Dhug’mur, chieftain of the Rock Bear Tribe, raised his weapon, a deadly bloodied axe gleaming dully in the afternoon sun. His target: a pink-skinned human, who had gone toe to toe with him.

The axe whistled through the air, a deadly arc aimed at the human’s head. But before the blade could find its mark, an unseen force slammed into Dhug’mur, throwing him back with bone-jarring impact.

He flew through the air, a bowling ball scattering pins, his body colliding with several orcs, sending them tumbling. He landed heavily, the wind knocked from his lungs.

A cascade of coughs rattled his chest. Dust and blood swirled around him. Several orcish warriors groaned and struggled to their feet, nursing wounds sustained in the chieftain’s uncontrolled flight.

“You are still as careless as ever…” a voice, sharp and laced with reproof, cut through the sound of battle.

Deramis offered a dry, rattling laugh before slumping onto his back, unconscious.

“Get this fool to the rear and have the healers treat his wounds,” Major Gresham commanded, his gaze sweeping over the orcish warriors. His voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the chaos. “Infantry, fall back! Marksmen, regroup and restock your ammunition!”

The Threian infantry, a disciplined line of soldiers, retreated in an orderly fashion, their shields raised to deflect the onslaught of incoming orcish projectiles. The marksmen, similarly, repositioned themselves, reloading their boomsticks with methodical efficiency, their movements precise and coordinated.

Their retreat revealed a force of one thousand warriors, clad in distinct armor bearing the crest of the Snowe Family—a light blue crest on a white field. They advanced, a tide of iron and battle energy, their ranks unbroken.

“Drive the monsters out!” Gresham bellowed, his own battle energy erupting. A shimmering, light-blue aura enveloped him and his troops, amplifying their strength and speed.

The orcs responded with a bloodcurdling roar.

“Get the chieftain!” an orc of the Rock Bear tribe yelled. Several strong orcs, ignoring the ongoing battle, quickly moved to retrieve their wounded leader. They carefully lifted Dhug’mur, his body a canvas of gashes and bruises, and carried him away from the immediate fighting, his unconscious form swaying gently between them.

“Establish a line and prepare for a bloody fight!” Vir’khan, the chieftain of the Black Tree Tribe, roared, his voice strained. He felt the palpable threat emanating from Gresham and the thousands of humans arrayed behind him. The raw power of their battle energy was tangible, a palpable pressure hanging in the air.

Gresham, a blur of light-blue energy, plunged into the orcish ranks. His sword, a gleaming, silver blade, moved with terrifying speed. Each swing was precise, each strike fatal.

The sound of metal meeting flesh, punctuated by the occasional bone-shattering crunch, filled the air. The thousand warriors behind him followed, unleashing a storm of blows, their movements mirroring Gresham’s deadly efficiency. Their combined battle energy created a devastating force that pushed back the orcs, creating a deadly whirlwind of steel and blood.

Orcs fell in heaps, their bodies mutilated, their roars turning into gurgles and gasps. The ground became slick with blood, the thick smell of iron filling the air. The orcs fought back with savage ferocity, but the Threian warriors, imbued with their amplified battle energy, were relentless.

Projectiles rained down, finding their marks with deadly accuracy. Swords clashed, axes swung, and the cries of both men and orcs filled the air in a cacophony of death.

The battle raged. The air grew thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The ground, once relatively clear, now resembled a slaughter house. The clash of metal resonated off the surrounding lands.

The Threian army, bolstered by the overwhelming power of the Snowe Family’s battle energy, pressed forward, their advance inexorable. The orcs, though initially fierce in their resistance, began to falter under the unrelenting pressure.

Their lines broke, and their ranks thinned as more and more fell before the human onslaught. The battle was far from over, but the tide had definitively turned. The screams of the dying, both orc and man, were a gruesome soundtrack to the carnage. The massacre continued under the relentless sun.

The wave of light-blue engulfed the orcish horde. Orcs, massive and brutal, met the onslaught. Axes, clubs, and crude swords crashed against the Threians’ energy-enhanced blades, but the pinkskins’ superior technique proved decisive. The orcs’ attempts at coordinated defense shattered under the relentless pressure.

Gresham, leading the vanguard, moved like a phantom. His battle energy blazed brighter than the others, a searing more visible light-blue against the softer ones belonging to the warriors under his lead.

Each swing of his sword resulted in a decapitation, a cleanly severed limb, or a bisected torso. Orcs fell before him in a steady stream, their roars cut short by the swift death dealt by Gresham’s blade.

Deep within the orcish ranks, however, pockets of resistance formed. A particularly large orc, its tusks stained crimson, cleaved through three Threian warriors with a single, brutal sweep of its axe.

The battle energy protecting the warriors proved insufficient against the sheer force of the blow. Two more Threian warriors fell, impaled on crude spears wielded by their companions. Their armor shattered and blood spurted, staining the ground.

Another scene played out nearby. Three orcs, displaying a modicum of tactical coordination, cornered a pinkskin warrior. Their crude weapons tore through his defenses.

Despite his desperate attempts to defend himself, he fell under the weight of their relentless attack, a gruesome testament to the brute strength of his opponents. The orcs stood over his corpse, grunting with satisfaction as they prepared to meet the next wave of attackers.

Gresham, witnessing the orcish counterattack, altered his approach. He moved to engage the larger orc who had earlier dispatched the three of his warriors. Their clash was a furious ballet of iron, raw brute strength and battle energy. Gresham’s battle energy augmented power, however, ultimately prevailed. His sword pierced the orc’s chest, finding purchase in its heart, ending its brutal reign of terror with a single, precise thrust.

The battle continued relentlessly. Hundreds of orcs fell under the relentless assault of the Threian warriors, their bodies piling up into a gruesome mountain of death.

Yet, some orcs managed to inflict considerable damage in return. A Threian warrior, caught out of formation, found himself surrounded by five orcs. Their weapons rained down upon him, ending his fight and turning his armor into a bloody mess.

Gresham continued his deadly advance, a whirlwind of motion and iron. He cut through the orcish lines with ease, his every move precise and deadly. Orcs, attempting to stand against him, were instantly dispatched, their bodies adding to the growing pile of corpses that littered the battlefield.

His battle energy blazed, reflecting the crimson of spilled blood. The carnage surrounding him was immense, yet his movements remained calm, devoid of any visible strain or hesitation.

The orcish formation, initially imposing, steadily disintegrated. Their attempts at coordinated attacks failed against the overwhelming power and discipline of their foes. Despite their losses, the orcs continued to fight with their characteristic ferocity, but their efforts were ultimately futile against the superior weaponry and battle energy techniques of their opponents.

The relentless pressure of the Threian onslaught forced their lines to retreat. The once-formidable orcish horde was reduced to a scattered, disorganized mass.

Trot’thar, his eyes piercing the chaos of the battlefield, relayed the grim news. The enemy leader, a figure shrouded in the swirling dust and smoke, had personally entered the fray, leading a fresh wave of a thousand heavily armed warriors.

The Rock Bear and Black Tree tribes, already strained, were visibly buckling under the renewed onslaught. Their lines fractured, punctuated by the screams of the dying and the clang of metal on metal.

Khao’khen, his expression unchanged, issued a single, curt command. The order, relayed swiftly through the orcish ranks, triggered a seismic shift in the battle’s momentum. Sakh’arran, leading the Yohan First Horde, the warriors belonging Ikarush, received the command.

A guttural roar erupted from the assembled warriors, a wave of sound that swept across the battlefield, a tide of muscle and rage. The members of Ikarush, adorned in meticulously crafted armor, advanced.

Their advance was a brutal symphony of violence. A massive wedge formation, spearheaded by the Rakshas, their ranks led by Arka’garr, was formed.

Behind them surged the Yurakks, abandoning their temporarily manned catapults due to the trolls’ aversion to the scent of burning Bufas Fruit. The previously abandoned siege weapons remained, silent but ominous testaments to the ongoing conflict.

Gresham and his forces, meanwhile, successfully stemmed the orcish breach in the Threian defensive line. The Threian lines, momentarily wavering under the pressure, were solidified once more, their ranks pushed back with fierce determination. The sight of the newly arrived orcs further strengthened their resolve.

The orcish warriors belonging to Ikarush, their war cries echoing across the blood-soaked earth, collided with the Threian elite troops. The initial Threian confidence quickly shattered.

These were not the same orcs that had previously faltered; their armor was superior, their coordination unmatched. The Threians, many of them augmented with battle energy, found themselves facing a force that matched their power with equal ferocity and greater numbers.

The initial impact sent a shockwave through the Threian ranks. Orcs and Threians clashed in a vortex of iron and blood, each blow a testament to the brutal efficiency of the fighting. The ground became a tapestry of spilled blood and broken weaponry.

The Rakshas, a bulwark of muscle and rage at the forefront, bore the brunt of the Threian assault. Their formation, a tightly-knit wedge, absorbed the shock, deflecting blows and slowly pushing forward.

Arka’garr, a figure of terrifying strength and resilience, carved a path of destruction through the enemy ranks. His twin axes cleaved through armor and flesh with each swing, leaving a trail of carnage in its wake.

The Yurakks, following closely behind the Rakshas, unleashed a torrent of blows, their sharp swords stabbing through armors and flesh. The rhythmic sound of their weapons against Threian armor was a relentless, brutal percussion.

The Threian battle-energy augmentations, designed to make them impervious to injury, proved less effective against the sheer brute force of the Ikarush’s warriors assault. The Threians, fighting with desperate courage, found their battle energy failing under the relentless onslaught. The combined might of the newly arrived orcs proved a force too powerful to be met on equal terms.

The tide of battle, once dangerously close to turning, now shifted again in favor of the orcs. The enemy leader, initially confident, found his elite forces increasingly hard-pressed. The fight was far from over.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep