Chapter 11: Shadows After the Battle
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The distant sound of clashing swords had faded into the background, leaving only the soft murmur of the wounded and the crackling of fires in the ruined village. Max sat atop his warhorse, surveying the aftermath of the battle. His forces had driven back the orc and goblin raiders, but the air still tasted of smoke and blood.
Villagers huddled together near the remains of their homes, faces pale with fear and confusion. Max's soldiers were already at work, tending to the injured and gathering the dead. The victory had been decisive, but it felt hollow. Max's mind wasn't on the village or the victory—it was on the looming threat that still lingered beyond the horizon.
He turned to Darius, his most trusted captain, standing beside him. "Where's the orc and goblin camp?" Max asked, his voice cutting through the cold air. "They wouldn't have come this far without a base."
Darius saluted, grim-faced. "Scouts found it, Your Grace. It's hidden deep in the forest, about two miles east. They built a temporary encampment. It's large, but not heavily fortified—yet. They've likely retreated there after their defeat."
Max nodded. His instincts told him this was far from over. "We'll head there now. Gather the troops."
Darius hesitated for a moment. "Your Grace, shouldn't we rest? The men have been fighting all day, and—"
Max's gaze flicked toward him, cold and unyielding. "There's no time. We end this now before they have a chance to regroup."
Darius stiffened and nodded. "At once, Your Grace."
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The Ride to the Camp
As they rode through the forest, the mood among the soldiers was heavy. Despite the victory, the looming presence of the enemy's camp weighed on them. The deeper they ventured, the more tense the atmosphere became. The trees grew thicker, their gnarled branches blocking out the fading daylight, leaving them shrouded in twilight.
Max rode at the front, his thoughts swirling in confusion. His heart still raced from the battle, but not because of what had happened—it was because of what hadn't happened. He hadn't cast a single spell, yet he could still feel the residual hum of mana thrumming inside him. What was this power? Where had it come from?
He clenched his fist, trying to push the sensation aside. This was no time for uncertainty. If the goblins and orcs were regrouping, they needed to strike now. But the uncertainty gnawed at him. If his magic truly was as strong as it felt…could he control it?
As they neared the edge of the forest, the first glimpse of the enemy camp came into view. Smoke rose from the crude wooden structures the goblins had erected, and Max could see the faint glow of firelight from within the trees. The orc and goblin forces hadn't fled entirely—they were preparing for another assault.
Max (internal): I've got to end this before they become a threat again.
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The Camp and Its Guardians
They dismounted just outside the treeline, and Max peered through the branches at the enemy camp. It was sprawling, with makeshift huts and wooden barricades. Goblins scurried about, tending to fires and sharpening their crude weapons. In the center of the camp, two figures loomed: an Orc War Chief and a Goblin Overlord.
The Orc War Chief was a behemoth, easily twice the size of any human, its muscles bulging beneath jagged black armor. A massive axe rested against its shoulder, gleaming wickedly in the firelight. The Goblin Overlord, though smaller, exuded a palpable aura of magic, its crooked staff glowing with eerie green light.
Darius crept up beside Max, his voice low. "Your Grace, that's no ordinary warband leader. That Orc War Chief is a 6-star Ultra Rare Beast, and the Goblin Overlord must be its equal in magic. They won't go down easy."
Max nodded but didn't respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the camp, his mind racing. A 6-star Ultra Rare Beast—he knew what that meant. In the game, they were terrifying foes, almost godlike in their strength. It had taken entire guilds of players to bring one down. And now…now it was his turn to face one.
His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the hilt of his sword, but then he stopped. A memory flickered in his mind—his earlier attempt to summon magic. The raw, untamed power that had surged through him. If he could harness that again…
Max (internal): I've got no choice. If I don't use magic, we'll be overwhelmed. I just need to focus. Pour all the mana I can into one spell. That should be enough to tip the scales.
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Max's Gamble with Magic
Max stepped out from the treeline, raising his hand toward the camp. His soldiers stood frozen, watching him in silent awe. They'd seen him do this once before—release an enormous surge of mana without even meaning to. Now, he would do it on purpose.
He focused, trying to remember the feel of magic. It was still fuzzy in his mind, but he pushed through the fog. His hand tingled with energy, and slowly, the familiar hum of mana began to fill the air. It wasn't long before the ground beneath his feet began to vibrate.
The Orc War Chief and Goblin Overlord turned, their eyes widening in unison as they felt the surge of power. The War Chief snarled, gripping its axe tighter, but the Goblin Overlord was already trembling, its eyes darting back and forth.
Orc War Chief (growling): "This... this power..."
Goblin Overlord (panicking): "No... this can't be! No shaman has that kind of mana! We're doomed!"
Max poured more mana into the spell, the energy building to a crescendo. The trees around him began to bend, leaves shaking violently as the force of his magic grew. The air around him crackled with power, and even the ground seemed to shimmer under the pressure.
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The Surrender
Before Max could release the spell, something unexpected happened. The orcs and goblins threw down their weapons. Some fled deeper into the camp, while others dropped to their knees, hands raised in surrender. Even the mighty Orc War Chief fell to one knee, its head bowed.
Orc War Chief (pleading): "Great Duke Max, we surrender! Spare us, mighty one!"
Max blinked, his concentration breaking. The surge of mana faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded. His heart pounded in his chest, but not from exertion—from confusion. They were surrendering?
Behind him, his soldiers looked just as shocked. They had been prepared for an all-out assault, but now they stood in stunned silence, watching as the enemy groveled at Max's feet.
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Max's Realization
Max lowered his hand, stepping forward cautiously. His soldiers were beginning to murmur behind him, disbelief and admiration in their voices.
Soldier 1 (whispering to Soldier 2): "Did you see that? He didn't even need to cast the spell."
Soldier 2 (grinning): "Of course! Duke Max has more power in his little finger than those beasts have in their whole army."
Max barely heard them. He walked toward the kneeling Orc War Chief, trying to process what had just happened. These were creatures he had feared—beasts that had crushed armies in the game. Yet now, they were cowering before him. Had they sensed the sheer magnitude of his mana? Was this what the Duke's power really felt like?
He stopped in front of the War Chief, looking down at its massive, bowed form. The Goblin Overlord was beside it, shaking like a leaf, muttering incoherently.
Max (internal): I didn't even do anything... but they're terrified.
A strange sensation welled up inside him. Power. It was intoxicating, almost frightening in its intensity. He had always been the one scrambling to survive, fighting tooth and nail just to stay alive in the game. But now…now the tables had turned. They feared him. They saw him as a god.
Max cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Why should i accept your surrender ," he said coldly.
After few minutes
Max turned on his heel, walking back toward his soldiers. Behind him, the goblins and orcs were already scrambling to gather their belongings, eager to flee before he changed his mind.
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Aftermath and Reflection
Max mounted his warhorse, looking over his shoulder one last time as the enemy camp began to dissolve into chaos. His soldiers were celebrating behind him, their cheers echoing through the trees. They had won without a single casualty—thanks to him. Or rather, thanks to the power he still didn't fully understand.
As the horse began to move, Max's thoughts drifted. The war was over, at least for now. But something inside him had shifted. He could feel it—the weight of responsibility.
Max mounted his warhorse, looking over his shoulder one last time as the enemy camp dissolved into chaos. His soldiers' cheers filled the air, their voices rising in celebration. The victory had been decisive, achieved without the loss of a single life. But beneath their cheers, Max could feel the weight of something much heavier—the power that now coursed through him, a power he barely understood.
As the horse began to move, Max's thoughts drifted. The war was over, at least for now. But something inside him had shifted. He could feel it—the weight of responsibility, the strain of leadership, and above all, the raw, terrifying potential of his newfound magic.
Max (internal): They think I'm in control. They think I planned this. But I don't even know what I did…
The rhythmic clopping of hooves did little to calm his racing mind. Even though he had achieved victory, it felt hollow, as if it didn't belong to him. His soldiers believed in him, feared him even, and that terrified him more than the orcs and goblins ever had.
Max (internal): What happens when they find out the truth? What happens when I can't control this power?
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The Weight of the Duke's Legacy
They rode back to the village in silence, the forest now eerily quiet. The smell of burning wood and blood still hung in the air, a stark reminder of the battle they had just fought. Villagers lined the path, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and awe as they watched Max and his soldiers return.
Max couldn't help but feel the burden of their stares. They didn't just see a Duke returning from battle—they saw a savior. A leader. A man they believed could protect them from anything. But Max wasn't that man. He had never been that man.
Max dismounted and walked through the village. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, their whispers following in his wake.
Villager 1 (whispering): "He defeated them… without a fight."
Villager 2 (nodding in awe): "They say his magic is stronger than anything we've ever seen."
Max's stomach twisted. He didn't want their praise. He didn't deserve it. His victory hadn't been because of skill or strategy—it had been luck. Pure, uncontrollable luck.
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Max's Internal Struggle
Max entered a half-collapsed hut near the village square, the sounds of the outside world muffled as he closed the door behind him. Inside, the silence was suffocating. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.
Max (internal): I'm not the Duke they think I am. I can't control this power… If I try and fail, people will die. And if I don't try, they'll lose faith in me.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. The pressure of maintaining the Duke's legacy was overwhelming. Every action he took was scrutinized, every decision weighed heavily on him. The soldiers expected a commander who led with an iron fist. The villagers expected a protector. And the council…they expected a man ruthless enough to crush anyone who stood in his way.
But Max wasn't any of those things. He was just Max.
Soldier 1: The soldiers are celebrating, and the villagers are preparing a feast in your honor."
Max left the hut and returned to the village square, where the soldiers had gathered around the fires, laughing and drinking. They raised their cups in salute as he approached, their admiration palpable.
Soldier 1: "To Duke Max! The man who didn't even need to swing his sword to win!"
The others roared in approval, clinking their mugs together.
Max forced a smile, nodding in acknowledgment, but inside, he felt hollow. This wasn't his victory. Not really. But he couldn't show weakness now—not in front of them. The power he had unleashed earlier had his mistake.