Chapter 807: Findir’s Mission (Final)
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.
As Findir stood in silence, he watched the orc’s lifeless form slowly begin to crumble, its ancient body dissolving into fine dust, carried away by the soft winds of nature. The surrounding trees rustled gently, as if they too mourned the passing of the old warrior, yet the moment was serene, almost beautiful. The dust swirled and danced in the breeze before disappearing completely, leaving nothing behind but the memory of a warrior who had fought for something more than just violence.
But the peace was short-lived. Out of the corner of his eye, Findir spotted a group of orcs lingering in the distance, their eyes wide and full of fear. These were the remaining guards, left behind to manage the human slaves—laborers, beaten and broken by weeks of hard toil. The orcs were hesitant, unsure whether to fight or flee, but Findir wasn’t about to give them a chance to decide.
In a blur of motion, Findir vanished. His body moved like a streak of shadow, and within less than a minute, the orcs fell one by one, silent and lifeless before they even realized what had happened. Their corpses hit the ground in unison, their threat extinguished just as swiftly as it had appeared.
With the danger passed, Findir turned his attention to the pitiful group of slaves. Their bodies were skeletal, some barely able to stand, others chained to crude wooden posts with eyes dulled from suffering. These were the hardest of laborers, men and women on the brink of death, faces gaunt, eyes hollow. The weight of their suffering hit Findir harder than any battle could, but he moved quickly, using his sharp daggers to sever their bindings, one after the other.
As he freed the first man, a thin, gaunt figure with sunken cheeks and trembling hands, the man stumbled forward, falling into Findir’s arms with a grateful sob.
"Th-Thank you... thank you, oh gods above, thank you," the man choked out, his voice hoarse and raw from dehydration. "We thought... we thought we’d die here."
Findir, unused to such raw expressions of gratitude, stammered, "N-No, it’s... it’s alright. You’re safe now." He gently helped the man stand, but his face flushed, the sudden praise making him uncomfortable.
Another woman, her clothes tattered and her eyes brimming with tears, approached him as soon as her chains were broken. "You saved us! Oh gods bless you... we owe you our lives!" Her hands shook as she clasped his, her face lit up with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude.
"I-I just... did what I had to," Findir replied, his voice wavering, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. He looked away, scratching his neck awkwardly, but the words of thanks continued to pour in.
"Hero... you’re our hero," whispered an elderly man, barely able to stand as Findir cut him free. His eyes were filled with reverence, and he bowed as low as his frail body would allow. "We thought we’d never see the light of day again."
Findir’s face grew redder, and he fumbled with his response, "I-I’m not a hero... really, I just... uh... it’s nothing. You don’t need to—"
But the gratitude from the freed slaves didn’t stop. More came forward, their voices filled with thanks and relief.
"Bless you, stranger! Bless you for your mercy!"
"We are forever in your debt!"
Findir, overwhelmed by the sheer outpouring of praise, felt his heart race. He wasn’t used to this—the compliments, the gratitude. He had rarely received such admiration before. His usual cold, composed demeanor cracked as he stuttered his way through his responses, his face glowing with embarrassment.
"R-Really... it’s okay. I’m just... doing my job," he mumbled, struggling to make eye contact as his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides.
One of the younger men grinned at him, wiping tears from his eyes. "You saved us. Whether you like it or not, we’ll remember this. You’ve given us a second chance."
Findir’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, he nodded stiffly, feeling the warmth of their gratitude seep into him, his face still flushed, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with all this praise.
"Th-Thank you," he finally muttered, his voice quiet but sincere, the weight of their thanks settling in his chest.
As the group made their way to the breeding chamber, the atmosphere grew heavier with each step. The slaves followed Findir closely, their expressions somber and their breaths shallow as if they could already sense the horror awaiting them. Findir, still shaking off the overwhelming gratitude from moments before, felt an icy pit form in his stomach as they neared the entrance.
He had seen gore, walked through battlefields slick with blood, and stared death in the face countless times. But as soon as he opened the door and took one step inside, his body betrayed him.
The sight before him was beyond anything he could have ever imagined.
The stench hit him first—a foul, sickly sweet odor that clung to the air like death itself. Inside the chamber, elves lay chained, their bodies twisted and broken from abuse. Their hollow eyes stared blankly ahead, some filled with tears, others devoid of any emotion at all. The room was filled with the eerie, haunting sound of sobbing—an endless chorus of despair from those who had been dehumanized beyond recognition.
Findir’s knees buckled.
He barely managed to stumble back out of the chamber before his stomach heaved violently. He fell to his knees, retching, emptying his stomach onto the dirt. His entire body convulsed as the horror of the scene bore down on him, wave after wave of nausea twisting his insides. He tried to breathe, but his throat was thick with bile, his body unable to process the depth of the nightmare he’d just witnessed.
Tears filled his eyes, and before he could stop himself, they spilled over. He cried—hot, angry tears that blurred his vision as his body shook with sobs. The taste of vomit lingered in his mouth, but that was nothing compared to the deep sickness that clung to his soul.
The others gathered around him, their faces contorted with grief as they entered the chamber and saw the same horrific sight. Some wept openly, clutching the chains that bound their loved ones. Others stood frozen, their anger building silently, fists clenched so tight their knuckles turned white.
"I... I can’t... How could they...?" Findir managed to choke out between gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face pale and streaked with tears.
Elves emerged from the chamber one by one, their expressions twisted with sorrow and rage. The realization hit them all at once—this wasn’t war. This wasn’t about bloodshed or victory on a battlefield. This was cruelty in its most vile, inhuman form.
A woman sobbed as she knelt by the chamber door, cradling the limp body of her sister. Her wails were gut-wrenching, filling the air with a deep, unrelenting sorrow that echoed through the camp.
But beneath the tears, something darker stirred—a rage that simmered in the hearts of every elf present.
Findir wiped his face, his eyes burning from the tears and bile. His hands clenched into fists as the deep-rooted fury inside him took hold. He had never crossed this line—never inflicted this kind of torment on anyone, even his enemies. And now, he found himself at the spearhead of a rising storm of vengeance.
Without a word, the elves, with Findir at the front, turned to face the breeding chamber again. Together, their eyes burning with hatred, they summoned their wind magic. A massive vortex formed around the building, a howling tornado of swirling wind and fury. It lifted the structure from its foundations, tearing it apart piece by piece. The stones and beams cracked and crumbled, slowly condensing into nothing but ash.
The tornado roared louder and louder, the wind feeding off their collective rage. With a final surge of magic, the building was reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble, a grave for the unspeakable horrors that had occurred within.
The wind died down, leaving behind only the stillness of a desecrated camp. But their anger didn’t fade. It fueled them as they moved through the camp like a relentless storm, freeing the remaining laborers and tearing down every last chamber of depravity. Every stone, every filthy corner of the orcs’ twisted creation was razed to the ground, reduced to ashes in their wake.
And by the time the last building was destroyed, they stood as an army. Five hundred elves strong, united in their shared suffering and righteous fury.
As they regrouped, their eyes turned toward Findir, who stood at the forefront of their march. Despite his appearance—his skin no longer dark from the curse—there was no hesitation in their recognition. He was a dark elf in their eyes, a warrior who had led them to freedom. And though his skin no longer bore the mark of his heritage, they saw something far more important in him: a leader, one they could follow without question.
Findir’s heart raced as he looked out over the crowd. The weight of their gazes made his pulse quicken, but there was no resentment, no disdain. Only unwavering respect.
For the first time in his life, Findir wasn’t just a shadow—he was a force to be reckoned with. And he would lead them forward.
