The Orc Chieftain watched as five humans advanced, his crimson eyes narrowing. Rising to his full, towering height, he let out a low, guttural growl before gripping the remains of a nearby building. With a monstrous heave, he tore it apart, the wood and stone shattering like brittle bones beneath his sheer power.
"Mere humans… dare to trespass on my land? Fine."
His voice rumbled with malice as he raised his staff high. Dark energy surged around it, twisting its form until it expanded into a massive pair of battle axes, their jagged edges gleaming with a sinister glow.
Victor took the lead, eyes burning with dark energy as he activated [Dark Soul]. Black flames roared to life around his glaive, consuming his lightweight armor in an instant. In its place, heavy obsidian-black armor materialized, crackling embers drifting from its surface. With a snarl, he hurled his glaive with all his strength.
The weapon screamed through the air, the sheer force igniting the ground beneath it as it carved a path of destruction. The glaive struck true, sinking deep into the Chieftain's flesh. Flames erupted from the wound, licking hungrily at his thick skin—
Yet the Chieftain merely chuckled. He glanced down at the embedded weapon before flexing his muscles, and with a sickening crunch, the glaive shattered like brittle glass.
Dante seized the opportunity, his form flickering as he stacked [Phantom Cleave]. Three crescent scythes materialized in rapid succession, slicing through the air and colliding against the Chieftain's soul. His resistances and defenses buckled slightly under the relentless strikes. The Chieftain snarled, feeling his body shift unnaturally.
Then, with a feral grin, he let out a deafening howl before slamming one of his axes into the ground where the group stood. The impact cracked the earth, sending tremors across the battlefield.
"Move!" Victor barked.
Dante activated [Phantom Replacement]—and in an instant, the massive axe vanished from the Chieftain's hands, replaced by a chunk of dirt from the riverbank.
"Shit, great thinking!" Victor grinned before charging back in. His fist, engulfed in roaring black flames, shot forward in a devastating punch.
Stiles was right behind him, activating [Relentless Edge]. As Victor's punch connected, sending a ripple of force through the Chieftain's body, Stiles followed up with a relentless chain of slashes, each strike carving deeper into the beast's flesh. The Chieftain stumbled back a step—
Then his eyes gleamed with murder.
With terrifying speed, he raised his axe high and brought it down toward Stiles, the force behind the swing enough to split boulders in half.
"GET OUT!" Victor roared.
But Stiles only grinned. He lifted his blade, waiting for the perfect moment. Just as the axe was about to crush him, he activated [Bladed Reprisal].
The moment the impact landed, energy coiled around Stiles' blade, redirecting the force back into his counterstrike. His weapon flashed in a single, devastating arc, slicing through the Chieftain's leg with the same force as the axe itself.
The wound erupted with a geyser of blood.
The Chieftain howled in pain, his massive frame collapsing backward, shaking the very earth beneath them.
"Shit, he has a counter?" Victor muttered, already forming another glaive of darkness in his grip.
Then, everything changed.
A dark-red aura exploded from the fallen Chieftain, staining the battlefield in its malice. The rivers boiled, rising unnaturally, slowly flooding the land. The wound on his leg sealed shut in an instant. His massive fist slammed into the ground, triggering a violent tremor that sent cracks webbing through the terrain.
And from those cracks—monsters emerged.
Skeletal warriors, their bones soaked in fresh blood, clawed their way free from the earth. Twisted high orcs, their bodies drenched in gore, let out guttural roars as they brandished rusted weapons. Then, with a piercing shriek, a wyvern burst forth from the ground, its tattered wings beating against the thick air, its scales slick with crimson.
As the horde of beasts charged at anything in sight, Victor, Stiles, and Dante sprang into action, cutting down seven creatures each in rapid succession. SteelArm drove his fist into the blood-soaked ground, activating [Earthen Grip]. Two massive hands of stone erupted from below, seizing ten beasts in an unyielding grip before crushing them into dust. As the hands crumbled back into the earth, Aria exhaled slowly, her katana shimmering with frost.
A wave of skeletons rushed toward her, two towering orcs close behind. Trusting her instincts, she surged forward, the air around her turning frigid as her movement left a small blizzard in her wake. In mere seconds, the entire group was encased in a solid block of ice—only for the block of ice to shatter them effortlessly within a second of being frozen. [Frozen Shatter].
Despite their relentless assault, the undead continued to rise all around them, their bloodied forms reforming as they turned toward the other hunters in the backlines.
Then, a chilling screech tore through the battlefield.
A wyvern soared above the carnage, its blood-soaked wings casting a shadow over the remaining hunters. Spotting the dense cluster of humans, it opened its maw wide before unleashing a torrent of crimson liquid. The moment the blood splashed across the hunters, it detonated in violent explosions, ripping them apart instantly.
The brief moment of terror in the surviving hunters' eyes was all the high orcs needed. Seizing the opportunity, they crashed through the weakened front line. Skeletons clawed at the hunters' legs, yanking them to the ground, while the high orcs followed up with merciless brutality—stomping their boots into broken bodies and driving their fists into armor until bones shattered beneath.
The wyvern circled back, its predatory instincts razor-sharp. It plummeted into the remaining hunters with terrifying precision, dodging the high orcs and skeletons with inhuman accuracy as it tore through the survivors. Blood and screams filled the air.
Only six remained.
Victor, Stiles, Dante, Aria, SteelArm, and another.
The horde of beasts closed in, their bloodstained eyes locked onto the five remaining warriors. Unaware of the sixth presence hidden somewhere in the battlefield, they surged forward as one—a tide of claws, fangs, and death. Above them, the wyvern circled, its wings carving through the air as it prepared to dive and finish them off.
Then, a sound rang out.
Victor's head snapped up. The others followed his gaze, their eyes widening as they saw a woman hovering in the sky, draped in an elegant dark purple outfit. Her ethereal white eyes, glowing like the moon itself, gazed down upon the battlefield with quiet detachment. She let out a soft sigh.
"A little help, I suppose?" Her voice was calm, almost weightless.
Before anyone could respond, she reached into a small bag at her waist, pulling out an aged book. With practiced ease, she flipped through its pages before stopping on one, her fingers gliding across the inked words.
She began to chant.
The language was foreign, otherworldly—its syllables rippling through the air like waves in a still lake. A radiant glow, a mixture of white and blue, swelled around them, enveloping both the warriors and the oncoming horde. Then, a deep chime echoed across the battlefield.
High above, a massive, translucent blue bell materialized in the sky. It rang.
Once.
A pulse of energy surged outward, causing the very air to tremble.
Twice.
The warmth of the light intensified, seeping into their bodies, filling them with an unfamiliar yet comforting presence.
Thrice.
The sound became deafening. The glow expanded into an overwhelming brilliance, forcing Victor and the others to shield their eyes.
Dante, squinting through the radiance, muttered, "This… this feels like a holy spell, like something from a Paladin or a Priest."
Victor frowned, sensing something different beneath the divine aura. "No… it's not the same. This power—"
The final chime rang. The light flared—blinding, absolute—before vanishing in an instant.
Silence.
As their vision cleared, Victor's breath hitched. The battlefield was empty.
The beasts, the wyvern, the high orcs, the skeletons—every last one of them was gone. Not a corpse, not even dust remained. The land was untouched, as if the battle had never happened.
Atop the ruined battlefield, the Orc Chieftain still stood, his towering form rigid. His crimson eyes flickered in disbelief as he scanned the now-lifeless field.
For the first time since the battle began…
He looked surprised.