Chapter 83: Savage Lands

Solomon gets no farther than ten paces before he is stopped.

A red barrier is erected between him and safety.

When he looks back, the orcs are pulling themselves out of the sand and dusting themselves off.

At the back of the hunting party, what appears to be an orc shaman is holding a wooden staff. Embedded at the very top of the stick is a fist-sized glowing rock.

It seems to be what is powering the barrier.

All of Solomon’s efforts have been rendered useless almost instantly. As the rocks from the crumbling mountain fall into the ravine, they bounce off the barrier like pebbles.

The high orcs begin to close in on Solomon again. They seem wary of his magic, so they cover their bodies in aura as they spread out.

Solomon knows that he has nowhere to run.

He feels his adrenaline rising.

He tries to tamp down his instincts. To think of a plan instead of charging into a fight that he knows he cannot win.

However, his armor does not let him enjoy such rationale.

He can hear it yelling at him, screaming for him to fight.

You can outlast them. It whispers.

You are Disaster. It boasts.

Solomon can hardly ignore the voices that seem to be getting louder.

With a thought, he summons his armor and sword.

As the bright, orange eyes flash open across his chest and within the hilt of his weapon, he releases a blood-curdling roar that sounds more beastly than human.

The orcs momentarilly stop in their tracks.

It is clear that they are put off by Solomon’s display. Or perhaps they merely sense something dangerous within him.

However, High Orcs are far from a cowardly race.

The promise of challenge does not deter them; it excites them.

Three orcs break off from formation and charge at Solomon. The enraged Deathless charges right back.

A high orc with a bone mask meets him first.

Solomon swings his weapon directly at the orc’s side, intending to use his speed and strength to cut the creature in half.

His blade is sharp. Dangerously so.

The wound it inflicts upon the high orc is very deep.

However, it does not kill the creature outright. Something that Solomon cannot believe.

The high orc’s skin is as tough as steel. More dense than the very soil they stand upon.

And the wound, which would have critically injured the average human or titan-blood, barely seems to faze him.

Instead, the orc hefts a cudgel that appears to be made from the femur of some large creature.

He performs a large swing with his weapon that Solomon manages to block with ease.

However, the power behind the attack makes his arms ring like a gong. Very scarcely has he ever felt anything like it.

If he were using any other sword, he had no doubts that it would have broken from that impact.

It seemed that orcs did not believe in fair fights.

As Solomon is still recovering from the attack of the first orc, another rushes him with no weapon in hand.

This orc throws their body into Solomon’s and tackles him to the ground.

Fists like great meaty cudgels rain down on Solomon’s face and torso.

He feels blood attempting to come up from his throat as the assault continues.

Using all of his strength, he somehow kicks the orc off of him and rolls away to safety.

He makes it to one knee, recovering his sword in the process.

As he starts to get up, he is shot in the chest by two arrows, piercing his heart and lungs once more.

Solomon wants to curse, but he has little time for that.

As his armor is spitting out the arrows, another orc attacks him from behind.

The creature shoves him to the ground, grabbing him by the helmet and attempting to hold him in place.

A shortsword made of bone is inserted through his shoulder into the soil, pinning him to the ground.

A surge of anger runs through him, leagues greater than the last.

Solomon concentrates on the soil underneath him.

Jagged spears of rock shoot out of the ground with him at the epicenter.

Blood spatters as the three orcs who were the closest are impaled.

One falls over dead from taking an attack to the head.

The others are sporting smaller, less serious injuries, as they were able to move out of the way in time.

Solomon forcefully pushes himself up from the ground. The shortsword holding him in place is pulled through his body, and comes out dark red from tip to pommel.

Standing, he roars again; the sound is noticeably more feral and monstrous.

He grips his sword with two hands and begins to pull.

As he pulls the weapon apart, it shifts into two swords of equal size and length.

It is a daunting sight. And the greatest embodiment of Solomon’s rage yet.

“COME ONNN!!”

The orcs do not understand him, but they recognize the energy within his voice.

