Chapter 800: Findir’s Mission (12)
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.
The old orc was a shadow of his former self, his hulking frame reduced to something fragile, nearly skeletal. Once towering over his kin, he now stood just a few inches taller than Findir, his hunched posture making him seem even smaller. His skin, which had likely been a deep, robust green in his youth, was now a sickly pale, almost grayish hue, stretched thin over his bones. Wrinkled and leathery, his skin sagged in places, as if the weight of years had pulled it down, too tired to hold onto the strength it once carried.
His hair, sparse and stringy, fell in thin, dirty white strands over his shoulders, contrasting sharply with the sharp ridges of his prominent brow and the deep-set, clouded yellow eyes. The orc’s gaze was unfocused, but there was a flicker of intelligence within them, a spark of cunning that hadn’t entirely been dulled by age. His tusks, which had likely once jutted proudly from his lower jaw, were chipped and yellowed, more like brittle relics than weapons now.
Despite his frailty, there was something eerie about him—an air of danger that lingered, like a coiled snake waiting to strike. His bony hands, though gnarled with arthritis, still gripped a staff, the wood dark and worn smooth from years of use. Around his neck hung an assortment of trinkets—bones, teeth, and small animal skulls, each rattling softly as he moved.
Though his body was weak, Findir knew that this old orc wasn’t to be underestimated. There was power here, ancient and terrifying, lurking beneath the layers of his decrepit form. He was the protector left behind—the guardian of the camp, too immobile to march with the army, but still potent enough to fend off any foolish enough to challenge him.
Despite the frail and decrepit appearance of the old orc, what lay beneath that withered exterior was a well of magic so vast, so overwhelming, that Findir couldn’t help but shudder. The moment he sensed it, an invisible weight seemed to press down on him, thick and suffocating. It was as though the very air around the orc pulsed with power, vibrating with the raw energy accumulated over a century of life.
This wasn’t the kind of magic that could be seen or easily detected by the untrained eye. It was ancient, buried deep within the orc’s bones, like magma simmering just beneath the surface of a calm volcano. Findir’s instincts screamed danger, his heartbeat quickening as he realized the true magnitude of what stood before him. He had encountered many powerful beings in his time, but this orc—this guardian—was different. It was as though the orc’s years of slow decay had only focused and refined his magic, distilling it into something purer, more concentrated, like the sharp edge of a blade honed over decades of use.
Findir could feel it: the massive reservoir of mana collected over 100 years of tireless training and discipline. Every second, the old orc seemed to be drawing from it, even in his stillness, the magic quietly thrumming in the air. The sheer volume of it sent icy shivers racing down Findir’s spine, his skin crawling with the awareness of just how deep the orc’s reserves went.
For all the orc’s physical weakness, his magic was a force of nature—raw, relentless, and ancient. It wasn’t just the quantity of mana, but the weight of experience behind it that made Findir’s muscles tense in reflexive caution. One wrong move, and he knew the orc could unleash a storm of destruction, his staff serving as a conduit for the arcane might stored within him.
Over the past week, as Findir silently observed the old orc from the shadows, he noticed something peculiar. The ancient orc rarely left his tent, a massive structure made of thick, hide-like material, adorned with strange glyphs and symbols that seemed to hum with a faint magical presence. Inside, the elder sat upon a throne of weathered bones, resembling more a relic than a living being. His body, frail and bent with age, contrasted starkly with the aura of immense power he exuded. Despite his physical fragility, there was an air of reverence around him, as if even the other orcs feared him as much as they feared the orc king.
The orc king treated this elder almost as another ruler, yet there was no clear sign of communication between the two. The orc king left the old one entirely to his own devices, offering him no orders nor requests. In truth, it seemed as though the orc king understood that this ancient figure was beyond simple hierarchy or command. This elder operated on a plane far removed from the brutish orcish world, and the king knew better than to interfere.
Through his careful observations, Findir discovered the secret to the old orc’s unique magic—a form of manipulation that sent a chill through his veins. The elder’s magic was unlike anything Findir had encountered before. It was subtle, not flashy or aggressive like the elemental forces most orcs wielded. Instead, it was a kind of temporal magic, woven into the fabric of time itself.
Findir watched as the elder would occasionally raise his staff, and the air around him would ripple, as if reality was bending to his will. The magic didn’t manifest as fireballs or lightning, but as a distortion in time. Objects in the tent would shift forward or backward in time: a wilted flower suddenly blooming as though time reversed itself; a piece of rotting fruit disintegrating into dust within seconds, as if its decay had accelerated.
This was the old orc’s mastery—a manipulation of time on a micro-scale. He could speed up or slow down the temporal flow of anything he touched, bending its existence to suit his needs. But there was more—something darker. Findir noticed that, on rare occasions, the old orc would cast his magic not on objects, but on the orcs themselves.
In one instance, Findir observed a wounded orc warrior being brought to the elder’s tent, his arm mangled beyond repair. The elder, with a simple wave of his staff, sped up the orc’s healing process, mending the bones and flesh in mere moments. But as the warrior stood, revitalized, his face seemed hollow, his movements slower, his body sagging with sudden age. The elder had stolen time from the orc’s future to heal him in the present. He was exchanging the warrior’s life force for temporary strength.
It wasn’t just healing, though. Findir realized with horror that the elder could sap years from the living and transfer them to himself. On another occasion, a young slave girl was brought to him, barely alive from exhaustion. The old orc reached out, his skeletal hand brushing her forehead, and in seconds, her life seemed to drain away. Her body withered before Findir’s eyes, her hair turning gray, her skin sagging as if she had aged decades in mere moments. The elder, on the other hand, stood a little taller, his eyes gleaming with a brief flash of vitality.
This magic was not just about controlling time—it was about stealing it, siphoning it from others to extend his own life, to sustain his vast reserves of power. The elder had lived far longer than any orc should have, and it was only through this grotesque manipulation of time that he had maintained his presence as a powerful figure within the camp.
Findir felt a growing sense of unease each time he watched the elder use his magic. The orcs revered him, not understanding the full extent of what he did. To them, he was a healer, a protector, a relic of ancient knowledge. But Findir saw the truth—the elder was a parasite, feeding off the lives of others, sustaining his power through the decay and death of those around him.
It was a power far more dangerous than brute strength or even raw magical force. It was insidious, hidden beneath the surface, as timeless as the orc’s own life. And now, Findir knew that if he were to take any action against the camp, this ancient orc would be the true obstacle standing in his way.
"Now..." Findir muttered upon arriving at the gates of the orc camp. "It’s about time I assassinate this time-abusing bastard."
