Two hours of frantic preparation transforms our military exercise into a genuine war party. One hundred of our best orc warriors form the core of our assault force, their weapons and armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. Fifty goblin archers, eyes keen and fingers twitching with anticipation, organize into mobile firing squads. And towering above them all, our two ogres—now clad in makeshift armor fashioned from scavenged metal and thick hides—lumber into position, massive clubs resting on broad shoulders.

  At the center stands Gorthal, transformed by our bond into something far beyond a typical orc blood-priest. His ritual scars pulse with constant crimson energy, his frame expanded and hardened by my power flowing through him. Blackjaw's axe rests across his back, occasionally emitting a soft red glow as if sensing the coming violence.

  The captive bandits watch our preparations with growing dread, particularly their leader—a man who introduced himself as Dargo once he accepted the inevitability of cooperation. His earlier bravado has evaporated, replaced by a nervous sweat that makes the scar across his face shine.

  "Sixty men, you said," I remind him as our forces finish assembling. "At the old fort ruins. Any defenses I should know about?"

  "Wooden palisade," Dargo mutters, eyes fixed on the ogres. "Two watchtowers. Maybe twenty men on guard duty at any time, rest usually drinking or sleeping during day."

  "Weakness in the defenses? Entry points?"

  He hesitates, clearly weighing his loyalties against his survival.

  Gorthal steps closer, looming over him. "Answer master's question," he growls, "or I perform blood ritual that makes your skin peel itself from muscle. Very slow process."

  "West wall!" Dargo blurts, survival instinct winning out. "Damaged in spring floods. We reinforced with loose timber, but it's weak. And the north tower's undermanned—commander doesn't like the fellow in charge, assigns him bare minimum guards."

  I nod, tucking away this information. "You'll lead us there. March at the front where our archers can see you. Try to run or warn your friends, and you'll discover what goblin arrows feel like penetrating your spine."

  Our procession moves out, a deliberate display of power. I've positioned the ten villagers near the middle of our column, guarded but given clear sightlines to observe our strength. Their fear is palpable, but it's gradually being replaced by something else—a cautious hope, perhaps even admiration.

  "Never seen monsters so... organized," I overhear one whispering to another. "Move like a real army, not just a raiding party."

  "Did you see the big green one with the glowing scars?" his companion replies. "Touched his axe and it started glowing. What kind of magic is that?"

  I smile inwardly. This is exactly the reaction I want—awe, respect, the spreading awareness that my monster army is something new in this world. Something powerful.

  As we march, I position myself alongside the older farmer who seems to be the unofficial leader of the villagers.

  "Tell me more about these bandits," I prompt. "How long have they been terrorizing your homes?"

  "Started about six months back," he explains, keeping a wary eye on the orcs marching nearby. "Small raids at first—a few stolen chickens, the occasional shakedown for coin. But they grew bolder when Lord Keenan didn't respond to our petitions."

  "And now?"

  "Now it's organized extortion. Each village pays 'protection' fees monthly. Those who can't pay suffer... consequences." His weathered face darkens. "Three young women taken last month from Riverbend. Never seen again."

  "And Keenan does nothing?"

  "Sends his tax collectors right on schedule," the farmer says bitterly. "But never any guards to help us. Some say he takes a cut from the Black Scar's operations. Others say he's afraid of them—they've grown too numerous to challenge without significant forces."

  Significant forces. Like the monster army I'm building.

  An hour into our march, Gorthal drops back from the front line to walk beside me.

  "Approaching target area," he reports. "Scout sees fort on horizon. Basic defenses, as prisoner described."

  "Good. Signal the advance force."

  Ten of our fastest goblins break away, racing ahead through the underbrush with impressive stealth. They'll establish observation points and verify Dargo's information before we commit to the attack.

  "What's the plan?" Gorthal asks, ritual scars pulsing with anticipation.

  "Demonstration of power," I reply. "These bandits are perfect practice for our formations. Minimal risk, maximum impact." I glance toward the villagers. "And valuable for establishing our reputation locally."

  The blood-priest grins, tusks gleaming. "Public relations."

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  "Exactly. Now you're thinking like a general, not just a warrior."

  Twenty minutes later, our goblin scouts return, confirming Dargo's information with additional details about guard positions and potential entry points. The fort comes into view as we crest a small hill—a crumbling stone structure expanded with wooden palisades and makeshift towers. Black smoke rises from cookfires within, and I can make out figures moving along the walls, oblivious to the force assembling against them.

  I gather my commanders for final instructions while our forces take position in the tree line, hidden from the fort's lookouts.

  "Gorthal, you'll lead the frontal assault with seventy orcs and both ogres. Make it loud, make it terrifying. I want them focused entirely on you." I turn to our goblin captain, a particularly enhanced specimen named Skritt. "Your archers split into two units. Thirty provide covering fire for the frontal assault, twenty circle to the weak section of wall Dargo identified and breach from behind."

  "And prisoners?" Gorthal asks, his axe already in hand.

  I consider this briefly. "The leader—alive if possible. We need information about their connection to Keenan. The rest..." I shrug. "Use your judgment. Those who surrender immediately can live. The rest are combat practice."

