Chapter 806: Findir’s Mission (16)
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 quick and 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?
The battlefield trembled with the intensity of their clash.
Findir’s daggers of wind hummed as they sliced through the air, sending out bursts of sharp, cutting force with every strike. The orc’s corpse, now nothing more than a blur of motion, met each attack with the precision of a seasoned warrior. Their forms collided again and again, creating shockwaves that tore through the air, stirring up the surrounding dirt and dust into a swirling vortex of chaos. The camp around them seemed to blur into the background, the only focus now being the lethal dance of wind and magic between the two combatants.
As Findir moved, every step precise, every slash calculated, he couldn’t ignore the strange vitality creeping into the orc’s movements. At first, it had been subtle—just an unnatural strength in the blows that came from a body no longer bound by life. But now, with every passing second, the corpse was becoming something else.
A deep, primal magic radiated from the orc’s form, crackling in the air. The faint glow in the dead warrior’s eyes grew more intense, and with each clash, Findir saw it clearly—the orc’s body, once rigid with death, was slowly becoming more supple, more alive.
The first signs had been the skin tightening around the orc’s knuckles as they blocked Findir’s blows. Then, the coarse wrinkles that lined the orc’s face began to smooth, his sagging muscles tightening into something more defined, more youthful. Every time the orc avoided a fatal strike, every time his bare fists slammed into the ground or lashed out toward Findir, it was with increasing vitality.
The orc’s corpse was growing younger.
Their battle seemed to trigger some ancient magic, feeding on the clash of their power. The winds Findir summoned howled as they tore across the battlefield, but the orc met them with raw speed and aggression, his fists moving so fast they appeared as blurs of shadow. Each near-miss sent gusts of wind scattering in every direction, while the ground beneath them cracked under the sheer force of their strikes.
Findir leapt into the air, his daggers gleaming in the moonlight as he slashed down at the orc’s neck once more. The orc’s hand shot up, impossibly fast, blocking the wind-forged blades with nothing but his palm. Findir’s eyes widened as he saw the skin there—it was smooth, unscarred, and vibrant, as if years had been peeled away from the decaying flesh. Only faint indents from the daggers marred the surface of his hand, but it wasn’t enough to slow the orc down.
A fierce wind erupted between them as Findir recoiled, backflipping to gain distance. The orc followed, his time magic surging through his limbs, propelling him forward at impossible speeds. His body was a blur, impossible to track for any ordinary opponent, but Findir’s sharp senses allowed him to just barely keep pace, his instincts guiding his every move.
They clashed again, the force of the impact sending cracks spidering through the earth. The air around them rippled with the sheer intensity of their speed, creating distortions in the fabric of time itself. Findir could feel it—time magic woven around the orc’s body like a second skin, bending the flow of moments to give him a lethal edge. But with every blow, with every clash, the corpse became more... alive.
The orc’s fists were no longer sluggish or stiff; they struck with terrifying precision and overwhelming power. His muscles rippled with youthful strength, his once-brittle bones now hardened with the vigor of a younger man. His face, once lined with age and wisdom, was smoothing out, taking on the appearance of a warrior in his prime.
Findir dodged, barely avoiding a punch that would have shattered his ribs. He spun in the air, his wind daggers trailing arcs of power, and retaliated with a flurry of slashes aimed at the orc’s now youthful body. But the undead warrior moved with a speed that defied logic, time itself seeming to warp around him, allowing him to evade even the deadliest strikes.
The longer the battle went on, the more dangerous the orc became. Each second seemed to siphon vitality into the corpse, restoring it, reshaping it into the image of the warrior he had once been. The only thing that remained unchanged was the faint glow in his eyes, an eerie reminder that despite the life returning to his body, he was still very much dead.
Findir gritted his teeth as he launched another barrage of wind-empowered strikes, but the orc was relentless, matching him blow for blow, the force of their collision sending shockwaves that echoed across the camp.
The transformation was both eerie and mesmerizing. The orc’s once short, frizzy white hair began to grow, cascading down in wild, healthy strands. Its skin, which had been weathered and cracked with age, tightened and smoothed, radiating with the vitality of youth. Even the orc’s form, which initially had loomed large and imposing, began to shrink ever so slightly, its body taking on a leaner, more agile shape. Long, delicate eyelashes grew, like thin, wispy strands of wind framing his brightening eyes, making the figure look youthful and vibrant once more.
As Findir fought, he couldn’t help but notice the change in the orc’s demeanor. What had once been a face etched with the strain of countless battles and the burden of regret had become almost cheery. The youthful orc wore a wide smile, its joy evident with every movement, every swing of its powerful fists. It fought like a warrior rediscovering the thrill of life, each strike imbued with a jubilant energy that seemed at odds with the reality of the situation. The orc’s joy, however, was matched by Findir’s efficiency.
Findir’s daggers danced with the precision of an expert assassin, cutting through the air with deadly intent. He knew the anatomy of his target intimately, exploiting every weakness, every vulnerable point in the orc’s body. The youthful warrior continued to smile, oblivious to the fact that, while it was having the time of its life, Findir was winning. The orc’s Achilles tendons had been severed, causing it to stagger, and despite its speed, despite the powerful time magic that coursed through its veins, the warrior was being systematically worn down.
The battle was a study in contrast. The orc fought with abandon, relishing each moment as if truly alive again. It had no awareness of the finality that loomed. But Findir, in his cold, methodical nature, struck with precision. Each cut, each movement, was calculated to bring the fight to a close. And it was working. The orc’s once fluid and agile motions began to falter, its time-slowing magic becoming erratic and unreliable. Its strength faded, and its youthful vigor began to drain away.
Finally, the orc dropped to its knees, unable to stand any longer. Its tendons severed, its movements reduced to twitching, futile attempts to rise. And yet, even as it knelt there, the smile on its face remained wide and bright, as if the orc was content to have lived this final, fleeting moment. But as Findir watched, the vitality drained from its face faster than ever. The youthful glow faded, the once tight skin wrinkling and sagging as the orc rapidly aged before his eyes. In mere moments, the body went from vibrant and youthful to a frail, withered husk—time catching up to it with a vengeance.
Findir stood behind the old orc, his blade pressed gently against the back of its neck, ready to strike. But there was no need. The orc’s final breath escaped it with a peaceful sigh, and instead of dying to Findir’s blade, it died sitting there, an ancient warrior, frozen in a moment of tranquility. Its smile, now weathered and wrinkled, remained the orc resembling a statue—still, serene, and forever at peace.
"Rest in peace," Findir whispered, his voice soft as he lowered his blade. The wind around them stilled as if nature itself had taken a breath in reverence.
