossing them onto a large wooden table, while inedible parts—such as the skin, bones, and some organs—were thrown into the fire, which blazed with bright flames with each addition. Neron watched this process with fascination, trying to assess how the orcs were not only capable of fighting but also surviving and utilizing the nature around them.

With each passing moment, it grew quieter around the fire, and night slowly descended upon the village. The orcs, sated after the hunt and filled with satisfaction from their successful haul, began to disperse to their huts. Neron, feeling the cold evening air on his skin, sat in the cage, patiently waiting for the last of the warriors to disappear from sight.

He knew this was the moment he had been waiting for all day. The night was his ally. Once the tribe fell asleep, he could commence his mysterious magic training—the one he received from Asmodar. Water... affinity with water. Now, with the silence enveloping him, he had the time to try to understand and harness it. But he had to do it carefully, without witnesses. The orcs couldn't know about it. And the other people in cages were of little significance anyway; their numbers were slowly dwindling. And that meant the time he had left was getting shorter.

Neron, alone in the darkness, sat on the cold bottom of the cage. His muscles, fatigued from a day of training, were tense, but his mind was still working at full throttle. Water magic...—those words echoed in his mind like an enigmatic riddle. He still didn't know the magic system of this world, but something within him urged him to try. He couldn't count on learning from anyone else—not here, and certainly not from the orcs, who viewed him as prey rather than an equal being. He was on his own.

At first, he felt lost. Where is the water? He looked around but saw no source of water. There was neither a stream nor a lake; the sky was clear, without even the smallest drop of rain. He felt disappointment creeping in, but he didn't let it overwhelm his thoughts. He decided to start from the basics—from sensing the magical power, from listening to what might be slumbering deep within his soul.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on his body. The sensation that had accompanied him since he arrived in this world grew stronger now. As if something was waiting, hidden just beneath the surface of his awareness. He tried to immerse himself in that energy, but it was more challenging than he had anticipated. Another breath—slow, calm. Neron silenced his thoughts, trying to feel every part of his body, every pulse in his veins.

At that moment, something peculiar began to happen. He sensed something different from just his physical body. As if the space around him had taken on a shape, a form he hadn't noticed before. Some subtle, invisible force flowed through him, through the air and the ground beneath his feet. Neron felt it fully for the first time. Magic. What had previously been a barely noticeable impression was now becoming more tangible. Like a delicate thread that drew his attention.

Since I've been here, I've felt this...—he thought. But not as strongly as now. This feeling, this sensation, was like a quiet whisper in his mind that was now growing louder. The more he focused on it, the clearer this energy became—like a stream of water flowing through him and around him, waiting for him to control it. However, something was off. It wasn't the pure water he had expected. It was... thicker, as if filled with something else.

Suddenly, he felt that pull, strong and unsettling. He focused his attention on one point—right beside him, in the adjacent cage. A man, exhausted and wounded, lay in a stupor, barely conscious. Blood was slowly seeping from his shoulder, previously gashed by the orcs. Neron felt his gaze involuntarily drawn to that image, and his mind couldn't tear itself away from the sight. Dark, viscous drops of blood flowed down the prisoner's shoulder, as if they were beckoning him in a way he couldn't explain.

Is this... water? — he thought with confusion. Water, but mixed with something more, with the essence of life, with blood. Neron's gaze was fixed on the flowing red, and his heart began to race, as if he realized he was on the brink of discovering something new, something powerful but also dangerous.

Neron extended his hand toward the wounded man, his focus locked onto the blood trickling from the prisoner's shoulder. He felt a strange, previously unknown connection to what he saw. He directed his thoughts and energy toward the wound, instinctively trying to concentrate his magic on the blood. He didn't know how he was doing it, but he sensed that what was happening now was no ordinary coincidence. It was a force he was beginning to understand.

As the first drops of blood detached from the wound and began to rise into the air instead of falling, his heart raced with excitement. These droplets—no more than a few—floated gently toward his outstretched hand, as if drawn by an invisible thread he was guiding. They hovered above his hand, levitating just above his skin. Neron watched this with growing fascination, as if he were witnessing something that had previously seemed impossible.

