Meanwhile, back in the chaos of the present, the tension in the air thickened as the Dark Elven Witch’s curiosity grew into something more sinister.

Her eyes, cold and calculating, roamed over the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs, now standing defiantly before her, their new strengths barely contained beneath their hardened new skins.

Volk could feel her magic stirring, the gathering of power in the space between them. And then—there, he saw it—a faint glow in her hands, forming ominous magic circles, pulsing with dark energy.

“Watch out!”

Volk roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield with desperation, but the warning came too late.

Without warning, the ground beneath them trembled violently, cracking open as thick, black roots erupted from the earth like serpents.

Kragam!

They shot upward with terrifying speed, twisting and writhing as they sought to ensnare the Orcs.

Kwishick! Kwischick!

The roots move with purpose to swallow them, reaching out like the claws of some vengeful beast, trying to drown them in a tide of nature’s wrath.

Volk moved swiftly, his massive axe cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh!

He swung it in a powerful arc, cleaving through the roots in one clean strike.

Thwack!

The severed roots writhed and shriveled away, but no sooner had they fallen than more erupted from the ground, thicker and more aggressive.

The other Dreadmaw Clan Orcs were quick to follow Volk’s lead.

Their weapons—swords, clubs, axes—flashed in the dim light, each swing met with the snap and crack of the invading roots.

Yet for every root they destroyed, twice as many would replace it, surging forth like an unrelenting tidal wave.

“Hold fast!” Grashk shouted as he smashed his warhammer into the earth, breaking the roots beneath his feet. “Don’t let them trap you!”

Despite the relentless assault, Volk noticed something in the witch’s expression—a flicker of surprise, as if she hadn’t anticipated the Orcs’ resilience.

Her dark lips twisted into a smirk, though there was a glint of confusion in her eyes.

‘These Orcs… they’re stronger than they should be,’ she mumbled.

The thought crossed her mind as she watched them fend off her magic with increasing ferocity.

Normally, her roots would overwhelm her enemies—like these hornless Orcs within moments, but here they were—Orcs—slashing and hacking their way through her most potent spells.

Volk’s muscles strained as he fought back the roots, his chest heaving with every swing.

His new skin, thick and pulsing with power, gave him strength he had never known before. He could feel it in his bones—the legacy of something ancient, something primal.

This was not just a fight for survival; this was a revelation.

“Why won’t you just stay down!” the witch hissed through gritted teeth, her voice laced with frustration.

She raised her hands again, and this time, the roots responded with even greater intensity, snaking their way toward the Orcs’ legs, trying to pull them to the ground.

“Gah!” one of the Dreadmaw Orcs, Thrak, grunted as a root coiled around his ankle, yanking him down with such force that he nearly lost his balance. But he quickly regained his footing, slashing the root away with his jagged blade.

“No matter how many roots you summon, we’ll cut them all down!”

Volk growled, his eyes blazing with fury as he slammed his axe into the ground, severing a particularly thick root that had shot toward him.

The Dark Elven Witch’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

This was not how things were supposed to go. These Orcs—they weren’t like the ones she had encountered before.

The ones she controlled were brute force and rage, yes, but these…

These were something different.

Could it be? The Dark Elven Witch flinched.

These Orcs had evolved—changed, somehow—and their strength had increased tenfold.

She narrowed her eyes, her expression darkening. “What kind of Orcs are you?” she muttered under her breath.

Then, louder, her voice rising with fury and intrigue, “What kind of Orcs are you?!” She took a step forward, with her magic flaring around her like a shroud of darkness.

The Orcs didn’t answer her.

They were too busy fighting for their lives, breaking free from the black roots that continued to spawn from the ground. But Volk, amidst the chaos, met her gaze with a look of pure defiance.

“What are you?” she repeated, but this time, her voice held a note of amusement, as if she had come to enjoy this unexpected turn of events.

She flexed her fingers, and the magic circle around her hands glowed brighter, crackling with dark energy.

Volk, sensing the danger, prepared himself for another wave of attacks, but before he could react, the Dark Elven Witch began to speak. Her voice rose, filled with venom and a twisted kind of glee.

“I am Urza’lin of the Dark Elven Witches!” she declared, her voice echoing off the walls of the catacomb.

“My mission was simple: capture all the Elves and Orcs hiding in these pathetic tunnels, and then drag your worthless hides outside to serve as my pawns in the war against the Red Elven Warlocks!”

Her voice grew louder, more intense with every word, filling the chamber with her presence.

“But what do I find instead? Something far more interesting—a new kind of Orc! Orcs with power I have never seen before! You were not part of the plan, but now that you’re here, I will capture all of you and make you my soldiers, whether you like it or not!”

Her words were punctuated by a surge of magic.

The roots swelled again, this time spiraling upward like a massive wave ready to crash down upon the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs.

The Orcs braced themselves for the next assault, their weapons at the ready, but something shifted in Urza’lin’s expression. Her eyes flicked downward, and she suddenly noticed something peculiar.

The Orcs she had been controlling—those marked by her tattoos—lay scattered on the ground, defeated but alive.

The Dreadmaw Clan had fought them, but they hadn’t killed them.

“Hmph.” Urza’lin tilted her head slightly, a curious smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You didn’t kill them,” she murmured to herself. “Why? Are you holding back? Or are you simply foolish?”

After a careful observation, she nodded, ‘They only made them unconscious so they won’t turn into Grum-gar form?’

Her eyes glittered with a dangerous idea. She raised a hand, her fingertips glowing with dark magic. “Should I activate their Grum-gar form and watch them tear you all apart instead?” she mused, her voice barely more than a whisper.

But then she shook her head, dismissing the thought. “No… no, not yet. I’ll save that for later, when I face the Warlocks. It will be much more entertaining then.”

Despite her amusement, she could feel a frustration.

She had no immediate way to capture these new Orcs—not while they were in such a heightened state of power. But then, her eyes lit up as another idea struck her.

Suddenly, she turned, her gaze locking onto a group of Orcs emerging from the shadows behind her.

These were the Dreadmaw Clan Orcs.

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These were tattooed, their bodies marked with dark runes, their skin gleaming with the same sickly glow as her magic.

Urza’lin smiled, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Ah… it seems I won’t need to rely on those roots after all.”

Volk and the others looked on in confusion as the tattooed Orcs moved into formation behind the Dark Elven Witch, their expressions blank, their bodies stiff with the rigid control of her magic.

They were eerily silent, save for the faint hum of dark energy radiating from their tattoos.

Urza’lin’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “I’ll use your own clan against you instead!”

And with that, the air around them seemed to grow even colder, as the tattooed Orcs prepared to strike.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep