Treacherous ground

The archers followed closely behind the mages, occasionally losing arrows to eliminate stray beasts, ensuring a flawless ascent for the frontline. Each arrow found its mark with lethal precision, clearing any minor threats before they could become obstacles.

Atop the hill, the orcs retaliated, rolling massive boulders down the slope in a desperate attempt to disrupt the lancers' advance. The sheer size and momentum of the stones threatened to shatter bones and break formations. Casualties could have been high—if not for Thymur.

From behind, he raised his hands, fire gathering at his fingertips before erupting into searing fireballs. The blazing projectiles struck the rolling boulders, shattering them into harmless debris. Yet, some fragments remained, still large enough to cause harm.

The mages stationed in the backline reacted swiftly. Earth magic surged forth, manifesting as shimmering shields that deflected the debris away from the lancers' path. Dust and smoke billowed into the air, obscuring the battlefield momentarily.

The orcs atop the hill faltered, their confidence shaken by the humans' seamless countermeasures. But they were not so easily discouraged.

Renher, overseeing the battle from the rear, watched as Thymur continued casting spells, his focus unwavering. He moved with precise efficiency, ensuring minimal casualties on their side.

The lancers pressed on, their formation tight as they neared the summit, ready to clash steel against flesh. The orcs, however, had already drawn their weapons, forming defensive lines. A savage roar rippled through their ranks, shaking the ground beneath them.

Then, a piercing shriek echoed through the valley. It was not from man nor orc—but something else entirely.

For a fleeting moment, the battlefield fell silent. Even the mages halted their spellcasting. The orcs atop the hill, moments ago fearful, now stood taller, their morale bolstered by the eerie wail.

The lancers hesitated, their charge slowing as an oppressive pressure radiated from the valley below. A suffocating aura of raw, untamed power.

Renher's gaze snapped toward Thymur. They exchanged a single glance—an understanding passing between them in an instant.

The orc leader had arrived.

Alison, charging at the forefront of the lancers, came to an abrupt halt, glancing over his shoulder at Renher. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged, yet they understood what needed to be done.

With renewed resolve, the lancers crashed into the orcish ranks. Spears pierced through thick flesh, the sheer force of the charge throwing orcs off their feet. But the orcs retaliated, axes and cleavers swinging wildly, severing limbs and crushing bones. The battlefield became a chaotic storm of clashing steel and bloodied earth.

The archers at the rear continued providing cover. Any orc attempting to overwhelm a lancer found themselves impaled by a volley of arrows. Their leader, a marksman of unparalleled skill, loosed each shot with deadly precision—his arrows piercing through steel as though it were paper. Even the orcs tread cautiously when within his range.

Renher reached the foot of the hill just as he saw it—a towering orc, muscles bulging, fangs protruding from his mouth, his mere presence exuding an overwhelming aura. This was the source of the oppressive pressure.

A moment passed in silence. Their gazes locked, both warriors assessing each other's strength. The world around them seemed to blur, time stretching as they sized each other up.

Meanwhile, the lancers continued their struggle at the summit. The orc forces resisted fiercely, their formation holding against the relentless assault.

Thymur began gathering mana for a large-scale incantation, aiming to eradicate the orcs in one decisive strike. But just as he prepared to unleash his magic, he felt a disturbance.

A counterforce disrupted the mana flow, making it increasingly difficult to cast his spell. Frowning, he abandoned his incantation and closed his eyes, stretching his senses outward.

There. A flicker of unnatural light.

Opening his eyes, Thymur spotted a small figure atop the hill—an orc shaman, his gnarled staff raised high, weaving an anti-magic field over the battlefield. A smirk played at the corners of the shaman's lips.

Thymur, stationed at the back, turned his focus to the orc shaman. Unlike the brute warriors, this one wielded magic—primal, untamed, and ancient. The very air trembled as the two spellcasters clashed.

Renher, meanwhile, moved toward the orc leader, each step deliberate. Alison, still engaged in the fight, also made his way toward the growing threat.

