The Battle of Vallegrad is one of the greatest events in the region of Iruk.
A conflict that would shake borders, reshape alliances,
and ignite the name of a force that had, until then, been nothing more than a rumor.
The Battle of Vallegrad is counted among the most crucial turning points
in the rise of the legendary mercenary force known as the Black Company.
And at its center stood two names—
two brothers, two warriors, two commanders:
Narūn and Khar.
The battle would forge their legacy in fire and blood.
And from it, a dynasty would rise.
POV: Narūn
They sent me forward—months ahead in time—
to the moment of destiny: the Battle of Vallegrad.
But I wouldn't be thrown into it unprepared.
In those months, I would train.
I would fight beside my brother Khar.
We would take missions, earn respect, build a reputation.
Step by step, I was becoming more than a fighter—
I was becoming a name worth remembering.
---
→ Two months later
The time has come.
I've been transported to the frontline—
to the very heart of the Battle of Vallegrad.
It is one of the largest and most significant events
in the history of the Vallegrad region.
With nearly 30,000 soldiers clashing on both sides,
this isn't just a battle—
it's the largest mercenary conflict Vallegrad has ever seen.
Steel will break.
Blood will flow.
And legacies will be written.
I don't know who will live.
I don't know who will win.
But I know this—
Khar and I will fight until the very end.
POV: Narūn
I waited in the white lobby, the endless void between time and purpose.
Only four hours had passed in real life—
but it felt like eternity.
I stood in silence, hoping the next step would come soon.
Then, without warning—everything changed.
The world twisted.
The light shattered.
And I was thrown into chaos.
Suddenly, I stood on the edge of a vast battlefield.
The air was thick with smoke and steel,
the ground already soaked with the blood of fallen men.
The First Battle of Vallegrad.
One of the greatest wars ever fought in the region of Iruk.
On our side: 10,000 soldiers—mercenaries, veterans, survivors.
On the enemy side: 20,000 strong—nobles, house guards, war-trained elites.
We were outnumbered.
Heavily.
But I wasn't afraid.
This was it.
The moment the world would remember.
And the moment we would decide what the name Ogodai truly meant.
The stench of war hit me first. Smoke, blood, sweat, and earth all mixed into one choking scent that clung to your lungs like a curse. I stood atop a ridge overlooking the southern plains of Vallegrad, where over 30,000 souls had been cast into a storm of steel and fire. Our side was 10,000 strong—mercenaries, exiles, sellswords, and hopefuls. The enemy, noble House Armathor and their coalition, numbered 20,000. They had armor. They had formations. They had pride.
We had purpose.
Beside me stood my brother, Khar, bow in hand, eyes sharp and focused. He was younger, faster, more instinctive. I was the sword, he the arrow. Together, we had survived dozens of missions. But this... this was different.
"Archers ready!" came the call from our captain.
Khar nodded to me once. I tightened my grip around my blade and looked down at our advancing enemy. Rows of silver shields shimmered in the morning sun like a tide of iron.
And then the horns blew.
Our lines surged forward. The ground thundered beneath our boots as the vanguard slammed into theirs. Shields cracked. Blades screamed. Men roared and died. I charged with them, my heart pounding, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the moment. Each swing of my sword was met with resistance—a parry, a block, a body.
Chaos.
A soldier lunged at me with a spear. I sidestepped, slashed upward, and watched his helmet fly. Another came from behind, but Khar's arrow took him through the neck. We moved like one. For minutes, I lost myself in the rhythm of battle—strike, parry, move, kill.
Then came the break.
A horn sounded deep within the enemy lines. Their front parted, and through the opening rode a knight in black and crimson plate. His steed was a beast of war, his blade long and curved. He was their commander—Lord Vaedric, rumored to have ended three rebellions on his own.
He rode straight toward me.
Our soldiers tried to block him. He cut through them like paper. He wasn't fast—he was precise. Every strike calculated. Every movement efficient. I stepped forward to meet him.
"Fall back!" someone shouted. I ignored it.
Our blades clashed, sparks flying. He was stronger. I had speed and grit. He pressed the attack, his blows sending shockwaves through my arms. I ducked under one swing and sliced his thigh. He grunted, but didn't fall.
"You're no knight," he spat.
"I'm worse," I growled, parrying his next strike. "I'm a mercenary."
The duel lasted minutes—an eternity in battle. I was bleeding, my shoulder torn. He had a deep gash along his side. Then, as I staggered, he lifted his blade for the final strike—and an arrow pierced his throat.
Khar.
The knight collapsed, choking on blood. I looked back at my brother, who simply nodded. No words. Just understanding.
But the battle wasn't over.
With their commander down, the enemy faltered. But their numbers still overwhelmed us. We were being pushed back toward the eastern slope. The wounded screamed. The dying reached for help that wouldn't come.
Then I remembered the ravine.
I grabbed the nearest captain. "We pull them toward the hollow east of the ridge—narrow terrain. Their numbers won't matter there."
He hesitated, then relayed the command. We fell back, feigning weakness. The enemy chased us, hungry for the kill.
And we turned.
In the tight gorge, they couldn't form lines. They came in scattered. We picked them off. Khar and the archers rained death from above. I led the charge from below, our blades fueled by desperation and vengeance.
Hours passed. The sun was setting, the battlefield painted in red and gold. The enemy had begun to retreat.
We didn't chase. We had survived.
I stood among the dead, my armor cracked and soaked. Khar limped to my side, his quiver empty, his eyes distant.
"You still with me?" I asked.
He smiled. "You're bleeding more than me this time."
I laughed—a short, broken laugh. "Then it's a good day."
The field was quiet now. Crows circled above. Survivors cried. Some prayed.
And I looked to the horizon.
This is where it began.
Not with a throne. Not with gold.
But with blood, brotherhood, and a name whispered through fire:
Ogodai.