Chapter 827: The Great Battle of Mountain Beasts (9)
With Orion’s spear tearing massive holes in the troll army, Cy’s dark energy obliterating entire formations, Bella’s flames engulfing the trolls in an inferno, Luna’s illusions rendering them helpless, and Aisa’s blade cutting down any who remained, the troll forces were decimated. The trolls, once on the verge of victory, now found themselves scattered, their formations broken, and their morale shattered.
The orc forces, seeing the destruction wrought by the five figures, roared in renewed fury. They surged forward once more, taking advantage of the gaping holes in the troll lines. The orc wedge reformed, its tip now driving deeper into the fractured troll army, while the anvil forces pressed the trolls from the sides. The trolls, once poised to crush the orcs, were now caught in the trap themselves, their broken lines unable to withstand the combined assault of the orcs and the five figures who had torn through their ranks.
The battlefield was now a killing ground, with trolls falling by the dozens as the orcs pressed their advantage. The troll commander, once so sure of victory, could only watch in horror as his army disintegrated before him, his flanks collapsing, and his center overrun. The trolls were in full retreat, desperately trying to escape the slaughter, but there was no escape from the devastation that had been unleashed upon them.
In mere moments, the tide of the battle had shifted completely, and the trolls, once dominant, were now nothing more than prey for the orc forces and the five unstoppable figures that had torn their army apart.
The troll commander, a hulking brute with scarred gray skin and tusks jutting from his lower jaw, stood on a ridge overlooking the battlefield, watching the tide of war turn against his forces. In his mind, he quickly cycled through the last-ditch strategies available to him. A controlled retreat? He could buy time, sacrifice some trolls, and regroup in a defensible location. Scorched earth tactics? Burn everything, destroy the land, and slow the orc advance. A rearguard ambush? Use terrain to trap the orcs in a choke point.
But none of these options were viable. The Troll King would behead him for cowardice if he even considered retreat or sacrificing his army. Any attempt at strategic withdrawal would spell certain death—if not by the orcs, then by his own ruler. His hands tightened around the shaft of his weapon, the reality sinking in: he had no choice but to fight.
With a deep, frustrated growl, he gripped his massive lance and ground his teeth together. It was a weapon worthy of his stature—ten feet of thick blackened iron with jagged edges designed to tear through armor and flesh alike. His mount, a monstrous creature the size of a war elephant, snorted beneath him. It was a grotesque beast, with gnarled black fur, leathery wings tucked at its sides, and thick, reptilian scales covering its underbelly. Its burning red eyes glowed with primal fury, and its tusks—curved like sickles—jutted from its massive maw.
The troll commander let out a guttural roar, raising his lance high above his head. The trolls, battered and bloodied, looked up from their desperate fight. Their morale had sunk to dangerous lows, and the once unbreakable line of trolls was beginning to fracture under the orc onslaught. But as they saw their commander atop his colossal mount, lance gleaming in the blood-red sunlight, a glimmer of hope sparked within them. He was a symbol of strength, a force they had followed into battle countless times before. He would lead them to victory, or so they thought.
With a final roar, the troll commander spurred his mount into a charge. The beast beneath him bellowed and thundered forward, shaking the ground with each step as it tore across the battlefield. His lance pointed forward, gleaming like a beacon of war. The trolls, seeing their commander charging into the fray, let out guttural cries of their own, rallying behind him. Their bloodlust reignited, and they surged toward the frontlines with renewed vigor, ready to fight with everything they had.
The trolls’ heavy footsteps, once sluggish, became powerful strides. Their weapons, which had felt like burdens moments before, were now swung with deadly precision. The trolls’ morale was no longer in question. They followed their commander, the massive lance raised high, believing they could crush the orcs beneath their might. The frontlines grew closer, and the troll commander’s presence loomed large as he prepared to strike, a juggernaut leading his kin into glorious battle.
But then, in an instant, everything changed.
