Chapter 10: Reminiscing About the Time of Slaughter (I)

  Ethan followed closely behind Captain Sanders as they raced out of the camp. Though Sanders was clad head-to-toe in steel armor, he moved even faster than Ethan, who wore only light gear. The other soldiers, roused by the alarm, grabbed their weapons in a panic and hurried to join them.

  Everything was clear under the bright moonlight. At the crossroads outside the camp, several figures—tall and short—stood motionless. Even the soft moonlight could not soften the ominous aura emanating from the weapons in their hands.

  The tallest among them was an ogre. Even by the standards of its kind, its frame was gigantic—twice the height of an average human, and five times as broad. It was encased in specially forged iron armor, and each of its hands wielded a spiked mace, one large and one slightly smaller, sized to match its body. Moonlight glinted off its armor and weapons, casting sharp, cold rays.

  Beside it stood two werewolves. To avoid hindering their extraordinary agility and speed, they wore only a set of hardened leather armor that protected their vital areas. The meteor hammers they held were not as enormous or terrifying as the ogre’s weapons, but they were still capable of shattering any armor. There were also three lizardmen, clad in the same armor as the werewolves, each gripping a longsword that stood as tall as a man. At the far end, two half-orcs each hefted a massive crossbow.

  Amid this group of bloodthirsty orcs stood a figure—thin and diminutive by comparison. It wore no armor and carried no weapon, only a cloak that concealed its race and face.

  Sanders’ face was paler than paper in the moonlight. He had never imagined the situation would be this dire.

  Over a month earlier, he had received an order from the Grand Master of the Paladin Order: to secretly lead a unit of soldiers to the western wastelands to scout for unusual movements among the orc tribes. For over a decade, imperial forces in the west had waged a ruthless campaign to wipe out orc tribes of all kinds; nearly every orc clan in the western wastelands had been all but annihilated. So even though his superiors had warned him to proceed with caution, he had assumed they would face no more than scattered skirmishes.

  Orcs had no knowledge of smelting or forging. Most of their tools and weapons were crude stone implements. Thus, even though their physical strength and combat prowess far surpassed humans, they were no match for well-equipped imperial troops.

  Orc tribes, too, had never interacted with one another. These primitive, uncivilized subhumans had even refused all contact with other civilizations, clinging blindly to their own age-old ways of life and beliefs. Clan by clan, they had waited quietly for the iron hooves of human armies to crush them into the dust.

  Now, all these truths had been shattered by the reality before him—and it would be a shattering steeped in thick blood. This well-armed, mixed force of orcs had not come merely to be seen.

  They were on a hilltop in a barren mountain, surrounded by cliffs. Sanders had chosen this spot for the camp because it offered a clear view and was easy to defend but hard to attack. Even if orcs tried to launch a night raid, they could hold their ground; there was only one narrow path up the hill—hold that, and no orc could breach their defenses.

  Of course, if the orcs held that path, no one in the camp could escape, either.

  The cloaked figure among the orcs suddenly stirred, as if nodding. A soft “mm” escaped it.

  It was a perfectly articulated human sound—casual, relaxed, like a murmur of agreement one might make while sipping tea in the sun and listening to a friend chat.

  Yet the ogre beside it reacted as if this gentle sound had flipped a switch inside its body. It was like a ferocious beast with a noose around its neck—now, that restraint had been flicked aside. With a thunderous roar, it charged toward the soldiers. Its massive frame and heavy armor made the ground tremble with each step, and its momentum promised to crush all life in its path. Every soldier’s face paled with terror.

  The moment Ethan had laid eyes on the orcs, he had already been thinking about how to escape. He understood the situation clearly: if the orcs had been calm enough to sneak up the hill and block the only path, they must be certain of slaughtering all one hundred of them. And he knew exactly what an ogre in full armor, wielding such heavy weapons, meant. Normally, a single ordinary ogre would require twenty fully armed soldiers to take down.

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  The cliffs were high; even though the Donor River flowed below, the drop was steep enough to smash a man to pulp against the rocks at the bottom. But Ethan knew there was a tree growing halfway down one of the cliffs—he had even once urinated on its branches while relieving himself. He remembered exactly where the tree stood and how thick its branches were; they would be strong enough to break his fall and let him survive.

  Just as he was about to turn and run, now that the ogre was charging, he saw a figure dart forward from beside him. It was Sanders—sword drawn, shield raised—charging alone to meet the ogre head-on.

  Morale had collapsed; he was risking his life to take on the ogre, in the hope of rallying the soldiers’ spirits.

