Chapter - 5 The dance of a black knight

Jareth was gone. He had vanished into the chaos like a rat scurrying from a burning building. Coward. But Dorian had no time to dwell on it.

Explosions reverberated through the air, the ground trembling with each blast as the orc siege engines pounded against the town walls. The cries of the dying town guards filled the air, but their efforts were futile. Orcs, ruthless and relentless, were flooding through the broken defenses, their massive forms overwhelming the defenders.

By the time Dorian and Marek reached the gates, the battle had already begun.

Dorian knew war, but this was a slaughter. But not just slaughter, a complete domination.

The orcs moved like a tide of muscle and rage.

They stood nearly twice the size of a man, their massive frames covered in scars from past battles. Their skin was a deep, sickly green, stretched over their grotesquely muscular bodies. Every movement radiated power, their heavy feet cracking the stone streets as they advanced.

Their faces were ugly and savage, twisted in perpetual snarls. Jagged tusks jutted from their lower jaws, yellowed with age and stained with the blood of countless victims. Their small, predatory eyes gleamed with an unnatural hunger, filled with the sheer thrill of violence and conquest.

Their armor was crude but effective—stitched-together leather, scavenged metal plates, and thick iron bracers. Spikes jutted from their shoulder guards, trophies taken from fallen enemies—human skulls, broken swords, even bones strapped to their belts like prizes.

And their weapons—brutal instruments of war.

Massive cleavers, rusted but deadly. Spiked clubs, designed to crush bones with a single swing. Heavy axes, their chipped blades drenched in the blood of the fallen.

They did not fight like soldiers. They fought like beasts let loose from a cage.

Dorian and Marek skidded to a halt.

Their escape route—the town gate—was already overrun. There was no way out.

Marek cursed under his breath, gripping his dagger in one hand and a short sword in the other. His posture was tense, but his eyes were calculating, already scanning for weaknesses.

"Guess we're fighting," he muttered, a grim smirk tugging at his lips.

Dorian didn't answer. He simply raised his sword and braced himself.

The first orc charged.

Dorian sidestepped at the last second, narrowly avoiding the brutal swing of an orc's axe. He couldn't match their raw strength—no human could. But he could use it against them.

As the orc overcommitted to his swing, Dorian shifted his weight, using the brute's momentum to pull him off balance. A quick slash to the exposed neck—and the beast crumpled.

Another orc lunged. Dorian ducked low, rolling to the side as the massive war hammer slammed into the dirt where he had just stood. Shifting, countering, redirecting—this was how he survived.

But there were too many.

Even the mercenaries—those hardened warriors who had fought for coin their whole lives—were losing. Most of them were red-rank, seasoned but not elite. Against common foes, they thrived. But against this many orcs, they were just prey.

Marek fought like a shadow.

His dagger and short sword flashed in the firelight, striking quick, precise blows before slipping out of reach. But what truly set him apart was the magic.

Dorian saw it out of the corner of his eye—a subtle gesture, a murmured word under his breath.

A charging orc suddenly froze mid-step, body stiff as if unseen chains had wrapped around its limbs. Marek took advantage, slashing the orc's throat before the spell even faded.

Another orc swung at him—Marek vanished, only to reappear a few feet away.

Dorian's instinct screamed at him. Marek was not just a simple rouge, he was a experienced mage too.

Fatigue was creeping in.

Dorian's breath came in ragged gasps, his movements slowing. Even as he used the orcs' strength against them, it wasn't enough. A fight like this wasn't about skill—it was about endurance.

And he was running out of it.

He barely saw the axe coming.

Pain exploded through his right arm.

The force of the blow ripped the sword from his grip, sending it clattering to the ground. Blood gushed from the deep gash that ran from his shoulder down to his forearm. His dominant hand—his sword hand—was useless.

Dorian staggered, vision blurring.

The pain was unbearable. His body screamed at him to give in, to just fall, to let it be over.

But if he lost consciousness now, he was dead.

His life flashed before his eyes—the Blackfrost name, the battles, the cold northern winds. The people he had killed. The people he had lost.

He clenched his teeth. No. Not here. Not now.

Marek saw him fall, but he couldn't reach him. He was surrounded, fighting for his own life.

The orcs closed in, ready to finish them off.

Then—the ground shook.

A single figure stepped onto the battlefield.

The man was clad head to toe in blackened plate armor, the heavy steel reflecting the orange glow of the burning town. His helmet concealed his face, but his cold eyes burned through the visor, as sharp and unyielding as a predator's.

At his side hung a mercenary guild token—but not just any.

It was black.

A Black-Rank Mercenary.

The highest level. A warrior of legend.

The orcs hesitated. Even they recognized death when it walked toward them.

The man drew his weapon—a massive broadsword, as tall as a man, thick as an anvil. He wielded it with one hand.

Without a word, he charged into the fray, his broad sword cutting through orcs with terrifying precision. Each swing sent orcs flying, and the very air seemed to hum with the force of his strikes.

Dorian felt a surge of hope, barely managing to stay on his feet as the black rank mercenary carved a path through the battlefield. The orcs hesitated for a moment, sensing a greater threat. The black rank mercenary moved like a force of nature, unstoppable and unyielding. His eyes never wavered from his target, and with every swing of his sword, more orcs fell.

Dorian's vision blurred, his body sagging as the weight of exhaustion and pain caught up with him. Despite his best efforts to stay conscious, his mind began to fade into darkness. The sounds of the battlefield—the clash of steel, the roars of the orcs, the screams of the dying—became distant, like an echo in his mind.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, his right arm hanging limply at his side. The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was Marek's shadowed figure cutting through another orc, his movements swift and precise.

Marek, having freed himself from the orc's encirclement, noticed Dorian fall. His heart pounded with urgency. He had to reach him.

He moved like a wraith through the remaining orcs, slashing with his dagger and short sword in rapid, fluid strikes. It didn't take long before he reached Dorian, quickly hoisting him up and dragging him to safety.

Marek could barely afford to take a breath. The battle raged on, and the orcs were relentless. But with Dorian out of harm's way—for now—he returned to the fray, picking off orcs and using magic to disrupt their formations when necessary.

Meanwhile, the black rank mercenary continued his one-man war against the orc horde. His broadsword swung in massive arcs, cutting down any orc unlucky enough to step into its path. He was a blur of death—no orc could match his skill or strength, and with each swing of his weapon, the orc lines were thinning. But even he couldn't hold off the entire horde forever.

Then, the air shifted.

The ground trembled, and the orcs—who had been fighting without hesitation, without a leader—suddenly halted. There was a disturbance in the rhythm of the battle. The wind seemed to change, carrying a new presence with it. A massive orc, twice as large as the others, emerged from the ranks. His skin was darker, more menacing, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural red light. A cruel, jagged axe was slung over his back, and his chest was covered in bone trophies—likely from past battles.

The other orcs parted, almost as if in reverence, as the creature made its way toward the black rank mercenary. The entire battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

The black rank mercenary stopped in his tracks for the first time since the battle began. His sharp eyes narrowed under his helmet, and there was a moment of something—was it surprise? Maybe even a hint of caution. This was no ordinary orc.

The leader's red-glowing eyes met the black rank mercenary's cold gaze, and the battle raged around them as if time had frozen for a brief second. The orc bellowed, a feral sound that shook the very earth beneath their feet.

Without warning, the orc leader charged.

The ground seemed to quake with each of the beast's steps, and his sheer size and strength made him an intimidating opponent. The black rank mercenary didn't flinch, but for the first time, his sword didn't move as swiftly as it had before. The orc was a titan, and his strength could rival even the mercenary's own.

They collided with a deafening crash.

The black rank mercenary's broadsword met the orc's axe in a spectacular clash of steel, sparks flying in all directions. The mercenary's feet slid back, his muscles straining to hold his ground against the orc's immense power. He had expected a challenge, but this—or rather, he—was a whole new level.

The orc grinned, its tusks protruding from the side of its mouth, dripping with saliva. Its red eyes flickered with madness and hunger.

The black rank mercenary's eyes narrowed, but the first hint of wariness crossed his face. This wasn't an ordinary battle. The orc before him was a leader—perhaps a king of sorts—and this fight would be unlike anything he had faced before.

The battle between the black rank mercenary and the orc leader raged on, each clash of their weapons sending shockwaves through the air. The orc's strength and size were formidable, but the black rank mercenary was no stranger to such battles. His broadsword moved with precision, blocking the massive axe and delivering blows that would have felled any lesser creature.

But the orc leader was different. His wounds, deep and gaping, began to close before the mercenary's eyes. The grotesque, red-glowing eyes of the orc twitched with unnatural vitality. The cuts that should have been fatal healed quickly, and the orc's bloodlust only grew stronger. The leader's body was an embodiment of fury and relentless power.

The black rank mercenary gritted his teeth, his movements becoming more urgent. Minor cuts, the ones that would have been debilitating for a normal opponent, did little to slow the orc. This was a creature of battle—its strength unyielding, its ferocity unmatched.

The mercenary knew that he had to end it, and quickly. He couldn't let this go on much longer. His sword had already cleaved through numerous orcs, but this leader... this creature was something else.

Taking a deep breath, the mercenary took a step back, his body still as steel. A low hum emanated from his broadsword as it faintly glowed with a silver aura. His grip tightened, and he lowered himself into a combat stance, his focus sharpening to a razor's edge. The air around him seemed to warp, the pressure in the atmosphere thickening.

A powerful, almost unnoticeable aura flared around him—a force of energy so intense that it caused the very air to feel denser, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The ground beneath his feet cracked, as if even the earth itself acknowledged the potency of the black rank mercenary's power.

He surged forward.

The orc leader roared, ready to meet the strike with his axe, but he had underestimated the true depth of the mercenary's power. The broadsword swept through the air with blinding speed, its silver glow intensifying with each movement. Time seemed to slow as the mercenary's sword met the orc's chest.

In one clean, fluid motion, the black rank mercenary cleaved the orc leader in two. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through the orc's body. The orc's red eyes widened in disbelief as its massive form was bisected, the immense body falling in two halves to the ground with a thunderous crash.

For a moment, there was silence. The air, thick with tension, seemed to hold its breath. The orcs around them paused, their gazes fixed on the fallen leader.

Then, as if on command, the remaining orcs began to retreat, their morale shattered in an instant. The sight of their leader's death had struck fear into their hearts, and without him, their will to fight crumbled. They scattered in disarray, disappearing into the distance like a tide pulling back.

The black rank mercenary stood, chest heaving from the exertion of his final strike. His sword, still glowing faintly with silver, was held firmly in his grip. The battle was over.

Dorian, still unconscious and resting behind cover, was oblivious to the mercenary's heroic action. Marek, too, had barely taken a moment to breathe, the chaos of the battle still fresh in his mind.

But now, the battlefield was eerily still. The town, still burning and in ruin, had been saved—at least for the moment.

The black rank mercenary surveyed the aftermath, his cold eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of lingering danger. His task was done. With a final, swift movement, he sheathed his sword.

The orc leader's death had turned the tide, and the battle was won.

*****

The battle was over, but there was no victory to celebrate. The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the once-proud town now a smoldering ruin. The surviving soldiers, mercenaries, and guards moved among the dead, struggling to gather any remaining strength to tend to the wounded. There was no time for triumph, only survival.

Dorian lay unconscious, his breath shallow and weak. Marek, bloodied but unscathed, knelt beside him, applying pressure to the gash in his right arm with what little medical supplies he had. Marek knew magic, but healing was beyond his expertise. He could stop the bleeding, but the rest was up to Dorian's strength and the crude bandages he managed to wrap around the wound. Marek's hands shook slightly, his eyes darting over to the battlefield as he worked. He knew they weren't out of danger yet.

Meanwhile, the black rank mercenary, the hero who had turned the tide of battle with his strength, stood apart from the others. His helmet was off now, his face a mask of cold determination. He dropped to one knee, resting his massive broadsword on the ground beside him, exhausted but unmoved by the carnage around him. He surveyed the aftermath, his expression unreadable.

The distant sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, growing louder by the second. Not the heavy tread of orc warriors, but something... human. An army.

The black rank mercenary stood slowly, the weight of his broadsword shifting in his hand. He turned, expecting reinforcements or perhaps another group of mercenaries to arrive. Instead, what emerged from the smoke and haze were organized ranks of human soldiers—knights in shining armor, archers, and horsemen, their banners fluttering in the wind. They had arrived too late to make a difference, but they were here now, striding into the ruined town as though they had won the battle themselves.

The leader of this new army, a knight clad in polished plate armor, approached with a commanding presence. His face was flushed with frustration, his eyes narrowing when they landed on the black rank mercenary.

"You!" The knight's voice was harsh, his tone accusatory. "You were hired for this campaign! You were supposed to fight alongside the army, but instead, you act alone, rushing ahead without orders! Look at this mess! You've done nothing but make it worse!"

The black rank mercenary stood motionless for a moment, his gaze cold and unyielding. His hands clenched around the handle of his sword, but he remained silent. He wasn't a man who liked to be told how to do his job, especially when the knight in front of him clearly had no understanding of what had transpired. If not for the black rank mercenary's intervention, the town would be lost. There would be no survivors.

The knight, however, was relentless, stepping forward, his chest puffed out as he berated the black rank mercenary. "You think you're above orders? You think you can just act on your own and save everyone? Look at these men!" He gestured to the battered soldiers around them. "You've caused more harm than good! You're a rogue mercenary, nothing more!"

That was the final straw.

The black rank mercenary's patience, already worn thin from the battle, snapped. Without a word, he moved with terrifying speed, his hand rising in a single, swift motion. His palm met the knight's face with a sickening crack, the slap echoing across the battlefield. The knight, so used to barking orders and commanding with authority, was sent flying by the force of the strike, his body soaring several feet before crashing into the dirt.

A stunned silence followed.

The knight lay unconscious, a broken and bloodied heap in the dust, while the soldiers around them stared in wide-eyed disbelief. The black rank mercenary, his expression cold as ice, turned away from the fallen knight without a second glance.

"Shut the fuck up," he muttered under his breath, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority.

Without another word, he strode past the knights and soldiers, his massive broadsword slung over his shoulder. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful, but there was no sign of regret. The soldiers could only watch in stunned silence, unable to react. No one dared to stop him.

The black rank mercenary walked through the ranks of the army, his head held high as if the world itself bent beneath his will. His steps rang out in the stillness of the aftermath, and no one dared to challenge him. The knight would recover eventually, but for now, he lay in the dirt, unconscious and humiliated.

The black rank mercenary did not care. He had done his job.

And he would answer to no one.