Chapter 801: Findir’s Mission (13)
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."
Findir knew that confronting the old orc head-on would be suicide. The elder’s mastery over time itself made him a formidable opponent, even in his frail state. Any mistake on Findir’s part could result in the orc stealing years of his life or accelerating his death in an instant. This wasn’t a battle that could be won with brute force; it would require precision, cunning, and careful manipulation of the very thing the elder sought to control: time.
The plan Findir devised revolved around patience and misdirection, elements that aligned with his own assassin’s nature. He couldn’t allow the elder to see him coming, nor could he risk any direct engagement. If the orc caught even a whiff of his intent, Findir would be reduced to dust before he could strike. This would be a game of subtlety, and Findir had spent his life mastering that game.
Step one involved a complete erasure of his presence—something Findir had perfected over the years. The skill [Presence Erasure] was his key weapon in this battle. He would begin by gradually fading from the awareness of the camp. Over the next few days, he would lower his visibility among the orcs to the point where even the most attentive among them would forget he existed. He’d become nothing more than a shadow at the edges of their perception, allowing him to move freely without suspicion.
Step two was to use the elder’s own tent against him. Findir had already mapped out the interior through his surveillance. The tent was adorned with glyphs and symbols, some of which enhanced the elder’s magic and allowed him to manipulate time more effectively. But they were also fragile. Findir had identified several weak points in the magical setup, places where he could subtly interfere with the glyphs without triggering any alarms. The key was to weaken the orc’s connection to his temporal magic, destabilizing his power before the final strike.
Findir planned to sabotage these glyphs in a way that would go unnoticed by the elder. By subtly altering the flow of mana in the tent, he could create a delayed effect—a subtle ripple that would erode the elder’s control over time without him realizing it. This would take time and precision, but it was essential for neutralizing the orc’s ability to manipulate time during their confrontation.
Step three would be the strike itself. Findir couldn’t rely on traditional weapons; the elder would see them coming and warp time around himself to avoid the blow. Instead, Findir planned to use a combination of his skills to launch an attack that was both sudden and unpredictable. His skill [Void Dagger Coating], which allowed him to coat his weapons in a magic-nullifying aura, would be crucial. The void energy would prevent the elder from sensing the dagger’s approach, bypassing his time manipulation.
However, the real brilliance of the plan lay in Findir’s use of [Assassination Breath and Nature Assimilation], a skill that allowed him to blend seamlessly with his surroundings. By synchronizing his breathing and movements with the natural rhythms of the environment, Findir could essentially disappear—not just visually, but from the elder’s magical senses as well. This would give him the opening he needed to strike the fatal blow.
The final step would be the escape. Findir knew that even if he succeeded in killing the elder, the orcs would eventually discover the body. He couldn’t afford to be trapped in the camp when that happened. His skill [Haste] would allow him to move with inhuman speed, escaping the camp before the orcs could organize a search party. He would leave no trace of his presence, no evidence of his involvement, only the lifeless body of the elder and a shattered orc hierarchy in his wake.
Findir moved through the camp like a whisper, his body almost one with the night itself. The orcs around him remained oblivious, their minds dulled by exhaustion and their numbers reduced by the war effort. His presence had been so gradually erased over the last few days that to them, he no longer existed. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, dirt, and iron, but the camp was eerily quiet without its usual clamor of warriors.
When Findir finally reached the elder orc’s tent, his senses were sharp, every step calculated and soundless. The tent loomed before him like the mouth of a beast, adorned with intricate glyphs and symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. He knew that every stroke of those runes held power, some amplifying the elder’s temporal abilities, others acting as wards to detect intruders. But Findir had studied them closely over the past week. He knew where to step, where not to breathe, and which symbols to avoid touching.
As he slipped through the opening of the tent, the air inside felt different—heavy, as though time itself was warped and twisted in this space. The soft rustle of the fabric closing behind him was the only sound as Findir melded into the shadows, becoming one with the gloom that filled the large interior.
The elder orc was seated on a grand, yet worn chair, surrounded by relics of his long, arcane history. His hulking body, which once commanded the battlefield, was now slouched, draped in robes that sagged over his gaunt form. But it was the labored breathing that caught Findir’s attention. Each breath the old orc took was a deep, strained effort, as if his lungs were pulling in the weight of a mountain. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat gleaming on his furrowed brow.
Findir’s first thought was that the orc was simply too old—his body finally failing him after decades of life. But as Findir prepared to strike, creeping ever closer, something more sinister began to unravel in his mind. There was something off about the old orc’s exhaustion, something unnatural.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, the orc’s breathing hitched, and with a sudden, sharp crack, his neck swiveled unnaturally, almost as if wrenched by an unseen force. His dark, tired eyes locked directly onto the spot where Findir stood hidden in the shadows.
Every muscle in Findir’s body tensed. How? His [Presence Erasure] was perfect—there was no way the orc should have been able to sense him.
The orc grinned weakly, his lips curling into a thin, knowing smirk. "You think you’ve been watching me, boy?" His voice was rough, but there was a hint of triumph in it. "I’ve seen you... before."
It hit Findir like a cold shock. The elder hadn’t just sensed him now. No, he’d already lived through this moment. He must have been killed—maybe by another assassin, maybe by some unknown hand—and used his ability to revert time. The orc had undone his death but at a cost.
The elder shifted in his chair, his movements slow and heavy as though each motion was pulling him deeper into the earth. "I can’t go back much further," he rasped, still keeping his eyes locked on Findir’s location. "But once... is enough."
Findir realized then that this was why the elder was so exhausted—each use of his time-reversion ability drained him and aged him even faster. But it also meant that the orc had seen his own death and returned to prevent it. His ability allowed him to undo his last fatal mistake, a chance to change his fate at the cost of incredible physical and mental strain.
Findir’s mind raced, his plan suddenly shifting. He was up against more than just an old man with fading strength. This orc had knowledge of his every move, and now the advantage was lost.