  Figures clashed. It was as if the mountain itself had roared and trembled. The ogre’s mace strike—powerful enough to pulp ten oxen—only hit the ground. The encounter between Sanders and the ogre was so fast that the soldiers could barely see what happened. After a clash of metal, the ogre crashed onto its back with a thunderous boom. Sanders flew high into the air, executed a graceful backflip, and landed steadily in front of the troops. He raised his sword, chanting an incantation. A faint blue-white glow slowly emanated from the blade, making him look like a warrior stepped straight out of an epic myth. The hundred-odd soldiers, roused from their terror, let out a deafening cheer.

  Ethan did not cheer. He was the only one who saw clearly: the ogre had fallen on its own accord.

  In the split second when their paths crossed, Sanders had dodged the mace strike with incredible agility, leaping onto the ogre’s shoulder and driving his sword toward the gap between the ogre’s helmet and its eyes. At the same time, the ogre had deliberately thrown itself backward, swinging its smaller mace upward with its free hand. Sanders had blocked the blow with his steel shield, using the force to launch himself backward—but his sword tip had missed the ogre’s eyes by a hair’s breadth.

  A clatter rang out. Sanders dropped the small steel shield in his left hand. The shield—forged from fine steel and an inch thick—was completely warped. Even its curved surface, designed specifically to deflect heavy blows from maces and axes, had been useless against that strength and that weapon.

  By moonlight, Ethan saw that several fingers on Sanders’ left hand—the one that had held the shield—were completely twisted. It was hard to tell they had ever been fingers at all.

  Sanders planted his sword in the ground, then used his right hand to grasp his mangled fingers, straightening them one by one. A glow of healing magic emanated from his palm. Cracks and pops sounded from his fingers, and beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead—but his expression remained perfectly calm. His piercing gaze stayed fixed on the ogre, which was now climbing back to its feet.

  Looking at Sanders’ face—calm as a statue—a surge of fiery resolve spread rapidly from somewhere deep within Ethan’s body. He tightened his grip on his sword. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to run.

  Sanders stripped off his steel armor. Armor was now useless; only agility and speed would give them a chance to win. He gripped his longsword with both hands—now infused with a spiritual blade. He was confident that, if he found an opening, he could pierce the ogre’s armor even without targeting its weak points. He turned and shouted, “Bless me!” Two priests standing among the soldiers began chanting incantations. A faint white glow appeared around them, resonating with Sanders’ body.

  Suddenly, the two half-orcs jumped onto the shoulders of the nearby werewolves, aiming their crossbows directly at the two priests.

  One priest’s head exploded like an egg. Blood and brains splattered everywhere. The soldier behind him collapsed without a sound, blood gushing like a spring from a fist-sized hole in his chest.

  Beside the other priest stood a seasoned soldier. He reacted just in time, raising his wooden shield to block the shot—but the shield shattered, and splinters of wood and the spiked iron bolt embedded themselves in the priest’s face. The soldier let out a wail, falling to the ground in a tangled heap with the priest.

  Sanders surged forward, charging the ogre. He knew he had to take down this most destructive behemoth as quickly as possible—at the very least, before the two half-orcs could reload their massive crossbows.

  The cloaked figure spoke a few words. All the orcs except the two half-orcs charged the soldiers at once. One of the werewolves peeled off, intercepting Sanders as he raced toward the ogre.

  The three lizardmen moved with incredible explosive speed. The dozens of meters between them and the soldiers seemed to vanish in an instant. Before the soldiers could even react to their movement, the lizardmen were already upon them.

  The frontline soldiers were as fragile as straw under the lizardmen’s longswords. Each swing felled four or five men. The lizardmen attacked in a crouched stance, their blades slashing at stomach height; with a single sweep of their man-sized swords, blood and intestines spilled out of their victims. The werewolves that followed sent at least two soldiers flying with each strike, their bodies crushed into pulp by the massive meteor hammers.

  Ethan stepped forward alone, taking on one of the lizardmen. He charged straight toward the blade—such a long weapon had too wide a reach; dodging was useless—attack was the only way. The lizardman’s strength was only slightly greater than a human’s.

  A longer weapon meant more weight, and a more predictable swing. Ethan’s first strike met the lizardman’s sword near the hilt, where it could not exert full force. Sparks flew. For his second strike, he risked a mutual kill, forcing the lizardman to pull back its sword to defend itself. By the fourth clash, the lizardman had no choice but to drop its longsword, drawing a small axe from its waist to parry. At the same time, it leaped backward in a desperate retreat.

  Ethan held his sword horizontally, his resolve burning, a surge of courage rising in his chest. “Two of you—come with me!” he shouted. “We can win this!”

  The only response was the sound of screams, as soldiers scrambled to flee.