Last Bastion: Reincarnated Prince of Stormwatch

"The elves cut with elegance. The goblins strike from shadows. But the orcs? The orcs come like thunder—and they never stop."

—Commander Rain, Southern Wall Archives

Location: Stormwatch's Outer Ridge – Nightfall

It began with a tremor.

Then another.

And then came the sound.

Drums.

Low, pounding war-drums that echoed through the valley, shaking dust from the stones of the Bastion. Not a rhythm of ceremony or battle formation.

A rhythm of inevitability.

Jag stood on the southern overlook, wind howling through his tattered red cloak. His armor still bore elven blade scars, hastily patched. Around him stood a group of his commanders—Rain, Ashra, Roderick of the Drakemounts, and two members of the Black Band still bloodied from the last encounter.

"That sound," Rain said quietly. "They're already here."

Jag nodded.

"No scouts. No illusions. No tactics. Just war."

Scene: Orcish Camp – POV: Grashokk Ironhide, Warchief of the Mawclaw Horde

Across the blackened wastes beyond Stormwatch's outer villages, a massive camp had formed—more like a living scar upon the land.

Orcish tents were built from stretched hides of conquered beasts. Fires roared in shallow pits. And the war-drums never ceased.

At the center of it all stood Grashokk Ironhide, a chieftain who wore a full helm forged from the skull of a forest giant.

His shoulders were layered with chained weapons—axes, flails, and war-clubs. His left tusk was broken, snapped in a duel. His eyes were black and bloodshot from berserker tattoos burned into his skull.

He stood before his horde.

"Humans cling to stone and prayer."

"We bring bone and ash."

The crowd roared.

A shaman beside him smeared red paint over his chest, chanting.

"Burn their last wall."

"Turn their last prince into meat."

Scene: Stormwatch War Council

Jag placed a map across the table inside the Bastion's command chamber. Dozens of border villages had been marked in red—already burned.

Others pulsed with warning glyphs: Redvale, Cinderpath, Hollowpost—outposts just beyond their fortified region.

Rain glanced at the blinking lights.

"We don't have the manpower to reinforce every outer village."

Ashra leaned forward. "If we abandon them, we lose farmland, water access, and morale."

Jag looked up.

"We aren't abandoning anyone."

He tapped the map—a small valley chokepoint near Hollowpost.

"We'll turn Cinderpath into a death corridor. We dig trenches, spike walls, place fuel traps, fallback pits—"

"A meatgrinder."

Rain exhaled. "It'll take days."

"We have one night."

Scene: Conscription Proposal

Later that night, in the Hall of Elders, Jag stood before civilian leaders—mostly old veterans, engineers, mages, and community heads.

"We need bodies."

His voice echoed.

"Not just soldiers. Builders. Runners. Carriers. Watchmen."

There was silence. Then whispers.

An elder with a scarred cheek stood up. "Are you calling for conscription, my prince?"

Jag didn't flinch.

"Yes."

"Anyone 15 or older will report for duty. No exceptions. Not for titles. Not for trades."

The hall murmured in disapproval. A merchant's voice shouted:

"That's not Stormwatch's way!"

"We're not tyrants!"

Jag's voice hardened.

"Then tell me what we are… when there's no one left to bury the dead."

Silence.

"I'm not asking you to fight."

"I'm telling you that war doesn't care if you're ready."

Scene: Preparations at Cinderpath

Cinderpath was a small border village of thirty homes and a central tower. That night, it became a fortress under pressure.

Men, women, and teens dug trenches by torchlight.

Mages traced glyph traps in the dirt—some that released fire, others that froze air or snapped into stone spears.

Choir engineers rigged smoke veil channels to obscure long-range vision.

Jag arrived, still armored, hammering spikes with the others.

Rain passed by. "You're digging with them?"

"How else will they believe I'll bleed for this place?"

Nearby, a young boy handed Jag a coil of barbed wire.

"My father died fighting trolls. He told me Stormwatch doesn't bend."

Jag took it, eyes solemn.

"Your father wasn't wrong."

Scene: First Sight of the Horde

By midday, the drums stopped.

Silence returned.

Then—they saw them.

Across the valley, black figures lined the ridge like ants on a corpse. Thousands of orcs. Bigger than goblins. Cruder than elves.

But their presence alone was a weapon.

Jag watched through a magnifier glyph.

He saw Grashokk Ironhide.

The two locked eyes—though impossible, Jag felt it.

"He sees me," Jag muttered.

Rain stood beside him.

"What does he want?"

"To break me," Jag whispered. "Not my wall. Me."

Ashra approached.

"Shall we open fire?"

Jag shook his head.

"No. They expect us to panic. Let them make the first move."

"Then we tear it apart."

Scene: The Orcish First Push – No Warning

There was no signal.

Suddenly, the entire front line of the horde charged. No formation. No skirmishers.

Only momentum.

Their roars shook the sky.

Cinderpath held its breath.

Stormwatch's defenders—barely organized—maned spikes, glyph walls, ballistae.

Jag raised a torch.

"Ready the fuel line."

He waited. Waited…

NOW.

He dropped the torch.

The front trenches erupted in flame, sending orcs flying.

Choir mages launched pulse spheres, blinding and deafening. Elven archers—volunteer survivors from the previous assault—fired in precision clusters.

But the orcs kept coming.

One orc crashed into the wall with his body, breaking himself into the structure—becoming a living bridge for others to climb.

Another took five arrows and kept running, screaming war-songs.

Close Combat Begins

Ashra engaged the flank, glaive spinning like a scythe. She swept an orc's knee, brought her weapon low, and cleaved through the chest.

One Drakemount rider was yanked off his mount and torn apart midair.

Jag dropped into the second line, slamming his blade into an orc's neck, ducking another's hammer blow, and driving his shoulder into the gut.

Steel clanged. Bones cracked.

It wasn't war. It was collision.

Scene: Civilian Fighters Step In

Near the rear lines, blacksmiths swung hammers.

A baker defended the healer's tent with a spade.

A young girl lit every glyph trap as orcs breached the side road.

They weren't trained.

They were angry.

Scene: Jag Injured

Jag parried a double-handed axe, but the orc's strength pushed through.

CRACK!

His shoulder snapped. He screamed, falling to one knee.

The orc roared, raised its club—

And Rain drove a spear through its back.

"You fall, we all fall."

She pulled Jag up. Blood dripped down his armor.

He gritted his teeth.

"We hold."

Scene: The Charge Breaks

After hours of combat, fire, blood, and bone—

The orcs stopped advancing.

Corpses piled high. Smoke choked the air.

A single horn sounded from their side—retreat.

But Jag knew.

"That wasn't the real attack."

"That was them listening."

Rain looked at him.

"For what?"

"For the cracks."