Chapter 101: The Pride of the Saru
The bonfire continued to crackle, but the atmosphere of celebration had been snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The Orcs sat in a heavy, stifling silence, punctuated only by the occasional pop of burning wood. The massive wild boar remained suspended over the flames, its meat still glistening and fragrant, yet it no longer stirred the slightest hunger in anyone present.
Every eye was fixed on the center of the camp, where two figures stood.
One was Gugell, the First Warrior of the tribe. The other was the Shaman, the tribe's venerable sage.
"That... was a Tier 4 Skeleton Archmage," the Shaman began, his voice a parched rasp. His weathered face was a mask of grim realization. "A single entity of that caliber possesses enough Od to annihilate our entire tribe unaided. I could feel the Mana radiating from its frame... it was a bottomless abyss."
The Shaman's words caused the warriors to catch their breath.
Tier 4.
A rank of legend, spoken of only in hushed tones by travelers and elders.
"We must submit," the Shaman whispered, his tone heavy with the weight of responsibility. "It is the only path that ensures the continuation of the Saru bloodline."
A graveyard silence followed. Several of the elder Orcs nodded slowly. They had survived countless famines and wars; they understood that dignity was a luxury the dead could not afford. They knew that in the face of absolute power, pride was a currency that bought only a shallow grave.
Gugell remained silent. He looked down at his palms—rough, calloused skin forged by a lifetime of swinging a stone axe.
"No."
The word was quiet, yet it cut through the silence with the sharpness of a blade. Gugell lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across his kin.
"This is not the destiny of a Saru!"
His voice rose suddenly, vibrating with a primal, resonant strength.
"Our blood carries the legacy of unyielding honor! Since when did an Orc need to kneel before a pile of dry bones just to draw breath?!"
Gugell seized his stone axe from the dirt, hoisting it toward the heavens.
"Orcs shall never be slaves!"
The cry acted as a spark in a field of dry grass.
"NEVER BE SLAVES!"
"HONOR OVER DEATH!"
The younger warriors surged to their feet, grabbing their weapons and roaring until their throats bled. The embers of a defiant, unquenchable battle spirit ignited in their eyes once more.
The Shaman watched the fire-lit faces of the youth. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat, dissolving into a long, weary sigh. He knew Gugell's choice would lead them down a road with no return.
But he also knew that this was the essence of being an Orc.
The Next Day.
The sky remained a bruised, oppressive grey as twilight approached. By the frozen riverbank, Gugell stood tall, his silhouette a jagged line against the ice.
Behind him stood hundreds of the tribe's finest—every male and female capable of holding a weapon. They gripped their stone axes and crude spears in a taut, heavy silence. The elders and children stood far to the rear, their faces etched with a terror they couldn't hide.
Time crawled forward, measured in the heavy thud of Orcish heartbeats.
As the final rays of the setting sun touched the ice, the figure appeared. Exactly on time.
The Skeleton Archmage manifested out of the void on the opposite bank as if it had always been a fixture of the landscape. The Soul Fire in its sockets scanned the ranks of the Saru with chilling apathy.
"SUBMIT, OR PERISH."
The voice—hollow and absolute—echoed once more within their minds.
Gugell took a heavy step onto the riverbank, leveling his stone axe at the skeleton. "Then you have my answer."
"THE SARU SHALL NEVER BE SLAVES!"
Behind him, hundreds of voices merged into a singular, earth-shaking roar.
The Soul Fire in the Archmage's eyes flickered with a microscopic pulse of annoyance.
"A FOOLISH EXPENDITURE OF POTENTIAL."
The voice faded. The Archmage—Skele-Avarice—raised a pale, bony hand.
HUM—!
A complex, gargantuan magic array manifested in the sky, rotating with mechanical precision. A flood of ghostly blue light poured from the runes, illuminating the forest in a sickly, ethereal glow.
The next moment, the light intensified to a blinding glare.
Swarms of Skeleton Soldiers began to pour from the array, dropping onto the reinforced ice in a rhythmic, clattering waterfall of bone. Thousands upon thousands of units. Every single one was a Tier 2 combatant.
They formed perfect, silent phalanxes. No battle cries. No cheers. Only the terrifying sound of a legion entering a state of readiness.