They are happy to oblige.

Solomon is charged at by the same orc who made his arms rattle.

He swings his bone weapon again, and Disaster is ready for it.

Instead of taking the full force of the swing, Solomon uses the edge of one of his swords to deflect the blow before using his other one to stab home.

He stabs the orc in the stomach with a fury, worsening the wound that the orc is already suffering from and causing it to cry out in pain.

“RAAAAAHHHH!”

The ground shakes under Solomon’s feet as he goes on the assault.

He stabs the orc four more times in quick succession. His enemy’s innards spill out onto the ground in one steaming hot pile.

As a second orc falls over dead, Solomon is grabbed from behind by another two.

His arms are restrained as he is held firmly in place. He roars and bucks against their grips, even sending his own body up in flames to incinerate them.

The fires are hot, but they do not damage the high orcs as much as Solomon thought they would. Or perhaps the orcs are just good at hiding their anguish.

While he is restrained, two more members of the hunting party shoot arrows into his legs.

He is forced to kneel on the ground, still held by the two high orcs whose flesh is beginning to char.

A third high orc comes up to him, club in hand, and raises it above his head.

The bulbous weapon comes down in a swift arc, smashing the top of Disaster’s head.

Disaster is completely conscious as his brain is smashed into pieces and bunches itself back together. It is the single strangest experience he has ever been privy to.

A female orc comes over and begins an attempt to remove his helmet.

Disaster’s mantle does not budge. In addition, it’s rage at being handled by one other than it’s wearer is manifested instantly.

As soon as the orc tries to pull away the helmet, barbs of black metal pierce the calloused flesh of her hands.

She screams as the helmet severs sinew, muscle, and bone equally.

She finally falls over, speaking frantically in orcish dialect.

Solomon still does not understand her. Yet he knows what she is saying.

She tells the rest of her hunting party that her arms do not work.

They dangle limply at her sides, blood pouring from her palms and deep bruises appearing across her flesh.

Solomon turns his head to the sky and laughs.

The sound is unfamiliar to the orcs. They stare at him as if he has finally gone mad from their abuse.

Suddenly, the shaman orc steps forward.

He is less brutish than the rest. His eyes have a much greater degree of intelligence to them.

When he speaks, his voice is notably more refined. He almost sounds like a human.

“I can’t… understand you.” Solomon pants, concealing a smirk beneath his mask. “But there’s something I’m dying to know…”

The high orc shaman unslings a bone knife from his belt and positions it underneath Solomon’s throat.

“How long can you bastards hold your breath?”

The ground underneath them suddenly rumbles.

Just behind Solomon, a powerful geyser opens up in the ground.

Scalding hot water shoots up into the air and smacks the dome above.

The force of the shooting water knocks aside the orcs holding Solomon captive, and he immediately knocks away the knife pointed at his throat and headbutts the shaman at full force.

He feels bone crack through his helmet. It is immensely satisfying.

Solomon is a weapon. Not something meant to be bound or constrained.

He would never again allow any being to force him to his knees like some worm.

He drew his head back to strike the shaman again, but the smart orc threw out his hand while holding his nose.

Disaster was hurled backward by an invisible force.

The high orc shaman started to tell the rest of the hunting party to subdue their prey again when he finally noticed that something had changed.

The water level in the dome was steadily rising. Even though it hadn’t been long since a geyser appeared, the dome was already flooded with water up to his waist.

And it was still climbing…

With fury in his eyes, the high orc looked towards Solomon and found him being pummeled by three other orcs.

However, something is wrong.

Solomon is hunched over in a ball. Blows shake his sides and back like a tree in a thunderstorm, but he never raises his head.

The shaman looks more closely.

He notices the deep orange aura surrounding their prey, and his eyes widen.

The shaman tries to warn his kin before it is too late, but there is no use.

Disaster stands up abruptly, throwing out his arms and letting out a triumphant roar.

The ground underneath the dome crumbles almost instantly.

Five more columns of water sprang up, filling the dome in seconds.

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