As the troll commander reached the frontlines, there was no battle cry, no triumphant clash of steel. His eyes widened suddenly, his lance faltering mid-swing. A thin, jagged line appeared across his thick neck. Blood spurted from the wound as his massive head silently fell from his shoulders, dropping to the ground with a sickening thud. His body remained upright for a moment longer, still gripping the reins of his mount, before collapsing like a felled tree. The mighty war beast bellowed in confusion, trampling through the battlefield with its rider’s decapitated body dragging along the dirt.
It took the trolls a long, agonizing moment to process what had just happened. The momentum of their charge halted as if time itself had slowed. Trolls who had raised their axes mid-swing faltered. Those roaring battle cries stuttered into silence. They stared in disbelief, the battlefield suddenly still, save for the distant sound of clashing weapons and the anguished wails of dying warriors. Their commander, their symbol of hope, was gone. His head lay lifeless on the blood-soaked earth, a gruesome testament to their defeat.
The shock rippled through the ranks like a cold wind. The trolls, once so battle-charged, stood frozen. Their eyes fixated on their leader’s fallen body, a growing pit of despair forming in their guts. Seconds passed. Then more. And more still.
And then it hit them all at once.
Raw fear replaced every shred of courage they had summoned. The battlefield was no longer a place of glory—it was a nightmare from which they could not wake. There was no leader to guide them, no rallying cry to follow. Panic took hold as the reality of their situation crashed down upon them. The orcs, seeing the trolls falter, surged forward with brutal glee.
The trolls broke. What had been a unified charge turned into a scattered, frantic retreat. Some dropped their weapons, others shoved past their comrades in a desperate attempt to flee. Fear had consumed them entirely, and the battlefield dissolved into chaos as the trolls ran, abandoning any hope of victory.
The orcs, sensing victory, descended upon the retreating trolls with savage abandon, cutting down those who couldn’t escape fast enough. The trolls, who had once been ready to fight to the death, now trampled over each other in their desperate bid for survival, their morale shattered beyond repair.
The battlefield was a sea of carnage, but the orcs could sense their victory. With the trolls retreating in utter chaos, the orcs let out deafening roars of triumph, their bloodlust and pride reaching a fever pitch. Orcs slammed their weapons against their shields, and some raised the heads of fallen trolls high in the air as trophies. The orc commander, towering and clad in blackened armor, stood proudly at the forefront. His brutal tactics had paid off, his wedge and anvil strategy turning the tide of battle and crushing the trolls’ attempt at envelopment.
The victory was theirs, and the orc army reveled in it. But there was an uneasy pause as the commander walked toward the five figures who had been instrumental in their success. He approached with gratitude in his eyes, ready to offer thanks to those mysterious warriors who had torn through the troll ranks with terrifying efficiency. The orc soldiers watched, their adrenaline still surging from the battle. But as the commander reached the five, something horrifying happened.
Without a word, the five moved as one. Orion, with his blood-red spear glowing ominously, stepped forward and in one swift motion, sliced his weapon through the air. In an instant, the orc commander’s body was shredded into hundreds of pieces. His flesh was diced cleanly, falling like chunks of meat onto the blood-soaked ground. His armor clattered uselessly, and the commander’s life ended before his troops even had time to comprehend what had happened.
There was a moment of stunned silence. The orcs, who had just been cheering in victorious ecstasy, froze in place. Their commander, the one who had led them to triumph, lay in pieces at the feet of these five figures. Shock turned to a boiling rage, and the nearest orcs, their emotions overtaking them, let out battle cries of fury. The cries spread, and soon a torrent of enraged orcs surged forward, weapons raised high, intent on avenging their fallen leader.
The orcs were overcome with raw emotion. Anger, betrayal, and the burning need to prove themselves pushed them forward, clouding their minds. Their battle formations—so carefully maintained during the fight with the trolls—began to disintegrate as discipline gave way to rage. The wedge, the anvil, the careful positioning of the outer flanks—all of it unraveled as orcs rushed mindlessly at the five who had just slain their commander. They no longer cared for tactics; their desire for blood overwhelmed their reason.
