Page 40 of Scoring the Orc

"Bloodcrushers!" a group to my left chants, pounding their feet against the ground, creating a thunderous rhythm that vibrates through the air. They wear deep red scarves, waving them like banners on a battlefield. Their faces are painted with fierce, snarling designs that mirror the ferocity of their cheers.

On my right, the Stonebreakers' supporters respond, their voices melding into a deep, resounding chant. "Stonebreakers! Stonebreakers!" They hold aloft signs shaped like hammers and shields, symbols of strength and resilience, colored in earthy tones that stand bold against the gray sky.

Caught between these two impassioned factions, I feel the stadium itself pulse with life, a living entity fueled by the fervor of its spectators. The air is thick with anticipation, each shout and cheer weaving into a tapestry of communal expectation.

All I want is Jurto to hold me in his arms after everything is said and done. That’s all. And I can only hope and pray that I’ll be given that chance, no matter the outcome of the match.

26

JURTO

“Ready?” I call out to the rest of the team. Rogar nods first. Krodash and Kraag, despite the torment I’ve put them through while training for this match, send me smiles.

I owe them all a feast after this match.

In usual form, we strip down to our uniform shorts, showing off our scarred, muscular physiques as we walk out onto the field. The crowd erupts into ear-deafening roars, shaking the very ground. Hrogun waves to the fans while Borka shows off his muscles to the salivating orc women in the stands.

My eyes instinctively trail to where I left Emilia, away from the rest of the crowd. I know that she’ll be watching the match with full attention. I can’t let her down during a moment like this.

Aleryn was the first bastard who crushed her dreams by wagering her. I won’t do the same. I’ll make her proud to be mine.

I survey my team with a deep sense of pride swelling in my chest. Rogar, Krodash, Kraag, Karg, Varg, Hrogun, Kyleb, and Borka—each one stands as a testament to the months of grueling training we've endured. Our bodies, ripped and scarred, are a visual promise of our strength and resilience. We don't just carry muscles; we carry stories of survival, etched deep into our flesh.

Across the pitch, Gargash and his burly squad are mirroring our pre-match ritual. They too strip down, flaunting their own battered physiques under the harsh arena lights. My lip curls instinctively at the sight of Gargash. The rivalry between us runs deep, poisoned by years of bitter competition. He's a tough brute, I'll give him that, but today, he's nothing more than an obstacle in my path.

The crowd's energy is palpable, their roars fueling our adrenaline. Rogar, with a warrior's grin, waves to our supporters, soaking in their fervor. Beside him, Karg and Varg, the twin towers of our defense, bang their chests, their eyes locked on the opposition with fierce determination.

Kraag and Krodash share a look, a silent nod between them that speaks volumes of the silent promises we've made to each other. We're more than a team; we're a brotherhood bound by sweat, blood, and the shared dream of victory. Kyleb clenches his fists, his gaze intense and focused.

“I know I’ve pushed you all,” I announce to my team. They watch me with careful, intense eyes. “And I thank you for your sacrifice. You guys will be rewarded for what you’re endured for my sake.”

“Jurto,” Hrogun says, clapping his hand over my shoulder. “We understand what you’re going through. We know that a lot if at-stake here. You’re our leader, so we will stand by your side no matter what.”

“Thank you, Hrogun,” I reply. “You’ve always been a loyal one.”

Turning around, I face midfield where the referee awaits with the ball tucked under his arm. He beckons Gargash and I to come face-to-face.

As we approach midfield, the ground beneath my heavy steps feels like the only thing stable in a world of roaring chaos. Gargash stands there, his bulk like a dark tower against the backdrop of the frenzied crowd. We lock eyes, and I can feel the electric tension crackling in the air between us. His presence is formidable, but I'm like a storm he hasn't weathered yet.

"May the best orc win," Gargash rumbles, his voice deep and somewhat mocking, as if the outcome is already decided in his favor. It irks me—the smugness of his tone.

"I fully intend to crush you," I growl back, my voice dripping venom. Each word slices through the noise of the arena, sharp and clear. I want him to know he's in for a fight, not a formality.

The referee, a small but stern orc who has overseen many of my zyrphix matches, steps between us, his face pinched in disapproval. "Enough, Jurto! Save it for the game," he scolds, wagging a finger almost comically up at me. I barely give him a glance, my focus laser-locked on Gargash. The referee's words float away, unheeded, irrelevant.

Gargash smirks, a slight upturn of his lips that fuels my fury. It's clear he thinks he's already got this in the bag. But I see the slight shimmer of sweat on his brow, the way his eyes dart just a fraction too quickly. He's worried.

Good. He should be.

The handshake is brief, our palms clashing, the grip a battle of wills in itself. His hand is a vise, but mine is the anvil, unyielding and cold. I squeeze with all the pent-up aggression of our rivalry, and for a moment, I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. We break away, the silent message delivered and received.

Turning back to my team, I nod sharply, a silent signal that everyone understands. It's more than just a game. It's a declaration, a challenge. We're not just here to play; we're here to dominate, to claim what's ours. The energy of my teammates is a palpable force, a united front of raw, eager power.

As Gargash and I part ways, returning to our respective teams, the gravity of this moment settles over the field like a heavy shroud. This isn't just another match of zyrphix; it has morphed into a brutal grudge match, a clash of wills between two titans unwilling to give an inch. Each step back to my team feels like marching through a saga written in the roars of the crowd.

The arena around us is a cauldron of noise. The fans, a sea of frenzied faces, are up on their feet, their cheers a wild, undulating wave that crashes against the confines of the stadium. Banners wave furiously, blurring into a tapestry of vibrant colors—reds, blacks, golds—all merging into a vivid display of tribal allegiance. The air is electric, charged with anticipation, each breath tasting of dust and sweat.

Orc women, their expressions fierce and proud, chant and stomp, the traditional rhythms of war dances thudding against the ground, reverberating through the soles of my boots. Children, hoisted on shoulders, mimic our aggressive postures, their small fists pumping in the air, little warriors in the making. The elderly, their faces lined with the stories of many games past, wear expressions of intense concentration, understanding the stakes better than anyone.

---