The battlefield trembled under the relentless exchange of blows. Blades carved through flesh, spells illuminated the field in flashes of elemental fury, and bodies fell in droves. The clash between human and orc raged on, the tide of battle ever-shifting.

Yet, amidst the chaos, three battles stood out—each one pivotal to the war's outcome.

Renher versus the Orc Leader.

Thymur versus the Orc Shaman.

Alison versus the two Orc Warlords.

And as the battle raged, the sky darkened—not from storm clouds, but from something far more ominous.

The war for the valley had only just begun.

The battlefield was chaos incarnate—shouts of men, guttural roars of orcs, and the relentless clang of steel against steel filled the air. Yet, amidst the mayhem, Alison found himself face to face with two monstrous figures.

Two orc warlords.

Both stood taller than any human warrior, their bodies layered with thick muscle and armor fashioned from the bones of their fallen enemies. Their eyes glowed with a primal rage, the thirst for battle evident in their every movement.

One carried a colossal greataxe, its jagged edges stained with old blood, while the other wielded dual cleavers, each one large enough to carve through plate armor with a single swing.

Alison exhaled, steadying his grip on his longsword. He had fought orcs before, slain warlords before—but never two at once.

The first warlord charged, bringing his greataxe down in a devastating arc. Alison barely managed to sidestep, feeling the wind of the swing graze past his cheek. The impact shattered the ground where he had stood, sending dirt and rock flying.

No time to breathe—the second warlord was already upon him. The twin cleavers lashed out, forcing Alison into a rapid retreat. He deflected one blow, but the second nicked his shoulder, drawing blood.

Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth. Hesitation meant death.

He darted forward, slipping past the cleaver-wielding warlord's guard and delivering a quick slash across his side. The orc grunted but did not fall. Instead, he roared and retaliated with a savage kick, sending Alison skidding across the bloodstained ground.

The two warlords loomed over him, relentless in their assault. The greataxe came crashing down once more. Alison rolled aside, but the moment he rose to his feet, a cleaver whistled toward his head.

No time to dodge.

With a desperate move, Alison raised his longsword and blocked the attack. The force sent tremors through his arms, but he held firm. He twisted, using the warlord's own momentum against him, and delivered a vicious counter strike to the orc's exposed ribs. This time, his blade bit deep.

A roar of pain. A moment of weakness.

Alison seized it, pivoting and driving his sword through the warlord's chest. The orc choked on his own breath, eyes wide with disbelief before collapsing.

One down.

The remaining warlord wasted no time mourning his fallen kin. He swung his greataxe in a wild fury, each strike meant to kill. Alison dodged left, then right, feeling exhaustion creeping into his limbs.

His breath was ragged. His body ached.

But he had to end this.

As the warlord raised his axe for another devastating blow, Alison lunged forward, closing the distance before the attack could land. His blade flashed, slicing through tendons and muscles. The orc howled, his grip on the axe weakening. Alison drove his sword through his throat, silencing him for good.

A beat passed. Then another.

The battle still raged around him, but for now, he stood victorious.

Just barely.

Every battle that was taking place across the field could be very well the axe that could change the tide of the battle

Alison had barely managed to come out of the battle alive, he was cursing himself for the injury, not something he would have acquired had he been more careful.

He was circulating his mana to force close his injuries when he heard a loud bang coming not from far away he saw Thymur going face to face with the orc shaman .

The battle was underway. Suddenly his eyes caught two figures standing still in the battlefield both just a few steps away from each other but standing perfectly still seemed like 2 perfect apex predators .

Both the Orc shaman and Renher had been judging each other's strength or we can say that waiting for an opportunity to arise for one of them to make a mistake.

In the battle of apex predators first strike did not matter but the one who makes first mistakes is the one who loses.

Could there be any other motive for stalling time that was not something Renher could afford to think about at that moment , the moment focus is lost the battle would follow suit.

Alison tried to force close his wounds so that he could provide assistance in the battle that was going on and even try to provide some assistance to Renher or Thymur .

The battlefield stood still for a fleeting moment, the tension crackling like a storm about to break. Then, as if answering an unspoken command, the heavens split apart with a deafening roar.