Volk’s sinister grin quickly disappeared, replaced by a scowl of irritation.

Without warning, he kicked the Orc he had whispered to—a sharp, forceful blow that made the Orc stumble forward.

The other Orcs exchanged confused glances but said nothing, knowing better than to question their Warchief’s actions.

The kicked Orc turned to face Volk, his face a mixture of confusion and betrayal. Volk’s crimson eyes narrowed, and his voice was cold and biting. “No hesitation. Go.”

Reluctantly, the Orc trudged forward, crossing the battlefield under the watchful eyes of both armies. Experience more on empire

The humans noticed the lone figure moving toward them, and murmurs rippled through their ranks.

“What’s this?” Sir Reginald sneered, leaning forward in his saddle. “A deserter? Or perhaps a pathetic attempt at negotiation?”

As the Orc drew closer, Gerhardt, the old magician, narrowed his eyes. His gnarled hand tightened on his staff, the faint shimmer of a protective spell forming around him. “Stay sharp,” he barked at the knights nearest him. “This might be a trap.”

But before the humans could react further, the Orc let out an ear-splitting roar and broke into a full sprint. His powerful legs churned the earth as he lunged straight for Gerhardt.

The old magician’s eyes widened in shock. “What—?!”

CRACK! The Orc’s massive axe cleaved downward, smashing into the magical barrier Gerhardt had hastily conjured.

The force of the blow sent ripples of energy radiating outward, and the ground beneath the magician cracked.

The human soldiers froze in stunned disbelief as their supposed emissary attacker tried again, roaring with unrelenting fury.

Volk, standing atop the hill, let out a guttural growl. “Stupid,” he muttered. “Not what I wanted… but fine.” He raised his hand high into the air. “OGRES! ATTACK!”

The battlefield shook as the Ogres charged forward, their chains clanking ominously.

Each step they took was like a drumbeat of doom, their hulking forms casting massive shadows over the field.

They roared in unison, their voices echoing across the plain like thunder.

“HRRRAAAARRGGHHH!”

Weapons in hand—clubs made from uprooted trees, jagged stone axes, and massive chunks of rock—they barreled toward the humans, leaving deep craters in the ground with each step.

The knights scrambled into formation, their previously confident shouts turning into desperate commands.

“Hold the line!” Sir Reginald bellowed, his voice cracking under the strain. “Stand firm!”

The human mages began chanting, their hands glowing with arcs of magic, but the Ogres were relentless.

They closed the distance with terrifying speed, their bloodshot eyes locked onto the humans like predators sighting prey.

The first Ogre reached the human front line, lifting its colossal club high into the air.

WHAM!

The weapon came crashing down with the force of a meteor, shattering shields and flinging knights like ragdolls.

“FOR THE HORDE!” roared another Ogre, hurling a boulder that smashed into the knights’ formation, scattering them like leaves in the wind.

Chaos erupted as the Ogres collided with the human army, their sheer strength and ferocity turning the battlefield into a maelstrom of destruction.

Stones and weapons flew, blood sprayed, and the deafening sound of metal clashing with flesh and bone filled the air.

Volk stood at the crest of the hill, watching the carnage unfold. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, but his mind remained calculating.

This was only the beginning. He raised his hand again, signaling the Orcs to hold their position. “Wait,” he muttered to himself. “Let them break before we make our move.”

Below, the Ogres roared with renewed vigor as they continued their onslaught, slamming their weapons into the human ranks.

Their monstrous voices drowned out the screams of the humans, and their massive forms loomed like giants in a nightmare.

The battle had begun.

Volk’s voice cut through the cacophony of battle like a blade.

“Shamans! Release the smoke! Do not attack—spread and surround them! Let the Ogres keep their attention!”

His tone was sharp and commanding, with no room for hesitation.

The Orc shamans, scattered among the horde, exchanged glances and quickly nodded.

Each one began chanting in guttural tones, their voices resonating with ancient power.

Their staves, crudely fashioned but brimming with primal energy, began to glow with faint green and black hues. Smoke began to seep from the tips, wisps at first, barely noticeable against the chaos.

The human army hardly paid it any mind at first.

The Ogres were their primary focus—hulking, roaring monstrosities that were tearing through their ranks.

Soldiers were frantically trying to regroup, screaming orders and cries for help as the giant beasts swung their massive weapons.

But the smoke didn’t stop. It grew thicker, curling and weaving around the battlefield like a living entity.

At first, it hugged the ground, tendrils creeping around the feet of the human soldiers.

The acrid smell of burning vegetation filled the air, making some of the knights cough and wave their hands in irritation.

“Stay in formation!” Sir Reginald bellowed, his voice cracking with urgency. “It’s just smoke—do not let it shake you!”

The shamans continued their chants, louder and more insistent.

Their voices intertwined, creating a low, ominous hum that reverberated across the battlefield.

The smoke thickened, turning into a dark, rolling fog that obscured vision. Within moments, the battlefield was cloaked in an impenetrable haze.

Human soldiers began stumbling over one another, their movements disoriented as the once-clear sightlines were completely cut off.

“What is this sorcery?!” Gerhardt shouted, gripping his staff tightly. His magical lizard hissed in agitation, its clawed feet scraping against the ground.

The old mage muttered a spell, and a faint light surrounded him, but even that could only pierce a few feet into the growing smog.

The smoke seemed alive. It clung to the humans, seeping into their lungs and burning their eyes.

Soldiers coughed violently, some dropping their weapons to clutch their throats.

The sound of their choking mixed with the distant roars of the Ogres, creating a symphony of dread.

The Ogres, unaffected by the smoke, continued their assault.

Their towering forms loomed like shadows in the fog, their roars and the deafening crash of their weapons the only constants in the chaos. But even they began to slow, realizing they were no longer the center of attention.

The humans were scattering, their tight formations breaking apart as the fog clouded their discipline and their courage.

“Knights, regroup!” Sir Reginald’s voice rang out, though it sounded strained, almost panicked. “Follow my voice! We hold our ground—”

His command was cut short by the sudden sound of heavy breathing nearby.

A human soldier screamed as a massive shadow lunged out of the smoke, an Ogre’s club smashing into the ground where the soldier had been standing moments before.

Chaos reigned supreme.

Meanwhile, Volk watched from his vantage point. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, the smoke curling around him like a dark crown.

He grinned, satisfied with the unfolding chaos.

The humans were doing exactly what he expected: panicking. His Ogres were the perfect distraction, drawing attention while his shamans worked their magic.

The shamans’ chanting reached a fever pitch.

The smoke grew thicker still, becoming a swirling vortex of darkness that blotted out the sun.

Even the magical beasts of the mages began to grow restless, their glowing forms flickering as if the smoke was sapping their strength.

“Surround them!” Volk commanded, his voice booming. “Shamans, push the smoke further! Orcs, spread out and encircle them—leave no gaps!”

The Orcs obeyed without question.

They moved swiftly and silently through the haze, their bulky forms surprisingly agile as they positioned themselves around the human army.

Despite their size, they made little noise, their heavy footfalls muffled by the thick smoke.

The humans, unaware of the Orcs’ movements, struggled to regroup. “Sir Gerhardt! We need light! We can’t see anything!” one of the mages shouted, his voice tinged with desperation.

Gerhardt’s face was pale, sweat dripping from his brow.

He muttered incantations under his breath, summoning a bright orb of light that floated above him.

It cast a small circle of clarity, revealing the terrified faces of the knights around him. But the light only seemed to anger the smoke, which surged and twisted as if it were alive, pushing back against the magic.

Volk’s grin widened. He stepped forward, raising his arms as if to embrace the battlefield.

“Fools,” he muttered to himself, his voice filled with contempt. He turned to the Orcs closest to him, their green faces barely visible through the haze.

“Prepare yourselves. This isn’t a battle; it’s a slaughter. Let them squirm.”

Then, as the shamans continued their work, Volk raised a hand and clenched it into a fist. “This is it,” he said to no one in particular. “This is how I’ll break them.”

His eyes narrowed, his focus unwavering. He felt a surge of anticipation, a deep hunger for the power that awaited him.

The notification of his mission rewards echoed in his mind.

“I will make this quick,” Volk muttered, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I need my full power back.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep