Chapter 802: Findir’s Mission (14)
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.
For the first time in days, Findir felt shivers rush down his spine. The elder’s magic was not just powerful; it was terrifying. A hundred years of mana collection, a century of mastering his control over time, all wrapped up in this fragile, decaying body. The orc’s weakness was a façade; his true strength lay in his ability to manipulate time, a force no blade or skill could easily cut through.
"You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?" the elder wheezed, his grin widening. "Many have tried... and they all failed." He coughed, his breath labored but eyes sharp. "But don’t worry... you’ll get your turn too."
Findir knew he had to act fast. The elder was weaker now, more vulnerable than he would be if Findir hesitated. But the old orc’s ability to see his own death and rewind time meant that the assassin would have to kill him in a way the orc couldn’t anticipate—a move so fast, so precise, that even the manipulation of time wouldn’t save him.
Findir’s heart pounded as he reassessed his plan. There was still a chance to strike, but it had to be perfect. There could be no mistakes.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Findir surged forward, his resolve steeled. In an instant, he activated his skills, amplifying his speed and power to the maximum. With daggers forged from the very essence of wind, he became a blur, a streak of black and white that sliced through the air. His aim was precise, targeting the old orc’s head, a strike meant to end the life of the elder before he could twist time in his favor again.
Yet, in an unsettling heartbeat, Findir felt something shift in the atmosphere. His blades sliced through nothing but air as the elder’s head ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike. No, it wasn’t a miss; it was something else entirely. The sensation that washed over him felt like a tug of time itself. The old orc had invoked his power, slowing the very fabric of time around him just enough to dodge Findir’s blow.
But the strain was visible. The elder gasped, his body trembling, fatigue lining his features as if he was moments away from collapsing. Findir had expected the orc to be strong, but this was a level of exhaustion that bordered on fatal. The thought flitted through Findir’s mind—would the old man drop dead right here?
As if to answer his question, the orc’s eyes flared with determination rather than defeat. Instead of retreating, he unleashed his magic offensively. Time bent to his will, and he moved with a speed that made Findir’s heart race. In a split second, the old orc darted towards him, a blur in the shadows of the tent, bouncing off the walls like a living projectile.
Instinctively, Findir retreated outside, heart pounding as he recalibrated his strategy. The tent flaps billowed wildly as he unleashed a series of quick, powerful cuts, reinforced by ripping winds that sliced through the fabric like paper. The tent disintegrated around him, a chaotic flurry of cloth and dust.
As he fell from his elevated position, the air settled, revealing the chaos he had wrought. But the moment was fleeting. Just as he regained his bearings, he felt a rush of wind as the old orc careened through the remains of the tent, losing control. The elder crashed into several nearby tents, sending them collapsing down around him. Dust and debris flew in all directions as Findir surveyed the wreckage.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The camp felt oddly still, the distant sounds of the war fading into the background. Findir approached the wreckage cautiously, heart racing. As he searched through the ruins, he braced himself for what he might find. There, beneath the tattered remains, lay the old orc, his once-mighty form reduced to a hollow shell, face and body drawn tight as if every ounce of vitality had been drained away.
Findir felt a moment of triumph, but it was fleeting. Just as he prepared to leave, an echoing heartbeat reverberated loudly from the orc’s chest. The sound resonated in the still air, sending a shockwave of goosebumps cascading down Findir’s spine. It was impossibly strong, reverberating with a life force that seemed to defy the stillness surrounding him.
"What the fuck..." Findir muttered, eyes wide as he stepped back.
It wasn’t as if the old orc had been resurrected through aetheric magic or turned into an undead monstrosity through miasmic sorcery. No, as Findir stood there, a chilling realization crept over him. The orc’s body stirred, a conviction so powerful that it felt as though a thin string of film tape was threading through one of Findir’s ears, absorbing memories and experiences, replaying them over and over again in a vivid rush. Whether it was merely his imagination or the lingering time magic of the fallen orc, Findir couldn’t help but smile at the profound connection forming within him.
Memories flooded his mind—snapshots of a life well-lived, replaying with vivid clarity. Findir saw the old orc’s past unfold like a grand tapestry woven with threads of kindness and pride. He witnessed the old orc walking through bustling camps, the laughter of children ringing in the air, the warmth of bonds forged through shared struggles. But alongside those bright moments, shadows lingered—horrors witnessed, injustices endured, and the burdens of a life dedicated to protection.
This orc had led a life of quiet heroism, grappling with the stark realities of the world he inhabited. In stark contrast to the mindless brutality often associated with orcish culture, this orc was unique and special. He felt guilt over his past, sorrow for the fallen, and an unyielding worry for those he cared about. Findir watched as the orc’s greatest failure unfurled before him, the memory etched with pain: the moment he failed to protect the one he loved most, his fiancée, the light of his life.
Despite the misconception that orcs were incapable of genuine emotion, Findir came to realize that love coursed through their veins, no matter how twisted it might appear. This old orc had felt love, whether it was brotherly, sisterly, familial, or romantic. His heart had known warmth even amidst the atrocities committed by his kin. In the aftermath of that devastating loss on the battlefield, the old orc had retreated into solitude, holing himself up within the camp, refusing to participate in any further violence.
Yet his love for the orcish people remained. He understood the darkness that thrived within them, the greed and brutality that often ruled their actions. Yet, he also recognized the glimmers of kindness that shone through, the orcs who longed to protect their families and live without the shadow of war looming over them.
The old orc hadn’t abandoned his responsibilities. Though he had never set foot on a battlefield again, he was always there when danger approached the camp he loved and despised in equal measure. He stood as a guardian, ready to protect the only home he had left, embodying a dichotomy of love and rage. As Findir felt the weight of these memories settle within him, the old orc’s convictions seeped into his soul, igniting a conflict between the darkness he had embraced and the compassion he was now beginning to understand.
"You..." These next words spilled from Findir’s heart. "... are a great person."
Findir felt as if he could feel the dead spirit of the orc speaking to him in the final whispers of his final stand.