Avarice watched the "insects" across the water, his Od pulsing with cold calculation. "Perfect. This batch of fresh recruits requires a breakthrough to evolve. You shall serve as their crucible."
The color drained from the Orcs' faces. They stared at the white sea of bone that stretched to the horizon. The hands gripping their stone weapons began to tremble in a way they couldn't control.
"These... these skeletons..." the Shaman stammered from behind Gugell, his voice thick with unshielded horror. "The weakest among them... possesses the strength of a ranked warrior."
Thousands of Tier 2 soldiers. Against a hundred Orcs, most of whom barely scraped into Tier 1. It was a war that had been decided before the first step was even taken.
Despair spread through the Saru like a contagion.
Gugell felt his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drum in his chest. But he could not retreat. He knew that if he faltered, the spirit of his tribe would shatter instantly. He stared at the skeletal ocean and slammed his foot into the ice.
"THE TRIBE DOES NOT YIELD!" Gugell bellowed with the full power of his lungs.
The roar snapped the warriors out of their stupor. Looking at Gugell's unbending back, their terror was overwritten by a manic, desperate battle-fever.
"FOR THE SARU!"
"CHARGE!"
Gugell was the first to lunge, his massive frame thundering onto the ice. He led a suicide charge straight into the heart of the undead sea.
"WAAAAAUGH!"
Hundreds followed him. They became a single torrent of muscle and stone, hurling themselves into the mouth of Death.
Skele-Avarice watched the charging Orcs, his Soul Fire showing no ripple of emotion. He simply lowered his hand.
"PULVERIZE THEM."
The command was given. The undead legion moved. With a single, synchronized step, they advanced to meet the Orcish tide.
There was no thunderous clash upon impact—only the cold, efficient sound of a machine meeting meat.
Gugell, at the vanguard, swung his stone axe in a wide arc, smashing three skeletons into fragments in a single blow. Faint trails of black Battle Aura flickered along his blade; every swing reaped a harvest of bone.
His warriors slammed into the phalanxes beside him. Spears pierced ribs; axes split skulls. Using their superior raw strength and explosive power, the Orcs managed to tear several jagged holes in the front line.
But the holes were filled instantly by the infinite reserve behind them.
The skeletons felt no pain. They knew no fear. Their claws raked through Orcish flesh; their blades sought the heat of living hearts.
A young warrior was tackled by three skeletons simultaneously. He used his teeth to shatter the neck of one, only to have two bone blades driven through his chest. He convulsed once and went still.
Blood began to paint the white ice a steaming crimson. One by one, the Saru fell. Their bravery was a magnificent, pathetic gesture in the face of absolute numbers.
Gugell fought on. His body was a map of gashes. The deepest wound ran from his shoulder to his hip, a jagged tear that nearly exposed his entrails. Yet he seemed oblivious to the agony, his axe never ceasing its frantic, lethal rhythm.
SQUELCH.
A spear-tip erupted through Gugell's chest from behind.
A surge of berserker rage erupted from within him. His muscles swelled, his skin turning a bruised purple as he forced his body beyond its limits. The wounds on his chest split further under the strain, blood spraying into the snow. His axe ignited with a fierce, dark light.
"FALL! ALL OF YOU—!"
Avarice did not give him the chance to finish.
A massive hand of bone erupted from beneath the ice, clamping around Gugell's ankle like a vice. His momentum was cut short instantly.
He looked down at the hand, then up at the stationary figure across the river.
Avarice raised his other hand.
A second, third, and fourth hand of bone tore through the ice. They seized Gugell's arms, his waist, and his throat. They anchored him to the spot, turning the First Warrior into a statue of meat and bone.
"Release me!" Gugell thrashed, his veins bulging, his muscles straining against the grip. But the hands were as unyielding as the earth itself. No matter how much force he exerted, he couldn't move an inch.
"THE PRICE OF DEFYING THE MASTER IS MEASURED IN CALCIUM."
The voice rang out. The hands gripping Gugell began to tighten.
CRACK.
The sound of snapping ribs and splintering bone filled the air.
Gugell's vision began to blur into a haze of red and grey. In the final seconds before his consciousness succumbed to the dark, the last thing he saw were his people—falling one by one beneath the cold, indifferent steel of the dead.
And there, across the river, the Skeleton Archmage watched it all with a Soul Fire that never once flickered.
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