Chapter 670: Giant Mountain
"Boom!"
Another explosion rang out. Smoke filled the air, flames burst forth, shrapnel flew, and a mist of blood rose skyward.
A dozen orcs were blown to bits, limbs scattered everywhere, and even scorched heads rolled across the ground, spinning several times before stopping.
But the other orcs didn't react. They couldn't even be bothered to look—they eagerly went to pick up the hot shrapnel. After all, this had gone on for days.
It was the third day of the orc assault on Avenderdan.
The Ember Empire's artillery never stopped, and Wyverns soared overhead, dropping bomb after bomb with piercing shrieks.
During this time, the orcs had launched hundreds of large-scale assaults. At one point, they nearly reached the Empire's trenches, only to be repelled by brutal shelling. Tens of thousands of orcs died daily in this smoke-choked "meat grinder."
In just three days, the land had been bombed down three feet, hills flattened, and the ground was strewn with charred orc corpses.
But Mok's unique methods weren't useless—those who survived had grown even stronger.
"Waaaagh!"
Giant Mountain let out a furious battle cry, charging toward the Ember Empire's line through a hailstorm of shells.
In his hand was a massive warhammer made of fused shrapnel and detonators, flames spurting from its hilt.
Along the way, he picked up all sorts of junk from the battlefield and gradually armed himself with a crude, rough set of armor.
"Brothers, charge with me! Their attacks only make us stronger!"
Giant Mountain raised his hammer high, stood atop a pile of corpses, pulled down the shrapnel-forged faceplate, and roared.
"Waaagh!"
"Giant Mountain! Brutal Giant Mountain!"
With the orcs cheering him on, the force field around Giant Mountain grew stronger—almost tangible. It even tore falling shells into scrap.
To the Empire, orc tech was primitive and bizarre—tools of stone and beast bone, like savage tribes.
Yet these crude weapons defied logic in the eyes of Imperial researchers.
Studies showed that in war and death, orcs generated a powerful idealistic force. Their belief could twist reality—much like warlocks.
If an orc believed something could be used for battle, then it worked in battle.
Even a scrap of junk could become a deadly weapon, and when warped by this power, their creations became brutish, wild instruments of destruction.
In a sense, every greenskin orc was a potential "Warlock of War," able to bend reality with willpower alone.
They had their own "unique" tech—usually cobbled-together machines made from wartime trash.
"That's the orc?"
"Yes. General Drol's orders: kill it at all costs. Waste all the ammo you want."
"Understood."
The ogre artillery commander, Bighead, set down the radio, spat, and cursed. "Damn green roaches, never-ending."
He grabbed his binoculars, scanned the hill, and roared, "See that big green one in shrapnel armor? Blast it to hell! Send it to Gruumsh!"
"Yes, Commander!"
The Imperial gunners quickly calculated angles and parameters, locking onto Giant Mountain's position for a pinpoint strike.
"Fire!"
"Boom—"
With the command, dozens of cannons fired in unison, shells tearing through the sky.
The projectiles rained down like guided missiles, all converging on the orcs.
Huff... huff...
Giant Mountain raised his head, tightened his grip on the warhammer, his breath growing faster, his expression more crazed.
The orc licked his exposed fangs and suddenly laughed, "All aimed at me, huh? You really want me dead!"
"Hahahaha! Bring it on!
Let's see if those exploding shells are all you've got! If you really manage to kill me, then good for you!"
Facing the barrage, Giant Mountain showed no fear. He raised his hammer, leapt into the air, flames jetting from beneath his armor.
"Waaaagh!"
"Boom!"
"Boom! Boom!"
Explosions echoed across the sky. Disturbed by the force field, many shells detonated prematurely or became duds.
Giant Mountain hurled his hammer, made from bomb remains, its crooked seams emitting a dazzling, chaotic flash that propelled it forward.
Bang!
The hammer flew through the air, smashed several shells, then boomeranged back into Giant Mountain's hand.
Then, from a broken shoulder-mounted device, jagged iron balls shot into the sky, exploding midair and disabling more shells.
Facing the last few shells, Giant Mountain roared again, swinging his warhammer downward.
"Boom!"
Another massive fireball lit the sky. The orc, clad in crude armor, crashed back to earth, charred but nearly unharmed.
"Giant Mountain! Giant Mountain! Brutal Giant Mountain, feared by the Ember Empire!"
"WAAAAGH!!!"
The orcs chanted his name, frenzied and ecstatic. In their roar, Giant Mountain's force field surged with new strength.
