Chapter 856: The Great Battle of Mountain Beasts (Final)
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.
The scattered orcs were the first to fall. Small bands of survivors, demoralized and disorganized, had sought refuge in the forests and caves dotting the mountainside. Findir’s group struck swiftly and decisively. He led ambushes that leveraged the terrain, cutting off escape routes and overwhelming the orcs with sheer numbers. The slaves fought with fury, their strikes fueled by years of suffering. The orcs, caught off guard and weakened from the earlier battle, stood little chance.
As they pushed deeper into the mountains, the five figures revealed their devastating potential. Orion, with her dark purple hair flowing like a shadow, conjured bursts of ethereal energy that decimated entire groups of trolls and orcs alike. Her attacks were precise, cutting through enemies without harming Findir’s forces. Another of the five, a towering figure clad in shimmering silver armor, used brute strength to shatter boulders and clear pathways, making escape impossible for their enemies.
The trolls were a tougher challenge. Many of them had regrouped in fortified positions, using their brute strength and earth-based magic to create barriers and traps. Findir’s group adapted quickly, using the slaves’ sheer numbers to keep the trolls occupied while the five tore through their defenses with unnatural ease. The spiked roots and walls summoned by the trolls crumbled under the relentless assault, and one by one, the hulking creatures were brought down.
The battles stretched into the afternoon, each skirmish more brutal than the last. Findir moved like a force of nature, his blade carving through any foe who dared to stand against him. His sharp commands kept his forces cohesive, ensuring that the freed slaves fought as a unit rather than a disorganized mob. He balanced their efforts with those of the five, who seemed to revel in the destruction, their smiles unbroken even in the heat of combat.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the mountains were quiet. The orcs and trolls that had once dominated the region were no more, their forces annihilated in a campaign of precision and brutality. The freed slaves, though bloodied and exhausted, stood victorious, their chains of oppression finally broken.
Findir surveyed the battlefield, his expression unreadable. The five figures stood apart, their eerie calm contrasting with the chaos they had wrought. Orion still leaned on Findir with a casual familiarity, as if the day’s slaughter had been nothing more than a game. The slaves began to gather the wounded and bury their dead, the enormity of their transformation from victims to warriors settling over them.
As night fell, the fires of the battlefield burned low, casting flickering shadows across the mountain’s base. Findir stood amidst his people, now a leader in every sense of the word, his presence a beacon of strength for those who had followed him. The five figures watched from a distance, their motivations unclear, but their power undeniable. Together, they had reshaped the fate of the mountain, leaving behind a legacy of blood and fire.
The days following the climactic battle were a time of uneasy rest and reflection for Findir, Orion, Aisa, Cy, Luna, and Bella. The group, alongside the freed slaves, took shelter in the ruins of the orc and troll camps. They scavenged supplies—food, weapons, and trinkets—while burying their dead and tending to the wounded. The camps, once centers of oppression, now served as places of quiet respite and planning. Fires crackled each evening, the embers lighting weary faces as both warriors and freed captives sought solace in the newfound silence.
Findir, his stoic nature as steady as ever, spent much of this time strategizing with Orion and the others. Though their work here was done, they all knew their journey was far from over. The five enigmatic figures were at ease among the slaves, their presence simultaneously inspiring awe and unease. The freed captives gravitated toward Findir, not just as a leader but as a symbol of their liberation, creating a bond that was both flattering and weighty.
As plans to part ways were finalized, a tall, striking male elf emerged from the group of slaves. He was unlike any of the others—his long white hair flowed like silk in the breeze, and his golden eyes shimmered with an otherworldly light. Dressed in the simple garb of a prisoner but carrying himself with innate nobility, he approached Findir with a calm, purposeful stride.
The elf spoke earnestly, his gratitude evident in every gesture. He thanked Findir and the group profusely for their courage and sacrifices, his voice rich and melodic. Despite his composed demeanor, there was a warmth in his tone that carried genuine admiration. Specifically, he seemed most drawn to Findir, as though he saw something of profound importance in him. The elf expressed his wish to repay their kindness and offered to lead them to his village as a gesture of gratitude.
Findir, however, declined without hesitation. His voice was resolute, but his gaze softened as he explained that he and his companions could not risk such a detour. He feared the elf’s village would not accept outsiders, and his group had other pressing matters to attend to. Though the elf’s disappointment was apparent, he did not press further, respecting Findir’s decision.
Changing the subject, Findir inquired about the nearest magic tower. His question caused the elf to pause, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Though he seemed hesitant to speak, he eventually glanced back at the group of slaves, as though weighing what to say. Without addressing Findir’s motives for such a query, he began to converse openly with the entire group, his tone conversational yet deliberate.
It was another elf—this one small and frail, his voice barely above a whisper—who stepped forward to provide the answer. His pale features and nervous mannerisms betrayed a lifetime of submission, but his words were clear and precise. The nearest magic tower, he explained, was south from the troll mountain. To reach it, one would need to cross several mountains until they arrived at a vast lake, at the base of which the tower could be found, stretching upward into the clouds like a beacon.
The group listened intently, their expressions a mix of curiosity and determination. Orion and the others exchanged brief glances, unspoken understanding passing between them. The frail elf bowed his head slightly after finishing, retreating back into the crowd of slaves as quickly as he had emerged.
As night fell once more, the plan was set. The group would journey southward toward the tower, leaving behind the freed slaves to forge their own path. Though Findir and the others received countless thanks and well-wishes from those they had liberated, their thoughts were already focused on the journey ahead, their goals shrouded in mystery but etched clearly in their minds.
