Far to the southwest, Yholm and his army endured a grueling two weeks aboard a ramshackle giant boat. The voyage was perilous, as the seas teemed with hostile creatures, and the craft itself was barely seaworthy. The Demi-Giants aboard did their best to keep the vessel afloat, but the journey was a constant nightmare. Yholm, unable to fight while on the boat, felt vulnerable—a sensation he despised. Each passing day felt like an eternity, but against all odds, they survived.
When they finally sighted land, the hope for relief was dashed. The shore was a barren desert, stretching endlessly in all directions. Still, it offered a reprieve from the cursed boat, and Yholm declared an end to their time at sea. He vowed never to set foot on another boat for as long as he lived.
As they stepped onto the arid land, Yholm's army took time to rest. The sands were hot and unforgiving, but at least there were no visible enemies. This mission, a task to capture lands for Oosa, had led them to this desolation. Yholm recalled the words of one of his soldiers, who had spoken of a land far to the southwest. It was said to have once belonged to a powerful people, strong enough to challenge the dragons, only to be utterly destroyed by them. What remained was supposedly unclaimed and untouched, a place free of enemies.
Yet, as they surveyed the landscape, it seemed the soldier’s tales had been nothing more than myths. There was nothing but the oppressive heat, endless dunes, and silence. Food and water were scarce, and the harsh environment made every step feel like a battle.
When night fell, Yholm gave the order to move. The sun’s relentless heat made travel during the day unbearable, and they needed to cross this desert quickly. The coolness of the night was their only ally, though it brought its own challenges—chilling winds and the unsettling sense that the sands could swallow them whole.
The Demi-Giants marched under the moonlight, their large frames casting long shadows across the dunes. Yholm led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of refuge or salvation. The desert seemed endless, a vast emptiness that mirrored his thoughts.
This land, once promised as a place of opportunity, now felt like another test—a cruel one. Yholm gritted his teeth, determined to push forward. He knew that survival was the only option. He would not let his army perish here. They would find a way through the desert, no matter the cost.
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Yholm and his men kept marching, their resolve unbroken. The desert was vast and unforgiving, but so were they.
As Yholm and his army pressed onward, the barren desert began to change. Sparse patches of plants started to appear, a sign that the endless sands were finally giving way to something more hospitable. The sight of green rekindled their hope, and they pushed forward, each step bringing more signs of life.
But Yholm, a seasoned warrior, felt a growing unease. His instincts—honed through years of battle—told him something was near. He halted the group, gripping his spear tightly as his piercing eyes scanned the horizon. His intuition proved correct.
From the shifting sands ahead, creatures emerged—beasts resembling the wolves of Raizzen, the monstrous demon that had once ravaged Oosa. Yet these were no wolves. Their bodies were leaner, their movements serpentine, and their eyes gleamed with a feral, otherworldly light. Their snarls echoed across the desert, announcing their intent to attack.
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The creatures charged, but the Demi-Giants, veterans of countless battles, met them head-on. Yholm led the charge, his spear a blur as it struck with deadly precision. One after another, the creatures fell, their blood staining the sands. The Demi-Giants, hardened by their brutal fights against the demons under General Kho, found these beasts to be no match.
When the battle was over, the dry air carried the metallic tang of blood. Exhausted and parched, the warriors looked at the fallen creatures. Without hesitation, they began to drink the blood and fluids from the bodies. It was a grim necessity, born of their dire circumstances. The blood, though repulsive, kept them alive and gave them the strength to continue their journey.
With their thirst quenched, Yholm and his warriors moved faster, their large strides allowing them to cover great distances. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the desert gave way entirely to a green and fertile land. Towering trees and lush vegetation greeted them, a stark contrast to the arid wasteland they had traversed.
Their relief was short-lived. More of the strange creatures appeared, their numbers growing as they stepped deeper into this new territory. But the Demi-Giants saw the beasts not just as enemies but as a source of food and water. Their hunger and thirst gave them purpose, and their weapons were ready.
Yholm, spear in hand, smirked grimly. “If this is the price for reaching this land, so be it,” he said, his voice echoing through the forest.
The Demi-Giants prepared for another battle, ready to claim this strange and untamed land as their own.
As the Demi-Giants gathered the bodies of the slain creatures, Yholm noticed something peculiar: the remaining beasts, those that had escaped the fray, were retreating. Their snarls faded into the distance as they disappeared into the dense greenery.
Yholm’s sharp mind quickly pieced it together—the creatures had realized they were no match. Their instinct for survival had triumphed over their aggression. For a moment, Yholm felt a pang of disappointment. Without a fight, the air seemed still, heavy with the strange quiet of an uncharted land.
His warriors, too, appeared restless. They muttered among themselves, some kicking the dirt idly. It wasn’t just the lull in combat that unsettled them—it was the eerie feeling of being so far from Oosa. The land here was savage, untamed, and foreign.
Yholm studied the terrain, his keen eyes taking in the towering trees, the fertile soil, and the scattered beasts in the distance. It struck him how easily they could claim this place. No organized resistance, no demons. It would be theirs without much effort. But the thought was bittersweet.
As his gaze shifted to the horizon, Yholm's smile turned grim. He understood the true intent behind the order to capture lands in the far southwest. It had never been about conquest. The voyage itself, the impossible distance, the dangers of the sea—they had been designed to rid Oosa of the Demi-Giants without explicitly casting them out. The truth stung, but it didn’t break him.
Yholm chuckled softly, a sound that carried both bitterness and defiance. “So, they think to exile us,” he muttered to himself. “Let them believe it. Let them think we’re lost to the sands and waves.”
He turned to his warriors, their tired faces still holding the unyielding strength of Demi-Giants. “We’re not lost,” he said, his voice firm and steady. “This land is ours now, but it’s not the end. We will survive here, and one day, we will return.”
The words felt heavy with promise. Yholm thought of Kho—their General, their leader, their dreamer. The one who had spoken of a world where Giants and Demi-Giants could stand as equals, not as oppressors and outcasts. Kho’s dream had become Yholm’s purpose, and no matter how far they were from Oosa, he would not abandon it.
“I will make it real,” Yholm said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “No matter the trials, no matter the pain, we will see a world where we are accepted.”
His warriors, though weary, seemed to draw strength from his resolve. They gripped their weapons tighter, their postures straightening. The air shifted. The quiet was no longer hollow—it was filled with purpose.
Yholm turned his back to the horizon and faced the green expanse before him. The unknown lay ahead, but he welcomed it. Every step would bring them closer to survival, to strength, and one day, to home.
“Move out,” he commanded. And the Demi-Giants followed.