  With our strategy set, I position the villagers on a rise overlooking the fort—close enough to witness the battle but safely removed from danger.

  "Watch carefully," I tell them. "Then go home and tell everyone what you saw. Tell them about the monster army that did what Lord Keenan wouldn't—protected ordinary people from those who would prey on them."

  The attack begins with theatrical flourish. Gorthal performs a blood ritual more elaborate than his usual battlefield enhancements, slicing both palms deeply against his axe blade. The weapon drinks in his blood eagerly, beginning to glow with searing crimson energy as he chants in the ancient orc language.

  The ritual completes just as our forces break from the tree line. The effect is both tactical and psychological—Gorthal's blood magic envelops our front-line fighters in a crimson haze that makes them appear larger, more fearsome, while actually enhancing their physical capabilities.

  The bandits on the walls spot our approach too late. By the time alarm horns sound, goblin arrows are already finding targets among the watchmen. The orcs charge the main gate at frightening speed, our ogres in the vanguard with massive logs serving as battering rams.

  "BLOOD AND SHADOW!" Gorthal roars, the battle cry we've established for our forces. The orcs take up the chant as they crash against the gates, their voices a terrifying chorus that rolls across the battlefield.

  From my command position on the hill, I watch with satisfaction as our months of training translate into devastating effectiveness. The goblin archers maintain perfect discipline, providing withering covering fire that pins down bandits attempting to organize a defense. Our flanking force reaches the weakened western wall unseen, scaling it with grappling hooks and opening another front in the battle.

  The main gates splinter under the ogres' assault, and our orc warriors pour through the breach like a green tide of muscle and steel. Gorthal leads them, Blackjaw's axe cleaving through the first defenders with frightening ease. Through our bond, I feel his exhilaration, his satisfaction as the blood-bound weapon drinks deeply of enemy essence.

  The battle—if such a one-sided slaughter deserves the name—lasts less than fifteen minutes. The bandits fight with the desperate courage of men who know surrender might not be an option, but they're hopelessly outmatched. Our enhanced forces move with coordination and purpose that these ordinary humans simply cannot counter.

  By the time I walk through the shattered gates, the fighting is largely over. Pockets of resistance have been isolated and contained. The majority of bandits lie dead or wounded in the mud of the fort's central yard. Our casualties are minimal—three orcs with non-fatal injuries, one goblin archer caught by a lucky crossbow bolt.

  Gorthal approaches, blood-spattered but unharmed, dragging a struggling human by the scruff of his neck. The man is better dressed than most bandits—fine leather armor with silver accents, a jeweled dagger still sheathed at his belt.

  "Black Scar's commander," the blood-priest announces, throwing the man to his knees before me. "Found hiding in wine cellar."

  The bandit leader looks up at me with hate-filled eyes, blood trickling from a split lip. "Whatever they're paying you, I can double it," he spits. "Triple it. I have connections in Hillbrook, in the capital itself."

  "I'm not a mercenary," I reply, squatting down to his eye level. "And I'm not interested in your money. I want information. About your operation. About Lord Keenan."

  The man's eyes narrow. "Kill me now and be done with it. I'm not betraying my partners."

  I glance at Gorthal, who grins malevolently. "Blood-truth ritual?"

  "No," I decide. "Take him to the village. Let him face the people he's terrorized. We'll get what we need eventually." I stand, addressing our forces. "Secure the fort. Take anything valuable. Burn the rest. This ends Black Scar Company's reign of terror."

  As our monsters systematically loot the bandit stronghold, I return to where the villagers watch with undisguised awe. Their faces have transformed—fear replaced by something approaching reverence.

  "You... you destroyed them," the older farmer stammers. "Just like that. Sixty armed men, gone in minutes."

  "And we'll do the same to anyone who threatens villages under our protection," I tell him. "Go home. Tell your people what you saw here today. Tell them that my monster army is not a threat to the peace of the region."

  The optics of leading an army of monsters in a world where monsters are killed on sight is not great. Better to build up our reputation now so we don't have armies trying to hunt us down later.

  "What do you want in return?" the farmer asks cautiously. "No one does something for nothing."

  A fair question. One I haven't actually considered. There's not much a bunch of villagers can actually provide me, but it would be suspicious to say I'm doing this for free.

  "For now? Information. Eyes and ears in the villages. Reports on Keenan's activities, on other threats in the region." I pause, considering long-term strategy. "Later, perhaps trade. Supplies. But nothing you can't afford to give."

  The villagers exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the older man nods.

  "Meadowvale thanks you for your protection," he says formally. "I expect Riverbend will too, once we tell them what we saw." He hesitates, then asks, "What should we call you? When we tell others who protected us?"

  I hadn't considered this—the need for a title, for a name that can spread through the region carrying my reputation before me.

  "The Monster Lord," I reply after a moment. "Tell them the Monster Lord and his army stand between them and those who would harm them."

  As the villagers depart, escorted by a small contingent of our forces to ensure their safe return, I survey the smoking ruins of the bandit fort with satisfaction. Today was more than a victory—it was a statement of purpose, a demonstration of power, and the beginning of a reputation that will serve our growing army well.