Chapter 803: Findir’s Mission (15)
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.
...
I stand in the heart of my camp, feeling the familiar roughness of the tent’s fabric against my palms as I brace myself for the unknown. My body, once a symbol of strength, now feels frail and unsteady, yet my spirit burns brightly within me. I remember my youth, standing proud amongst my kin, my heart swelling with the love of battle and the fierce camaraderie of my brothers.
Memories swirl like dust motes in the air:
I can see myself as a younger orc, muscles taut and adrenaline coursing through my veins, standing shoulder to shoulder with my comrades on the battlefield. The roar of the clash echoed in my ears as I fought fiercely, determined to protect not just my life but the lives of those I loved. I had been driven by a sense of purpose, the thrill of the fight igniting a fire within me.
But then the warmth of love enters my life.
In the quiet moments away from the chaos, I remember her—my fiancée, the light of my life. Her laughter was like a balm, soothing the scars of battle that marred my heart. I can feel her hand in mine, her eyes shining with hope and love. In those precious seconds, I was not just an orc; I was a man bound by affection and dreams.
Yet the battlefield beckoned, and as I charged into the fray, I can still hear the echoes of that fateful day—the cries of war mingling with my own cries of despair.
The memory shifts, and I am back on that battlefield.
Time slows, and I see her standing off to the side, watching me fight with pride and love. I remember feeling invincible, my heart swelling as I fought to protect her. But then, chaos erupts. I turn, just for a moment, and in that fleeting second, tragedy strikes. I can hear the crash, see the flash of steel, and in the next heartbeat, she is gone. The weight of my failure crashes down upon me like an avalanche, and the world around me blurs into a haze of grief.
I retreat into solitude, hiding from the echoes of battle and the faces of the fallen.
Here in the camp, I am not the warrior I once was. I am a shadow of my former self, consumed by sorrow, yet I cannot turn my back on my people. I watch as they march to war, their faces filled with the fervor of battle, and I feel an unyielding love for them even in their darkness. I see their kindness, their desire to protect their own, and I know that they, too, are capable of love despite the brutality that often defines our existence.
Now, as I stand ready to fight against whatever may come, my heart swells with an indomitable spirit that refuses to fade. The years may have stolen my strength, but they cannot take away my resolve. I may be frail, but I will protect my home, my people.
But then, I sense a presence—a figure in the shadows.
I see him: Findir, a man shrouded in darkness, his intentions cloaked in mystery. In that moment, I realize my fate lies in his hands. He has come to finish what he started, and yet there’s a glimmer of understanding between us. I can see the struggle within him, the conflict between the darkness he has embraced and the compassion that flickers like a candle in the wind.
In that instant, I pull myself to my feet, bringing my hands up instinctively, not to show defiance, but to protect my heart and home. I may be old and weary, but I will not let go of my conviction. I stand tall, feeling the remnants of my past flicker within me like a flame refusing to die. My spirit ignites, a last stand for love, for protection, and for everything I hold dear.
I am a guardian, even in my final moments.
As I ready myself to fight, the memories surge within me again—the joy of love, the camaraderie of battle, the weight of loss—and I know that my spirit will not yield. I am more than a warrior; I am a protector.
"I am still naive like a child, yet I can’t help but love even the darkest of beings. I love everything, no matter how what they are or who they are."
...
"I apologize..." Findir muttered as the wind swirled around him like a cloak, getting ready to go all out against this powerful being. "... everything you have sought to protect will soon come crashing down and it is my fault. I hope you can forgive me."
Findir saw the dead orc’s mouth, causing him to be slightly taken aback. He couldn’t hear any words, yet he read his dry lips vacant of all moisture and life.
It is alright. I understand. I forgive you.
"Fuck man," Findir muttered, wiping away the moisture slowly beginning to swell in his eyes. "Why did somebody like you have to be on the opposing side?"
The air cracked as both Findir and the deceased orc accelerated, becoming nothing more than streaks of blurred motion. They collided in the middle of their initial positions, the force of their clash sending a shockwave rippling through the camp.
Findir’s eyes widened beneath the mask of focus as his wind-forged daggers—sharp enough to slice through bone—were met with the orc’s bare hands. Not just met, but blocked. The old orc’s skin, lifeless and cold, bore the faintest scratches where Findir’s blades had made contact, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t as if he could feel pain, not anymore.
The dead orc’s eyes glowed faintly, remnants of a conviction that refused to let his body crumble. It was eerie—unnatural. Findir’s instincts screamed at him to retreat, but his body moved on its own, charged with adrenaline and the drive to finish this before it became something even worse.
Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, they began their deadly dance.
The orc’s speed was nothing short of astonishing. Even in death, he commanded time magic, his body propelled forward with an unnatural swiftness that mirrored Findir’s. It was as if the very fabric of time bent around them, warping and snapping back into place as they blurred across the battlefield. Every strike from Findir, every feint, was met with an impossibly fast response, the orc moving so quickly it seemed he was anticipating Findir’s attacks.
Findir’s wind daggers slashed through the air with precision, enhanced by his wind magic, but every cut met resistance—sometimes blocked, sometimes narrowly dodged. The old orc’s movements were jerky and strained, as though his body wasn’t meant to withstand the strain of such magic anymore, but still, he persisted. His time manipulation allowed him to dart around Findir, his fists hammering forward with incredible force, though Findir dodged each blow with a hair’s breadth to spare.
Each step, each attack, each block was like battling a force of nature. Findir felt the weight of time itself pressing down on him, as if the orc’s magic tugged at his very essence, slowing him just enough to make every movement an exercise in precision and control. Despite his own incredible speed and skill, the deceased orc—still reeling from exhaustion—matched him blow for blow.
Wind howled as Findir leapt back, daggers flashing as he aimed for the orc’s exposed neck, only for the old warrior to dodge with a twist that seemed to defy logic. The time magic warping around him gave him just enough leeway to evade the lethal strike. The exchange was brutal, their motions almost invisible to the naked eye, a whirlwind of clashing magic and sheer will.
The orc’s fists came in rapid bursts, barely controlled but devastating, the sheer power behind them enough to send shivers down Findir’s spine with each near miss. The wind itself seemed to be bending in response to the relentless speed at which they fought, gusts whipping around them, stirring the dust and leaves into a chaotic storm.
Findir couldn’t help but marvel at the orc’s tenacity. Even dead, he fought with the full conviction of a warrior who had never known defeat, his fists a testament to the life he had led—one filled with pain, love, and an unwavering will to protect.
But Findir knew he couldn’t let this continue for long. The longer the battle dragged on, the more the strange, lingering magic within the orc seemed to gain momentum. With every second, the time manipulation became more erratic, the orc moving faster, his motions becoming a blur of violent speed... and something else. The orc’s corpse... was getting younger?
