Chapter 25: The Silent Slaughter

Chapter 25: The Silent Slaughter

Gasps echoed across the battlefield. Allies and enemies alike froze, eyes darting in bewilderment. The orc poised to cleave him in two let out a guttural snarl, scanning the space where his prey had been.

But the Orc King—monstrous, towering, his body a canvas of scars—saw what the others had not.

A flicker. A ripple in space. A presence that did not belong.

And then—

A figure emerged.

A shadow standing in the settling dust, his back to the battlefield, unmoving. The air around him crackled, thick with something primal and untamed.

The dust thinned, revealing him fully. He knelt, slow and deliberate, lowering Leon to the ground with a gentleness that stood in sharp contrast to the storm raging in his gaze.

Then he vanished.

Before the breath of a second passed, he reappeared—no, blurred back into existence. And he was no longer alone.

Leon, who had been the only one lying wounded, now found Mira, Arthur, and Elara beside him. Their forms had materialized from nothing, as if plucked from the battlefield by unseen hands.

Then, before a single soul could react—

Light.

A shimmering glow expanded outward, tracing intricate symbols into the air. The patterns spiraled, weaving into a dome of liquid gold, shifting between translucence and opaqueness. A low hum resonated, soft yet undeniable, like the whisper of the cosmos itself.

Tiny motes of radiance descended within the dome, falling like gentle snowfall. Each speck that touched the wounded sank into their skin, dissolving into warmth that spread through their battered bodies.

Breaths steadied. Torn flesh mended as if time had unraveled and rewoven itself. Fractured bones realigned, bruises faded into unblemished skin, and the agony that had gripped them melted into an unfamiliar, soothing embrace.

Then, one by one, their eyelids grew heavy. A deep, irresistible drowsiness settled over them, cradling them into unconsciousness as the golden cocoon pulsed softly, a silent guardian watching over their slumber.

And then—

He rose.

The man turned, his gaze falling upon the orc horde with quiet, undisguised contempt.

His presence was suffocating. The very air thickened, charged with an unseen force that pressed upon the battlefield like an ocean held at bay.

Tall. Imposing. A storm bound in human form.

Jet-black hair, sharp and precise, swayed slightly in the wind. Crimson eyes burned—not with fury, but with something deeper, something colder. His expression was unnervingly calm, the stillness of a predator certain of its prey.

His stance was effortless, yet poised for devastation. A subtle forward lean, one foot slightly behind the other—coiled energy restrained by sheer will. His fingers flexed, idly, as if destruction was their only true purpose.

His black coat, embroidered with golden runes, shimmered with an ethereal glow, the symbols shifting like living embers.

And from him, a force unlike any before spilled into the world.

Not just power.

Not just presence.

But absolute dominance.

The Orc King—battle-hardened, forged in the fires of countless wars—hesitated. For just a fraction of a second.

And in that fleeting pause, the battlefield belonged to him.

"You're in my way."

His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the battlefield like a chilling wind. Deep. Absolute. A voice that spoke not to men, but to the very concept of death itself.

The orcs tensed, their bloodlust reigniting. Their beast-like grunts turned into snarls, fangs bared in rage.

One of them—a towering brute covered in jagged scars—let out a guttural roar, veins bulging from his thick neck. His muscles coiled like steel cables as he lunged forward, the air trembling under the sheer force of his movement.

His cleaver, a rusted slab of iron large enough to split a warhorse in two, swung down with all the force of an avalanche. The edges were chipped and stained dark with old blood, a weapon that had tasted the death of many before.

The man didn't move.

Not at first.

He exhaled, slow and measured, as if the world around him was moving too fast for his liking. His posture remained eerily relaxed, his stance unshaken by the impending death racing toward him.

Then— a blur.

Not of speed. Not of power. But something else entirely.

Something unnatural.

For a brief moment, it was as if he wasn't even there. The cleaver passed through the space where he should have been, slicing through nothing but air.

The orc's eyes widened in confusion, his beastly mind struggling to comprehend what had happened.

