Grommas slammed his fist on the war table, making the wooden surface crack. The green-skinned commander bared his tusks at the empty tent around him. One day, he would lead the greatest army Ag'manar had ever seen. Warriors would tremble at his name. They would follow him not from love, but from raw fear and the promise of victory. Blood would flow where he commanded. Meat would fill their bellies after each conquest. But first, he needed to prove himself to the Chief. First, he needed to show he could command respect through strength alone. Outside his tent, recruits gathered near the training grounds. Grommas stepped into the morning light and surveyed what would become his army. Weak. Untested. They needed to learn what real combat meant. He marched past them toward the fighting ring he'd ordered built the week before. Bones jutted from its frame, mixed with wood and metal scraps. Chain ropes stretched between spiked posts at each corner. Old bones lay scattered in the dirt outside. This was where warriors would prove themselves or break trying. Grommas climbed through the chains and stood in the center. He grabbed a recruit by the arm and threw him into the ring. The real training would start today. Blood would mark the beginning of his command.