Mok's spore threads connected them, creating a belief-powered energy that warped reality.
Even the Empire's observers were stunned by the sight.
They stared at the magical projections, muttering, "Impossible. That's just scrap! How the hell is it working?!
By Cassius... damn it, that's just dismantled shell junk!"
Researchers were furious, pulling at their thinning hair, cursing the crudely armored orcs on-screen.
"WAAAGH!!!"
"Take everything they have!"
Spurred on by Giant Mountain, the orcs went berserk. They picked up scraps and charged the Imperial line.
Now they had makeshift armor for defense, and their force fields disrupted shell trajectories.
Many still died gruesome deaths, blown to bits—but others filled the gaps, roaring as they surged toward the fortress.
Under heavy fire, the orcs got within hundreds of meters of the Ember Empire's front line.
There, Imperial engineers had long prepared defenses: trenches snaked like serpents across the land for miles.
Hundreds of bunkers formed interlocking fields of fire. Each was armed with light and heavy machine guns and a dozen soldiers.
The moment the orcs entered the zone, General Drol's furious voice echoed through the trenches: "Open fire! Don't let them near the Wyvern Capital!"
Thousands of machine guns opened up at once, creating a hellish spectacle.
"For the Empire!"
"For His Majesty Cassius!"
"Praise great Cassius! The Wyvern Capital stands with us! No green pest shall breach our line!"
Inside the bunkers, Imperial soldiers shouted with fanatical zeal. With dragonblood in their veins, they matched the orcs' ferocity.
"Ratatatatata—"
Heavy machine gun rounds rained down like a storm.
Frontline orcs took the brunt—blood erupted from their chests, bellies, and heads as they dropped one by one.
The Empire had no interest in mercy. Every bullet was designed for maximum carnage—even tough orcs couldn't withstand it.
"Imperials! I'll smash you into meat paste!" Giant Mountain lifted a massive steel shield cobbled from shrapnel and charged like an armored vehicle.
"Giant Mountain! Brutal Giant Mountain!"
"Follow him! Ignore the little iron sticks! Smash the soldiers in their holes—we'll win!"
Thousands of orcs charged with Giant Mountain, screaming war cries.
"Die!"
"Green scum! Eat our bullets!"
Thousands of machine guns cut down the greenskins like a scythe to wheat. Even armored orcs couldn't stop the bullets.
"Follow me!
What the hell—where is everyone?!"
Giant Mountain charged on, only to realize no one followed. He turned to see his troops shredded.
They lay dying on the ground, riddled with holes.
Meanwhile, the Empire's artillery never stopped. Orcs were butchered from both sky and ground.
"Kill him!"
"That's their leader! Take him out!"
Inside the bunkers, soldiers identified Giant Mountain as the commander and focused fire on him.
Bang!
In seconds, Giant Mountain's shield was shredded. Bullets tore through and slammed into his body.
"Aaargh!"
He howled in pain.
The moment the bullets pierced and exploded inside him, it felt like his whole shoulder had been gouged out.
But the spores had altered his body. It was now extremely durable and regenerative. Filaments from the air stitched him back together.
"You dare wound me?! I'm Giant Mountain!"
Pain faded. Rage overtook him. His eyes turned crimson—he was a beast of war.
"Waaaaagh!!"
He flung the shield aside, bellowed, and charged the bunker like a living tank.
"I'll kill you all!"
Bullets riddled him, spraying blood and leaving holes. His body looked like a sieve.
But the spores kept healing him. They became part of him, repairing his wounds in real time.
And under the influence of the force field, many bullets veered off course.
"Follow Brutal Giant Mountain!"
"He's the boss! Follow him—we'll slaughter the Imperials!"
The orcs rallied to him again, surging toward the bunker like a flood.
The sector's commander was George. Now a Dragonblood Count and Imperial Colonel, he commanded over 3,000 soldiers—a high-ranking officer.
Watching the crazed orcs charge, George remained calm. He raised his radio and said, "That special orc is attacking Sector Five. My men are holding.
But its strange force field disrupts our weapons. We need artillery and Wyvern support."
Once he got confirmation, George put down the radio, pulled out his pistol, wiped it down, then unsheathed his officer's longsword.
He looked again at the rampaging orc horde—especially the massive leader. A glint of anticipation shone in his golden eyes.
He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of smoke—not as acrid, but comforting and familiar.
"This is the scent of war," George whispered.
War was always like this—danger and opportunity hand in hand. And in George's eyes, this war watched by the Emperor was a golden chance.
With that, he stepped out of the bunker and marched to the front line.