Then— pain.

Agonizing, absolute pain.

He tried to scream, but his voice never reached his throat.

Slash!

His body exploded into four clean pieces, each severed so perfectly that it took a second for his own brain to register the damage.

A spray of thick, steaming blood erupted into the sky like a grotesque fountain, showering the battlefield in crimson rain. The scent of iron filled the air, mixing with the acrid stench of burning torches and sweat-soaked fur.

A deep, unsettling silence settled over the remaining orcs.

Their snarls had died. Their roars turned into whispers of confusion, then horror.

The man straightened, rolling his shoulders as if brushing off a minor inconvenience. His long coat, dark and tattered at the edges, barely had a drop of blood on it, despite standing in the middle of the carnage.

Then— a shift.

His fingers twitched, as if grasping at something unseen.

A blade flickered into existence.

Not a sword. A dagger.

But it was nothing like the crude weapons of this world.

The blade was long—almost too long to be a dagger, but too short to be a sword. Its surface was a fusion of emerald green and abyssal black, veins of deep crimson pulsing along its edges like molten fire. It wasn't forged from steel, nor from any material known to mortals. The metal seemed alive, shifting and twisting subtly under the dim battlefield light, as if breathing.

Faint, black lightning crackled along its edges. Not the raw, violent bursts of uncontrolled power, but something refined. Something restrained.

The orcs stepped back.

Not just from fear—but from instinct.

There was something wrong about that weapon. Something unnatural.

The man exhaled again, slower this time, his breath fogging slightly despite the warmth of the battlefield. His eyes—calm, sharp, and wholly indifferent—flicked over the remaining orcs.

He tilted his head.

"What a pain," he muttered.

Then he moved.

Not with a flash of speed. Not with overwhelming strength.

With precision.

The first orc lunged.

A heavy axe swung toward him, the force behind it enough to shatter boulders. The man tilted his head just enough to let the weapon graze past his cheek, the wind pressure alone cutting a thin line across his skin.

But before the orc could recover, the man was already inside his guard.

The dagger's edge whispered through flesh.

A single, clean slice.

For a moment, it looked like nothing had happened. The orc's furious eyes locked onto his, lips curling into a victorious snarl—

Then, his arm fell off.

A perfect sever, the wound so clean that there was no immediate pain. The orc blinked in confusion, staring at the stump where his limb used to be.

Then— he screamed.

The man turned.

The next orc tried to strike from behind, a jagged spear thrusting toward his spine.

Without even looking, he stepped aside, twisting his body just enough for the spear to pass harmlessly past his ribs. A flick of the wrist.

The dagger slid between bone and muscle, carving through the orc's throat like soft clay.

Slash!

Another corpse fell.

Slash!

Then another.

Slash!

And another.

The orcs charged—desperation overriding their fear. They came in waves, howling and swinging with reckless fury.

But to the man, it was slower than a dance.

He weaved through them with an unnatural elegance, his dagger flashing with surgical precision. Every movement was calculated—not a single wasted motion, not a single unnecessary attack.

One orc lost his leg at the knee, toppling over with a wail.

Another had his chest carved open, his ribs exposed.

A third was disarmed—literally—his weapon clattering to the ground beside his severed hand.

And yet—

The man never rushed.

Never overextended.

Every step, every strike, was deliberate. Efficient.

The orcs fought like cornered animals. He fought like an executioner.

Then—

Only silence.

The battlefield was red.

The remaining orcs, those who had once stood tall with confidence, were trembling. Their weapons felt heavy in their grips. Their breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.

They weren't just losing.

They were prey.

The man tilted his head slightly, exhaling one last time. His dagger, still pulsing with eerie light, dripped with fresh crimson.

He smiled.

Not a wide, arrogant grin.

Not the smirk of someone enjoying the fight.

Something worse.

The kind of smile that belonged to a man who didn't care if they lived or died. The kind of smile that meant none of them were leaving alive.

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(Chapter Ended)