This... is blood magic. The thought sprang to his mind, and a smile spread across his face. I have power beyond my wildest dreams. His eyes shone in the dim light as he observed the levitating droplets. It was not just water; it was something more—something thicker, richer, more vibrant. Blood.

He was filled with excitement, but at the same time, he felt something he hadn't expected to discover within himself—a sadistic satisfaction. Before him lay a whole array of possibilities. All these people... they could all serve me. He glanced toward the other prisoners lying in cages next to him, unaware of what he had just discovered. Each of them was a potential training target. Their blood... their lives were now in my hands.

He looked again at the floating droplets of blood. They began to tremble, as if vibrating under the influence of his thoughts. He focused harder, trying to understand how he could manipulate these droplets. He started to slowly direct his energy, attempting to shape them. The droplets began to transform, initially remaining small spheres, but under his will, they started taking on a different form—thin, sharp needles. Small, but deadlier than any blade.

A memory from the past flashed in his mind, of a figure manipulating blood with brutal yet elegant movements, crafting blades from the very life they took. He couldn't recall the details, but he knew he was on the right path to do the same. Power over blood... — he thought, feeling a chill of excitement. He had before him a tool that could become his weapon.

As the needles took shape, they hovered above his hand, waiting for his command. This was just the beginning...

The blood needles floated around Nero, dancing in the air to the rhythm of his thoughts. Focus flowed from deep within his mind, controlling the movement of the droplets as if they were an extension of his body. Each needle was precise, sharper than steel, ready for use. Nero felt excitement swell within him, as if he were discovering an entirely new world—his world.

Blood... It is not just a substance. It is the essence of life. If I learn to control it, I could not only kill. I could... manipulate every body, every mind.

Scenarios began to form in his mind. He envisioned how he could sense the pulsating life in veins—every drop of blood in the bodies of his enemies, like a radar allowing him to find opponents even when they hid in the darkness. Every heartbeat, every wave of flowing blood would tell him where they were, how close they stood, how strong they might be.

I can find them... even when they think they are safe.

Sensing blood is one thing, but controlling it within the body? The thought vibrated in his mind like a prelude to something incredible. If I can control blood, I can strip them of their strength; I can make their own bodies stop obeying them. He envisioned a warrior raising his arm to strike, and Nero, with a single gesture, depriving him of control over his limbs. One move... and their body becomes useless.

More audacious thoughts began to take shape in his head. What if their blood stopped flowing? What if I could freeze it in their veins, rendering them unconscious on the spot, leaving them like lifeless puppets? he mused to himself. Each vision presented new possibilities, increasingly sadistic and practical. He could dominate not only their bodies but also their minds, controlling their fears and pain.

And what if I could use their blood against them? The droplets of blood around him vibrated gently, ready for action. Nero wondered how far he could go with this power. If I can create blades from blood... I can also drain it, taking life in the blink of an eye. He imagined pulling all the blood from an enemy's body with a single wave of his hand, leaving them like a desiccated husk, lifeless.

New images began to inspire him. He could form not only needles but also shields, armor, and even weapons. Blood magic knows no bounds... — he thought, gazing at the floating needles. This is a power the world does not understand... but I will understand it. I will harness it completely.

Each new thought seemed increasingly tempting, as if he had access to a forbidden source of power that no one else could master. But he—Nero—was unique.

As the needles slowly descended to the ground, his heart beat more steadily, and excitement gave way to cold determination. I must practice. I must refine myself. This is not a power to be understood in a single day.

With one last glance at the prisoners in the cages beside him, Nero realized he had endless training possibilities ahead. Each of them was a potential victim, a test subject. I can learn everything I want before the orcs catch on.

As the night drew to a close and the village slowly fell silent, Nero felt fatigue wash over him. He knew he had to rest to regain his strength. This is just the beginning... — he thought, lying down in the uncomfortable cage. Soon, I will master this power. And then... no one will be able to stop me.

With that thought, he allowed himself to sleep, in which blood danced around him, ready for his every command.