Chapter 855: The Great Battle of Mountain Beasts (34)
As the Troll King surveyed the battlefield, his gaze fell upon the remaining orc forces. The sight of their fallen king had destroyed their morale. Panic swept through their ranks as the once-organized orc warriors broke into a chaotic retreat, desperation evident in their every step.
With a deep, guttural growl, the Troll King raised his spiked club high above his head and let out a thunderous war cry that reverberated across the field. His surviving warriors, inspired by their king’s victory and fury, joined in with primal roars of their own. Emboldened, the trolls surged forward, relentless and merciless, pursuing the fleeing orcs with continued fury.
The trolls moved swiftly, their huge strides closing the distance as they hunted down the scattering orc forces. Some trolls swung their clubs in wide, devastating arcs, crushing groups of orcs in a single blow, while others stomped the earth to create tremors that knocked orcs off balance, leaving them defenseless. Those who stumbled were swiftly set upon, knocked down with brutal efficiency by trolls who spared no mercy.
The Troll King himself led the charge, his presence a force of terror as he bore down on the orcs. With each swing of his mighty club, he felled clusters of orcs, the spikes rending armor and flesh alike. When orcs tried to regroup or turn to make a stand, he would drive into their ranks, scattering them once again, showing them that there would be no escape, no sanctuary.
For the remaining orcs, the battlefield became a slaughter. They cried out in vain, tripping over one another in their desperation to flee, but the Troll King’s forces encircled them from all sides, cutting off every escape route. Troll warriors flanked the orcs, collapsing inwards with ruthless precision and finality.
As the Troll King stood amidst the bloody aftermath of his victory, the battlefield eerily stilled for a moment. His breathing was heavy, his spiked club resting against the churned earth, when suddenly, in a swift and silent motion, his head flew from his body. It tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud, his towering form crumbling shortly after. Gasps of shock and terror rippled through the trolls as they turned to see five figures standing where none had been before, their presence dominating the space like a violent storm on the horizon.
These five beings, their forms both elegant and brutal, moved as one. Each motion they made was devastating—blades slashing, flames roaring, and shadowy tendrils ripping through the air. They tore through the remnants of the trolls and demoralized orcs like a scythe through wheat, their smiles never faltering. Despite the chaos, there was an unsettling calm about their slaughter, as if the destruction they wrought was nothing more than a casual pastime. Blood and debris swirled around them, but they remained unscathed, their movements precise and deliberate.
When the last troll fell, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap of flesh and stone, the five stood amidst the carnage, their expressions triumphant and unbothered. Each of them exchanged knowing glances, their smiles lingering as if they shared some private joke about the devastation they had just unleashed. Their gaze shifted suddenly, locking onto the horizon where a new force approached.
In the distance, Findir and his army of freed slaves emerged, their banners fluttering and weapons raised as they advanced. Hope burned in the eyes of the weary soldiers, their voices rising in a unified cry as they prepared to join what they assumed was a battle already won.
But as they drew closer, an oppressive weight settled over them, a suffocating sense of dread that clung to the air like a storm about to break. The slaves faltered, their steps slowing as their instincts screamed danger. Many exchanged nervous glances, clutching their weapons tighter, their breaths shallow as the five figures turned their attention toward them. The atmosphere itself seemed to darken under the sheer presence of these beings, their smiles unshaken, their eyes gleaming with something unknowable and sinister.
The slaves hastily readied themselves, gripping weapons with trembling hands as they steeled their nerves. They were prepared to fight to the last if it came to that, unwilling to yield despite the overwhelming aura of death that radiated from these strangers.
Then, to their astonishment, they saw Findir sprinting ahead of them, his expression one of pure exhilaration, as though he were reuniting with long-lost friends. "You’re here!" he shouted, his voice filled with joy, completely unfazed by the blood-soaked battlefield or the doom that hung in the air.
The woman with long, dark purple hair, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement, stepped forward as Findir reached them. She extended her arm and draped it casually over his shoulder, leaning into him with an almost possessive familiarity. Her smile widened as she looked down at the slaves, who froze in place, their instincts screaming at them to run but their bodies locked in terrified anticipation.
Findir laughed, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Everyone, meet Orion!" he announced, gesturing to the woman by his side, who nodded at the group with a smirk. "And these are the rest of them—our salvation."
The slaves remained motionless, their fear deepening with each passing second. Orion’s gaze swept over them, her smile curling into something sharper and more predatory. "Well," she said, her voice smooth as silk but dripping with malice, "it looks like you’ve brought us quite the audience, Findir."
The weight of her words crushed any fleeting hope the slaves had, leaving only a suffocating silence as they stood frozen in the shadow of these five beings, who exuded nothing but raw, unrelenting power.
Findir’s expression shifted from exuberance to solemnity as he began recounting the journey that had brought him to this moment. His thoughts lingered on the horrific sights and overwhelming trials he had faced in the orc camp. He had infiltrated it with a single purpose: to bring freedom to the countless captives held in chains.
The camp had been a sprawling fortress of iron and cruelty, its air heavy with the stench of despair. The slaves, emaciated and beaten, shuffled through their grim existence under the watchful eyes of brutal orc overseers. Findir had slipped through the shadows, witnessing atrocities that seared themselves into his memory—executions carried out to break the spirit of the enslaved, and screams that echoed long into the night.
Steeling himself, he had begun his mission. Findir moved with precision and purpose, dismantling patrols and disabling defenses one by one. His blade struck swiftly, leaving no room for retaliation. As he navigated deeper into the camp, he encountered resistance that grew fiercer with each step. Orc warriors challenged him, their cries of alarm summoning reinforcements, but Findir’s skill and resolve allowed him to carve a path through their ranks.
It was then that he encountered the old orc—a figure shrouded in a menacing aura of ancient magic. The elder wielded time itself, manipulating the flow of moments to his advantage. Each swing of Findir’s blade seemed to miss, each step forward undone by the orc’s manipulation. The battlefield warped around them, seconds stretching or collapsing as the orc shifted through temporal folds.
Findir had been pushed to his limits, relying on sheer will and ingenuity to counter this arcane foe. He observed, adapted, and waited for openings that lasted only fractions of a moment. With every strike of his blade, he chipped away at the orc’s focus, forcing the elder to expend more energy to maintain his control over time. Eventually, Findir delivered a decisive blow, severing the orc’s connection to his magic and ending the battle.
Victorious but battered, Findir turned his attention to the slaves. He shattered their chains, calling them to rise and take their freedom into their own hands. Many were hesitant at first, their spirits worn thin by years of oppression, but Findir’s determination was infectious. As he freed more captives, the momentum grew, and the once broken throng began to stir with hope.
The slaves rallied around him, their numbers swelling as they tore through the camp, overwhelming the remaining orcs with their newfound courage. Together, they dismantled the oppressive structure, tearing down the walls that had held them captive for so long. When the last of the orcs had fallen, and the camp was left in ruins, Findir led the liberated force toward the battlefield, where he knew the greater conflict awaited.
As the sun climbed higher into the sky, its rays casting an eerie glow over the blood-soaked battlefield, Findir and his band of freed slaves began their grim task. The five enigmatic figures moved with him, their presence a chilling reminder of the sheer power they wielded. Together, they embarked on a relentless campaign to hunt down the remnants of orc and troll forces scattered across the mountain’s base.
Findir took the lead, his keen senses guiding the group through the dense forests and jagged terrain. The freed slaves followed closely, their resolve hardened by their newfound purpose. Many of them carried weapons scavenged from the battlefield—spears, axes, and shields once wielded by their oppressors. Though untrained, their determination transformed them into a force to be reckoned with.
