The Wasteland Warlord did not wait to be found.

It came to meet Khao’khen.

The strike team had been moving through the southwestern corrupted territory for twelve hours when the ground beneath their feet began to vibrate. Not the tremors of approaching footsteps or the rumble of a corrupted host on the march. This was different. Rhythmic. Deliberate. The heartbeat of the earth itself being seized and manipulated by a will that treated geology as a weapon.

Dhug’mur felt it first. The Rock Bear chieftain’s connection to the earth was instinctive, bred into his people through generations of living in mountain terrain where the difference between stable ground and a landslide was knowledge that determined whether your clan survived the spring thaw.

“It’s reshaping the terrain ahead of us,” he said, his deep voice carrying the particular rumble that indicated a warrior whose instincts had shifted from alert to alarmed. “Walls. Barriers. The demon is building a fortress around its tear.”

Khao’khen halted the formation. “How far?”

“Half a league. The vibrations are strongest to the southwest.”

“It knows we killed the others.” Vir’khan’s voice was calm, the old Black Tree chieftain’s assessment delivered with the steady clarity of a warrior who had spent fifty years distinguishing between threats that required urgency and threats that required patience. “The corrupted creatures we killed on approach, the demon saw through their eyes. It knows what we are. It knows what we have done. And it is preparing.”

“Good,” Khao’khen said. “A prepared enemy has committed to a position. A committed enemy cannot maneuver.”

They pressed forward.

The Warlord’s fortress became visible as they crested a low rise that offered a line of sight across the final stretch of corrupted plain. It was not a fortress in the conventional sense, not walls and gates and towers, but a reshaping of the terrain itself into a defensive structure that used the earth as its building material. Ridges of stone had been forced upward from the ground, creating concentric rings of natural barriers that surrounded the tear’s location. The stone was dark, veined with the reddish luminescence that characterized everything the Warlord’s earth manipulation produced, and its surfaces were sharp, the edges angled to deflect projectiles and channel attackers into killing zones.

Between the stone rings, the Warlord’s corrupted host waited. Five hundred creatures, the largest single host that any of the three demons had assembled. Corrupted trolls, their bodies enhanced to the point where they resembled moving boulders. Corrupted ogres, two of them, standing at the fortress’s inner ring like living gate towers. Corrupted goblins, hundreds of them, their chitinous bodies scrabbling across the stone barriers with the agility of insects. And the corrupted orcs, nearly two hundred of them, arranged in formations that retained enough of their original martial training to be recognizable as warbands, their weapons held ready, their red eyes fixed on the approaches with the vigilance that the Warlord’s will imposed.

And at the center, beside the tear, the Wasteland Warlord itself.

Eight feet of corded muscle and stone armor. Molten red eyes that burned with the intelligence of a being whose tactical awareness operated at a level that exceeded mere instinct. The stone mace in its hand, a weapon grown from the earth rather than forged, its head pulsing with the same energy that had reshaped the terrain into the fortress that surrounded its master.

Khao’khen studied the fortress for three minutes. He counted the defenders. He assessed the stone barriers’ heights and angles. He identified the killing zones that the rings created between them, the channeled approaches that would force any attacking force into corridors where the corrupted defenders could concentrate their numbers.

Then he turned to Dhug’mur and Vir’khan.

“Dhug’mur, you take thirty warriors and hit the eastern barrier. Break through it. Make noise. Draw the corrupted orcs toward you. Vir’khan, you take the Verakhs and the fire sphere teams. Circle to the west. When Dhug’mur engages, you hit the ogres with everything you have. Burn them before they can reach the inner ring.”

“And you?” Dhug’mur asked.

“I go through the center. Alone.”

Dhug’mur’s expression shifted. “Chief…”

“The Warlord’s attention is the key. While it directs its host against your assaults, its focus splits. While its focus splits, its control weakens. While its control weakens, the corrupted creatures at the center will be slower, less coordinated. I go through that window. I find the demon. I end this.”

Vir’khan studied him with the sharp-eyed assessment of a warrior evaluating a plan for the flaw that would kill the planner. “You will be surrounded. The inner ring holds the densest concentration of corrupted creatures. Even with the Warlord’s attention divided, you will face dozens of enemies before you reach the demon itself.”

“Yes.”

“And the Warlord is a 6th Realm opponent. The strongest of the three.”

“Yes.”

Vir’khan nodded once. There was nothing to argue. The plan was sound in its structure and suicidal in its execution, which was a combination that the old chieftain had seen before and that he knew, from decades of experience, was sometimes the only kind of plan that worked against an enemy whose defenses had no conventional weakness.

