Chapter 11: Reminiscing About the Time of Slaughter (II)

  When Sanders saw the oncoming werewolf drop its weapon, he knew this was no longer a battle—it would be a one-sided massacre. So he shouted his order with all his strength: “Full retreat! Escape if you can! Report what happened here to—” He was too busy to finish the sentence. The reason the werewolf had dropped its weapon was simple: that tool had only been meant to deal with armor and shields. Now that its opponent had abandoned defense entirely, no weapon was more agile than its own claws—more capable of entangling the enemy and leaving them overwhelmed.

  The ogre evaded Sanders’ interception, charging unimpeded into the crowd. A feast of blood and flesh began.

  The two massive spiked maces moved without any fancy tricks, not even targeting specific people—only seeking to hit as many bodies as possible. Every piece of armor might as well have been a paper toy, offering no resistance to the maces’ terrifying power. In the center of this chaos, where blood and entrails flew everywhere, there were barely any screams. The moment someone was hit by those swinging maces, a living person would instantly become a mangled heap of weapon, armor, bone, and flesh.

  The ogre swung its weapons wildly, advancing, charging into dense groups of soldiers, trampling them, then charging toward another crowd. It was like a killing machine operated by a demon from hell, crushing and pulverizing every living thing it touched into pulp.

  Sanders’ order no longer mattered. The moment the ogre had rushed into the crowd, only hysterical terror remained in the soldiers’ hearts. They surged toward the mountain path, but most were intercepted and slaughtered by the ogre halfway, turned into blurs of blood and flesh. The werewolves and lizardmen, with their superior agility, picked off those who managed to slip past. The two half-orcs guarding the path drew smaller crossbows, firing at anyone who occasionally neared the exit. Every shot hit its mark, piercing straight through the victim’s forehead. Some soldiers, driven to extreme fear, jumped off the cliffs—their long screams cut off abruptly.

  Those still on the hilltop could not even scream.

  When people flee in fear of death, yet know they will eventually be reduced to a puddle of blood and flesh, fear and despair eat away all their strength and reason, leaving only a wailing cry. It is a sound no one can imagine unless they have heard it.

  A sea of wails spread. The strange sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh mingled with the whistle of weapons cutting through air and skin, weaving a concerto that once heard, could never be forgotten. A comrade who had been alive just moments ago—suddenly, you could see white bones protruding, entrails still throbbing as they were pulled out of their body. Blood and flesh became cheaper than garbage. In that moment, Ethan finally understood the true meaning of the word “hell.”

  Half of a soldier’s corpse flew over, landing beside Ethan and the lizardman, who were locked in fierce combat. The soldier’s body had been torn in two below the waist; his entrails trailed all the way to his lower half, over ten meters away.

  Ethan recognized him—they had fought during the recruitment trials. The arms that had once been strong, that had tangled with his own, were now crushed like mud, embedded in his chest along with his iron shield.

  A wave of fear, mixed with sorrow, surged over him, snuffing out all his resolve. He launched a desperate flurry of strikes, finally forcing the lizardman to jump back. Ethan seized this fleeting opportunity, turning and sprinting into the camp.

  Sanders took the same action almost simultaneously. After a flurry of sword thrusts, a patch of skin was torn from his forehead as the werewolf retreated. He was closer to the path ahead; the ogre and lizardmen were behind him, so he ran toward the path—now occupied only by the two half-orcs and the cloaked figure.

  A powerful gust of wind rushed from behind. A spiked mace whistled over his head, hurtling down the mountain with the force to turn him into pulp.

  Sanders glanced back. The only surviving soldier had wrapped his arms around the ogre’s head, making the thrown mace fly slightly higher than intended.

  “Captain—run!” the soldier shouted with his last strength. His bloodied face was contorted—scarred and twisted, half of it sunken, once crushed by a blunt weapon. He was a seasoned veteran; presumably, he had played dead, then seized the chance to grab the ogre’s head when it wasn’t looking.

  In that glance, Sanders also saw the werewolf pick up an axe from the ground and hurl it at him. The axe spun through the air, a straight line chasing his back.

  He could not dodge left or right. He was running at full speed—any sideways movement would force him to roll on the ground, and the werewolf would immediately catch up and pin him down again.

  An ogre’s roar echoed, followed by half a scream and a strange sound—like twisting a wet towel filled with dry branches: a dense chorus of cracks mixed with the gurgle of liquid seeping out.

  Sanders had no time to look back. He put all his strength into his right leg, leaping forward. At the same time, he slung his sword over his back to protect his spine, channeling magic to ready a healing spell.

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  A dull thud. Sanders slid through the air, stumbled a few steps, and spat up a mouthful of blood—then charged again toward the path.

  Luck was on his side: the axe had struck the edge of his chest plate. Three of his ribs were broken, and his lung was injured. But the healing spell he had prepared in advance stopped the bleeding and dulled the pain, leaving his movements unimpeded for the moment.

  He was only about ten meters from the path. He could clearly see the fangs at the half-orcs’ mouths and the faint panic on their faces. The cloaked figure in the middle remained motionless.

  If he could just rush down the mountain and jump into the Donor River, he would have a chance to escape. Sanders channeled all his remaining magic into his sword-wielding hands.

  The cliff was right ahead. Ethan remembered the tree’s position clearly. He leaped into the air.

  Fortunately, he twisted his body mid-air to glance back—just in time to see the lizardman pull out a small crossbow from behind and fire at him. He bent forward in the air, flipping forward as the bolt whistled past his skin. Then his body flew off the cliff, plummeting downward. The lizardman, chasing close behind, watched helplessly from the cliff edge as Ethan stepped on a branch, breaking it, then plunged his sword into another to slow his fall completely before splashing safely into the river.

  In his final glance back at the hilltop, Ethan saw a burst of white light illuminate the entire peak like daylight.

  The sword in Sanders’ hand blazed with a brilliance rivaling the sun. All his magic had been poured into the blade.

  Blood from his forehead had seeped into his left eye, turning everything he saw red—but Sanders felt nothing. All his focus and willpower were concentrated in the strike he was about to unleash.

  Blinded by the intense light, the two half-orcs covered their eyes and dodged aside. The cloaked figure in the middle still did not move. Beneath the cloak, its face was clearly visible in the sword’s glare.

  It was a human face—slender, pale, with sharp, sculpted features as calm and still as a statue. Under long eyelashes, its dark eyes were like bottomless pools that had remained unchanged for a thousand years, showing no ripple—only quietly reflecting the dazzling sword light approaching.

  Ten steps away. The figure still made no move to dodge, its expression unchanged, its body completely motionless. It was like a stone statue that had stood there since the dawn of the world—and would remain there, unshaken, until the next creation.

  Eight steps. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Sanders charged forward, spun 360 degrees, and swung his sword. The force from his toes pushing off the ground traveled up his calves, thighs, waist, chest, shoulders, and wrists, finally reaching the blade. Every muscle in his body poured its strength into this swing, no reserve left.

  It was not a man wielding a sword—it was a sword controlling a man. Every tiny movement was designed to channel its sharpness and pent-up magic along the perfect trajectory, unleashing it without a trace of waste. All the orcs froze, transfixed and overwhelmed by the strike.

  The sword’s light swirled into a curtain, surging forward with the power to split the night. There was no sound—but every orc felt they were about to hear the mountain crack in two.

  All speed, strength, magic, will, spirit—every tiny part of his being—merged into one in this strike, bursting into sparks unlike anything seen before. Sanders felt no fear, no anger, not even the desire to escape. It was like a singer pouring his soul into the climax of an aria, lost in melting his spirit into the moment. He was about to split the flesh and blood before him like a figment of imagination—with the most triumphant note of his life…

  The brilliant curtain of light, which seemed to stretch to the end of the world and threaten to split the heavens, vanished instantly. A single hand had turned it back into a motionless sword.

  It was a clean, slender hand. Its fingers were long, each knuckle shapely and well-defined—so graceful that seeing it made one naturally think of all elegant words and gestures.

  With a matching elegant movement, this graceful hand pinched the sword’s tip—light as catching a butterfly fluttering in the air.

  All the momentum, all the fluidity of the moment, ground to a halt. The first thing Sanders felt was loss—like a singer whose throat is slit just as he is about to hit the most beautiful note. Only then did pain and fear follow.

  He could not see the other hand—presumably just as elegant—but he could feel it. It had plunged entirely into his chest. He could even feel the four fingers protruding from his back, just as long and shapely.

  Sanders opened his mouth, trying to groan, but found all sound drowned in blood. It seemed all the blood in his body had rushed to his throat, surging out from his windpipe and esophagus. When the hand was pulled out of his chest, the blood found a better outlet—gushing happily from the wound, no longer forcing its way up his throat.

  Sanders clearly felt his strength, his will, his spirit—all the things that had surged within him just moments ago—flow out of his body with the blood, following that hand. Those things that had once been so real, so abundant, that had made up his entire life—they poured out of the gaping hole in his chest, no matter how unwilling he was, no matter how hard he tried to hold on. Finally, even the strength to stand drained from his body. He collapsed.

  The sword’s light faded rapidly, then shattered with a soft crack into countless tiny shards, scattering over its master’s corpse.

  A gust of wind blew. The man’s cloak was torn into tattered strips, fluttering away in the mountain breeze—silent witnesses to the unmatched sword aura just now.

  The man lifted the hand that had pinched the sword, holding it up to the moonlight. A faint bloodstain crossed his palm, like a newly formed palm line. His face remained as still as a statue.

  The werewolves and lizardmen rummaged through the piles of corpses, striking even the relatively intact bodies a few more times—until they became unrecognizable heaps of flesh with no trace of life left. The lizardman that had fought Ethan approached, reporting in the guttural, consonant-heavy lizardman tongue.

  The man pointed at the river below the mountain, waving a hand at one of the werewolves. The werewolf immediately ran down the mountain, disappearing into the night.

  An owl perched on a dead branch beside the camp, its large eyes staring blankly at the sea of blood and flesh, hooting softly—as if in time with the horror.

  Suddenly, the man kicked a small stone. With a thud, the owl on the branch was smashed to pieces, like rotting cotton, scattering everywhere. Black liquid oozed from its remains, a pungent stench overriding the mountain’s bloodshed. The half-orcs and werewolves let out cries of disgust, quickly covering their noses. The man looked at the stinking black fragments on the ground, frowning slightly. For the first time, his statue-like face showed a flicker of emotion—a faint look of concern.

  In a dim chamber, a red-robed mage reached out and gently touched the crystal ball, whose image had suddenly gone dark. He sighed. “So many fresh corpses… Sandro would be heartbroken if he saw this.”