The glade had settled into uneasy calm after the boy's arrival, but the tension was palpable. Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper could sense it in the way the elves walked their patrols, alert and silent, and in how the newly arrived refugees kept glancing over their shoulders as if expecting an orc horde to burst through the trees at any moment.
A short while later, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins and Marcus "Saint" Miller joined Jason near the clearing's edge, where an improvised watchpoint overlooked a winding forest path. The path was narrow—choked with twisting roots and mossy rocks—but it was the most direct route from the east, the same direction the injured boy had come from.
Jason rested a hand on the trunk of an ancient oak, scanning the shadows. "One battered refugee shows up, telling us his village was raided. That usually means an advance party might not be far behind."
Marcus shrugged grimly. "Orcs aren't exactly subtle. If they catch a whiff of survivors, they'll want to finish the job."
"Right. And if that happens," Derek added, "we need to be ready. Elves or not, these folks aren't used to facing full-scale orc assaults, especially ones led by someone like Malachar."
They paused, turning to see a small cluster of elven warriors approaching. Two of them were rangers—lean, keen-eyed, and armed with shortbows. But the third figure was different: taller, clad in partial plate that looked more ceremonial than practical, and carrying a slender sword with runic etchings. His bearing suggested some measure of authority.
Through broken words and gestures, the new arrival introduced himself—Elandras, the glade's guard captain. The translator's staff hummed faintly as an elf elder brought it over, allowing partial understanding: Elandras asked if the "thunder warriors" could give a demonstration—show how these strange, deafening weapons worked.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "So they're asking for a literal show of force?"
Jason inclined his head. "Makes sense. They've seen glimpses of what we can do, but it's all been in chaos. Now they want a controlled display. Probably to gauge whether we really can help defend this place."
Derek shrugged, a half-grin tugging at his mouth. "I can do fireworks, if that's what they're after."
They led Elandras and a few other elves to a relatively open patch of ground at the glade's far edge, where the trees thinned. Jason pulled Derek aside. "Let's keep it safe—just a few rounds into a target. We don't want to scare them so bad they think we're summoning demons."
With a nod, Derek scouted for a suitable tree trunk a good distance away. Using some cloth scraps and a bit of bright paint from Marcus's medical kit, he improvised a crude bull's-eye on the bark.
Elandras and his warriors observed with wary curiosity, standing a solid thirty paces back. A few of the refugee villagers lingered nearby, drawn by the unfolding spectacle. The robed man, still weak, propped himself against a log, eyes intent.
Stepping forward, Derek lifted his M4 carbine, flicked the safety off, and addressed the audience with a few gentle waves of his free hand, as if to say, Brace yourselves. Even the translators had trouble finding words for loud noise incoming.
Then, in one smooth motion, Derek aimed down the sights and fired a short burst: crack-crack-crack. The muzzle flashes lit the dim undergrowth, echoing off the trees. Several elves flinched visibly, their ears flattening in shock. Refugees gasped and scrambled back. Elandras held firm—though his eyes widened.
The bullets tore into the distant trunk, sending bark and wood splinters flying. A hush fell, broken only by the rustle of disturbed leaves. Derek exhaled, letting the smoke drift from the barrel. "That was about half-speed," he joked under his breath.
Marcus approached, nodding to the watchers. He tapped his earpiece, then pointed at the bullet holes. The translator staff glowed, revealing Elandras's astonishment. The elves began murmuring among themselves, half in reverence, half in disquiet.
"Let's show them a single shot for accuracy," Jason suggested.
This time, Derek flipped to semi-auto, took a breath, and carefully lined up his shot. Bang. A single round punched through the center of the makeshift bull's-eye. The thunk of impact was audible, and the robed man uttered a faint gasp, impressed by the precision.
Elandras stepped closer to the battered trunk, touching the fresh holes in disbelief. He and his fellow elves exchanged words in hushed excitement, as if confirming that this was no ordinary trick. One braver soul even tried tapping Derek's rifle with a cautious fingertip, only to jerk back from the strange metal warmth.
Marcus offered a grin. "If you think that's something, wait until we set up a claymore or some C4. But maybe we'll save that for a real fight."
Through the translator's staff, Elandras spoke: "Such… power. Far greater than bows. Orc armor… worthless. How many… thunder?"
Jason interpreted that the elf captain wanted to know how many shots were possible. Grimly, Jason explained with gestures that the team's ammo was finite. They tried to illustrate that each magazine had limited rounds, and once gone, they had no sure way to replace them in this realm. The translator staff conveyed the gist—leading the elves to realize that while these weapons were mighty, they were also limited.
A ripple of understanding and concern spread among the watchers. They seemed to grasp that the SEALs couldn't singlehandedly wipe out Malachar's armies with endless gunfire. But the demonstration had made one thing clear: these outsiders possessed a fearsome advantage in any fight to come.
Derek set his rifle down, turning to the robed man and the elves. "We can train you in tactics—ambushes, defense, how to work with your bows and our gear together."
The robed man nodded, even though he caught only fragments of Derek's speech. Elandras lifted his chin, eyes gleaming with renewed confidence. This display of modern firepower, however limited, had ignited a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, their small forest enclave could hold its own.
A sudden thunder of footsteps broke the hush. An elf ranger burst into the clearing, breathless. He babbled a volley of urgent words to Elandras, pointing east. Elandras's expression hardened, his gaze flicking to the SEALs. He spoke a single phrase the translation magic picked up clearly: "Orcs… approaching. Few, but armed."
Jason exchanged a grim glance with Marcus and Derek. "Show of force, indeed," he murmured. "Guess we're about to give them the full demonstration."
Like a sparked tinder, the camp sprang into motion. Elves grabbed bows, the refugees scrambled to safer ground, and the robed man, anxious, hobbled to rally those who could fight.
Marcus double-checked his rifle. "Time to see if all that talk impressed our new neighbors. Let's buy them a chance to stand tall against these marauders."
With that, the SEALs prepared to face an orc scouting party, ready to prove that the thunder of modern warfare was not just noise—it was a promise of survival for those who stood with them in this embattled realm.