“Then we make certain your window stays open,” he said.

* * * * *

Dhug’mur struck the eastern barrier with the subtlety of an avalanche.

Thirty Rock Bear warriors hit the stone ridge at a dead run, their greataxes biting into the dark stone with impacts that produced showers of reddish sparks and fragments. The stone was harder than natural rock, reinforced by the Warlord’s demonic energy, but it was not harder than dwarven steel driven by 4th Realm orcish strength. Cracks appeared. Widened. The barrier’s outer face began to crumble under the sustained assault of warriors whose tradition was built on the principle that anything could be broken if you hit it hard enough and long enough.

The corrupted orcs responded. Two hundred warriors, their red eyes burning with the Warlord’s will, pivoted toward the eastern breach. They moved in formation, shields up, weapons ready, their corrupted bodies enhanced by the demonic energy that pushed them beyond natural orcish limits. They hit the Rock Bears at the barrier’s breach with the coordinated impact of a force that retained enough martial instinct to fight as warriors rather than as mindless beasts.

The clash was devastating. Rock Bear axes met corrupted orcish shields. The impacts rang across the fortress like a forge’s hammers striking anvils, each blow producing sparks of reddish energy where corrupted steel met the Horde’s Yohan-forged iron. Corrupted orcs fell, their enhanced bodies absorbing terrible damage before yielding, each one requiring multiple strikes to bring down. Rock Bears fell too, the corrupted orcs’ enhanced strength driving blades through armor that the defenders had trusted, the cost of the engagement measured in orcish blood as much as demonic ichor.

Vir’khan’s assault hit the western flank thirty seconds after Dhug’mur’s engagement began.

The old chieftain moved through the corrupted goblins with the fluid, lethal efficiency of a predator whose age had not diminished its lethality but had refined it. His twin sickle-blades, attached to a staff that extended his reach beyond any standard weapon’s range, swept through the chitinous creatures in arcs that cleared three-pace radii with each rotation. The blades, treated with Bufas compound, ignited corrupted flesh on contact, each kill producing a brief flare of orange fire that lit the darkness of the western approach.

Behind him, the Verakhs and fire sphere teams targeted the corrupted ogres. Crossbow bolts, each one a point of potential fire, struck the massive creatures in coordinated volleys that concentrated on the joints and gaps in their corrupted armor. Fire spheres followed, the clay vessels shattering against ogre flesh and igniting in cascades of orange flame that consumed the corruption’s regenerative capacity and turned the creatures’ own enhanced strength against them as they thrashed and flailed.

The Warlord’s attention fractured.

Khao’khen felt it happen. The psychic pressure that had been pressing against his consciousness since they entered the demon’s territory shifted, the focused weight of the Warlord’s awareness splitting between the eastern and western assaults, its concentration diluted by the need to coordinate defensive responses to two simultaneous threats that demanded different tactical solutions.

The corrupted creatures at the fortress’s center slowed. Their movements became less coordinated, the precise patrol patterns that the Warlord’s undivided attention had produced degrading into the cruder, less efficient movements of creatures operating on residual instructions rather than real-time direction.

The window was open.

Khao’khen ran.

He hit the inner ring’s southern face at full sprint, his sword drawn, his body low, every ounce of his being focused on the single objective that the plan required: reach the demon. He struck a corrupted wolf mid-stride, his blade splitting its skull without breaking his pace. He vaulted a corrupted boar that had positioned itself across the approach corridor, his boots leaving the ground, the boar’s corrupted tusks passing beneath him as he cleared its bulk. He landed, rolled, came up running.

A corrupted troll loomed in his path. Ten feet of enhanced muscle and darkened flesh, its fist already descending toward the orc chieftain who had appeared in its sector without the warning that the Warlord’s normally attentive surveillance network would have provided.

Khao’khen did not dodge. He dropped to his knees, sliding beneath the descending fist on the momentum of his sprint, the troll’s corrupted knuckles passing so close above his head that they tore the crest from his helm. His sword came up as he passed beneath the troll’s guard, the blade driving upward into the soft tissue beneath the creature’s jaw, through the corrupted muscle of its throat, and into the brain pan above.

The troll collapsed. Khao’khen was already past it.

The Warlord saw him.

The demon’s molten eyes, which had been flickering between the eastern and western assaults, locked onto the orc chieftain sprinting toward it through the remains of its inner defense. For a moment, the psychic pressure that had been distributed across the battlefield concentrated, all of it, on Khao’khen. The weight of the Warlord’s full awareness crashed against his consciousness like a wave against a seawall, and for one terrible heartbeat he felt his legs falter, his vision dim, the demon’s will pressing against his own with a force that demanded submission with the authority of a being that had never been refused.

He did not submit.

The will that Khao’khen brought to the collision was not magical. It was not enhanced by shamanic wards or bolstered by battle energy. It was the will of a man who had built a civilization from nothing, who had watched warriors die for his decisions and had carried the weight of every death, who had stood at the edge of impossible situations so many times that the edge had become familiar ground. The demon’s will said kneel. Khao’khen’s will said no.

The moment broke. The pressure lifted, not because the Warlord withdrew but because Khao’khen pushed through it, his legs finding their stride again, his vision clearing, the demon’s face filling his sight with a clarity that was not sight alone but the focused perception of a warrior who had identified his target and would reach it or die.

The Warlord swung its mace.

The stone weapon descended in an arc that carried the combined force of 6th Realm physical strength and earth-manipulation magic, the air beneath the mace head compressing with a visible distortion that spoke to the energy being channeled through the blow. The ground where the mace would strike was already fracturing, cracks radiating outward from the impact point before the weapon had even arrived, the earth responding to the Warlord’s power as an extension of the blow itself.

Khao’khen threw himself sideways. The mace struck the earth where he had been standing, and the world detonated. Stone erupted upward in a geyser of fragments and dust. A shockwave rippled outward, knocking Khao’khen off his feet and sending him tumbling across broken ground. His sword stayed in his hand. His grip on the weapon was the grip of a man who understood that releasing it meant death.

He rolled to his feet. The Warlord was already closing, its mace rising for a second strike, its molten eyes burning with the particular intensity of a predator that had committed to the kill and would not be deterred by anything short of its target’s destruction.

Khao’khen charged into the mace’s arc.

Inside the weapon’s range, where the stone head could not build the momentum that made it devastating, the fight changed. Khao’khen’s sword found the gap between the Warlord’s stone plates at the waist, the blade driving into the demonic flesh beneath with a force that produced a spray of dark, luminescent ichor. The demon grunted, a sound like boulders grinding, and its free hand closed around Khao’khen’s shoulder, the stone-armored fingers pressing inward with a grip that cracked the orcish chieftain’s pauldron like an eggshell.

Khao’khen twisted the sword. The blade ground against something inside the demon that was not bone and not organ but something else, something that pulsed with the reddish energy that characterized the Warlord’s power. He pushed harder, driving the blade deeper, and the demon’s grip on his shoulder weakened as the damage to its internal structure began to affect its control over its own body.

A war cry erupted from the east. Dhug’mur, having broken through the corrupted orc formation, charged through the inner ring’s debris with his greataxe raised and the surviving Rock Bears at his back. The chieftain’s massive frame struck the Warlord from behind, his axe biting into the stone armor at the demon’s spine, the blade cracking through plates that had been weakened by the fire sphere that a Verakh had launched from the western approach.

Vir’khan arrived from the west, his sickle-blades finding the joints in the Warlord’s stone armor with the precision that five decades of combat had refined to an art form. Each strike opened a new wound. Each wound was an entry point for the Bufas compound that coated the blades.

The Warlord fought. It fought with the desperate, furious power of a being that understood it was dying and refused to die quietly. Its mace swept in arcs that cratered the ground and sent warriors flying. Its earth manipulation raised walls of stone that the attackers had to smash through to reach it. It roared, and the sound shook the fortress’s remaining barriers and split the air with a force that drew blood from the ears of every orc within twenty paces.

But it was surrounded. It was wounded. And the fire was burning inside it now, the Bufas compound eating through demonic flesh that the stone armor could no longer protect.

Khao’khen pulled his sword free, stepped back, and drove it forward with both hands into the wound he had already created. The blade sank to the hilt. The Warlord shuddered, its molten eyes widening, the reddish luminescence in its stone plates flickering like candles in a wind that was blowing them out one by one.

It fell.

The impact shook the ground. The stone fortress that the Warlord had built around its tear cracked and began to crumble, the demonic energy that had shaped the earth withdrawing as its source died. The corrupted creatures throughout the host stopped, their movements ceasing as the will that had directed them vanished. Some collapsed. Others stood frozen, the red fading from their eyes as the connection to their master dissolved.

Khao’khen pulled his sword from the Warlord’s dissolving body and stood amid the ruins of the demon’s fortress. His shoulder was broken. His armor was shattered. Blood ran from a dozen wounds that he had not registered during the fight.

But he was standing.

“Three demons dead,” he said, and his voice carried across the broken stone and the dissolving bodies and the corrupted earth that was already beginning to heal now that the power that had poisoned it was gone. “The Season answers to Yohan.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep