Chapter 799: Findir’s Mission (11)
This was the reality Findir had to endure in silence, all while his heart ached with a desire to help. But he couldn’t. His mission took precedence, and any move to aid the slaves would risk everything. So he kept his head down, even as his soul screamed for justice, knowing that one wrong step could unravel the fragile balance he had maintained within the orc camp.
Each time he witnessed the atrocities, Findir felt his heart twist in agony. He considered abandoning his mission, just for a moment, to free as many slaves as he could. The urge was strong, almost unbearable at times, especially at night when the broken cries of the slaves echoed through the camp, mingling with the stench of death and sweat. The thought of slipping away under the cover of darkness, freeing those who still had the strength to run, crossed his mind repeatedly.
But his loyalty to Orion, and to the rest of his family, was stronger. He reminded himself that this mission, as twisted and brutal as it was, served a greater purpose. Every decision, every horrible moment, was a step toward a larger plan.
Yet, even as he reminded himself of this, Findir wept. At night, as he lay on the threadbare sleeping bag they had given him, surrounded by orc warriors training for war, his tears fell silently. He cried for the slaves, for the broken souls trapped in this nightmare, and for the cruelty of a world where such horrors could exist. And though he knew he had to remain steadfast, the weight of it all crushed him in those quiet moments of the night.
"Orion... this is too hard..."
Over the next few days, Findir watched as the orc army finally gathered its full strength, readying itself for war. The once chaotic and disorganized camp had transformed into a seething mass of warriors, weapons, and war beasts. The orcs, who had spent their days yelling and fighting amongst themselves, now moved with a singular purpose. Findir observed their preparation with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. It was difficult to discern the orcish strategy, largely because the orcs themselves appeared so foolish. Their grunts and roars echoed through the camp as they bumbled through tasks, but despite their obvious stupidity, there were a few among them who seemed to grasp some level of higher planning.
These exceptions—war leaders, mages, and certain elite guards—acted with a level of intelligence that was unsettling. It was hard to know whether they were genuinely smart or merely pretending to be smarter than they were. The orcs often worked in erratic bursts of genius and blunder, making it impossible to gauge their true level of cunning. Despite this uncertainty, Findir didn’t underestimate them. He knew that even a foolish army could be deadly when led by a clever few.
Regardless, none of it mattered anymore. The orcs had finished their preparations and set out the very same night. Findir silently followed at the tail of their enormous army as they marched through the dense forest of gargantuan trees. Their departure was sudden and without much fanfare, as though they had simply been waiting for the right moment to charge into battle. The forest, with its towering trees and thick canopy, cast deep shadows over the moving horde, shrouding their movements under the cover of darkness.
Findir moved among them without being noticed, a shadow blending into the night. He didn’t have any particular guards watching him closely, and it seemed the orcs had all but forgotten about his presence. Perhaps it was because the orcs, in their arrogance, believed him to be nothing more than a weakling relying on the trolls’ strength. In their simple minds, they had concocted a justification for why Findir had arrived before the trolls: he was a coward, unworthy of their attention, who had come to warn them of the trolls’ movements because he feared them.
That suited Findir just fine. The less attention they paid to him, the better. Over the past few days, his strength had returned to its normal state, his wounds healing, his energy restoring. He was once again powerful, though he kept his strength hidden. As he followed the army, the sharpness in his gaze never faltered. He noted every movement, every mistake, every opportunity that would eventually play to his advantage.
The orcs may have thought him insignificant, but Findir knew the truth. He was no weakling, and the moment to reveal his true strength would soon come. For now, he played his part, watching and waiting, biding his time as the forest swallowed the orcish horde whole.
『Status』
[Name: Findir Adthana]
[Race: Human]
[Class: Windwalker]
[Title: Conquerer of Senselessness]
[Level: 18/100] (20/100) XP Needed
[HP: 500/500 MP: 250/250 SP: 300/300] - Above Human
[Strength: 175] - Above Human
[Defense: 125] - Above Human
[Magic: 180] - Above Human
[Speed: 290] - Above Human
[Skills: [Void Dagger Coating] [Haste] [Empower] [Eagle Eye] [Silent Flight] [Wind Manipulation] [Abyssal Assassination Presence] [Assassination Breath and Nature Assimilation] [Presence Erasure]
[Passive Skills: [Dark Elven Nature Affinity] [Iron Speech] [Potion Organs] [Windborne Resilience] [Dagger Mastery]
[Equipment: [Wind Dagger] [Basic Armor]
...
’My skills are slow to come back,’ Findir thought to himself as he reviewed his status.
However, what really mattered was the skill [Presence Erasure]. This was a skill that had a wide range of control. Not many people knew about it but this commonly used high-tier assassin skill could be used like a slider. Currently, Findir was slowly but surely decreasing his presence while walking amongst the orc army in order to decrease suspicion. If he suddenly disappeared, they would have been suspicious and most likely attempted to catch him.
The walk through the forest was grueling. Towering trees with trunks as wide as ten men cast long, oppressive shadows that darkened the path the orcs trudged. The air was thick with tension, matching the humid, muggy atmosphere. The captain of Findir’s squadron barked orders with relentless fervor, his voice grating against the already fatigued orcs. Every command was repetitive, and redundant—everyone knew what to do. But still, the captain’s voice rang out, fueling the growing restlessness that simmered just beneath the surface of the orcish horde.
Findir could feel it—the irritation, the discontent. The orcs around him were on edge, growing impatient as the hours stretched on, but this wasn’t the time for Findir to create a divide among them. Instead, he continued playing his role, his presence gradually diminishing until he was nothing more than a ghost walking in their midst. The orcs, oblivious to his disappearance, trudged on, their brutish minds too distracted by the harsh conditions of the march to notice anything unusual.
With his presence fully erased, Findir melted into the shadows of the forest, his form vanishing as if swallowed by the dark. Instead of following the orcs and observing them from a distance, Findir made a choice that would likely displease Orion—but he didn’t care. Over the past week, he had been tormented by the sounds of cracking whips, the anguished cries of slaves, and the horrific sights of cruelty. The memory of it all twisted in his gut, gnawing at his conscience.
Without hesitation, Findir moved through the forest with the speed of the wind, slipping through the trees like a whisper, racing back toward the orc camp. His decision was driven by something he hadn’t fully realized—a deepening hatred for what he had seen, and a dark satisfaction that Orion had likely been cultivating in him all along.
When he reached the outskirts of the camp, the emptiness struck him like a cold gust of wind. The once-bustling camp was now eerily deserted, hollow and silent. Not only had the orc warriors been drafted for battle, but women, children—anyone over the age of twelve—had been enlisted as well. These orcs, though bigger and stronger than humans by nature, were still no match for the trolls they were marching to face. The orcs may have had the advantage of sheer size and muscle, but trolls were a different kind of threat, towering over the orcs and known for their unrelenting strength.
All that remained in the camp now were the elderly, their hulking forms reduced to frailty with age. Trolls, unlike many races, only grew stronger as they aged, their physical prowess peaking late in life, around the century mark. However, after a troll reached 100 years old, their strength began to wither away, and by 120, their power plummeted sharply. These ancient trolls, whose prime had long since passed, were now weak, their bodies frail, their minds dulled by time. They were no threat—not anymore.
However, he wasn’t a fool. The trolls wouldn’t just leave their camp to be freely raided. They would have left behind some kind of protector that wasn’t mobile enough to follow the orc army to war, but also was powerful enough to be able to protect the camp against any invaders.
And over the past week, Findir had discovered just who that entity was.
