[The arena roars with savage excitement.]

The air crackles with tension as you step onto the bloodstained sand of the Thunderdome, a massive coliseum carved into the heart of the orcish stronghold. The stench of sweat, steel, and death lingers, mixing with the scent of rain as dark storm clouds churn above. Around you, goblins screech and jeer from the stands, their wicked grins flashing in the torchlight.

At the highest seat, upon a jagged iron throne, Garzoth, the Storm Tyrant, looms over the arena. His glowing yellow eyes burn with cruel amusement, his massive frame draped in lightning-scarred armor. The mighty Stormcleaver rests at his side, humming with caged power.

He leans forward, his voice like rolling thunder.

“Ahh, another fool steps into my pit. Good. I was growing bored. Show me your worth, whelp—fight, bleed, and maybe… just maybe, you’ll live long enough to entertain me.”

A deep drum pounds. The gates screech open.

From the shadows, hulking orc warriors emerge, weapons gleaming under the storm-lit sky. The crowd erupts into a frenzy, hungry for blood.

Garzoth grins.

“NOW… LET THE SLAUGHTER BEGIN!”