"Filthy, reckless orc!
"Who gave you the audacity and confidence to challenge a gold dragon?!"
Beneath the focus of countless gazes, Titus unfurled his undulating wings, which swept all the way to the tip of his tail. An unimaginable surge of magical power erupted from deep within his colossal draconic frame.
In an instant, gales whipped up as a majestic tide of arcane energy violently expanded.
The gold dragon raised a massive talon. The sky was torn apart by rampaging tongues of fire, and several blazing meteors manifested out of nothingness. Tearing through the heavens in unison, they plummeted at terrifying speed directly toward the bloodspear.
Seymour, the elven wizard, tilted his head back, firelight dancing within his silvery eyes. He murmured in disbelief, "By Mystra... a spell of such magnitude, cast at such speed...
"An epic spellcaster... this gold dragon is an epic spellcaster!"
This was the Feanso Continent, after all. Unlike the Northlands, no one here deliberately restricted magical knowledge. Even high-tier spells were far from unheard of across this land.
Many of the elven and dwarven casters present recognized the spell the gold dragon had unleashed at a single glance.
It was the renowned ninth-tier spell: *Meteor Swarm*.
The brilliant blazing meteors sliced through the air with ear-splitting sonic booms. Their velocity mounted to a frightful pitch until they slammed head-on into the bloodspear.
*Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!*
Colossal explosions tore through the heavens, filling the sky with flashing fire and billowing clouds of smoke. Shockwaves rippled outward for over a kilometer, striking everyone present with a blast of scorching wind.
Yet at that very moment—
*Whoosh!*
A piercing shriek tore through the air once more. The sharp bloodspear instantly burst from the smoke, hurtling forward with unstoppable momentum like a master assassin striking completely unawares.
Cassius, however, had long prepared himself to weather follow-up attacks. He knew full well that a single ninth-tier spell would not be enough to stop a bloodspear blessed by Gruumsh; it could only diminish its force.
The gold dragon parted his massive jaws and unleashed another thunderous roar.
Sparks danced through the air, space warped under scorching heat, and a blistering gale surged forth.
Several swirling vortexes of surging flame coalesced before the gold dragon, blocking the path of the bloodspear. They interlocked and fused, rapidly forming a colossal curtain of roaring fire.
It was the seventh-tier spell: *Fire Storm*.
Another series of unending detonations shook the air. Sparks flew in every direction, thick smoke billowed across the heavens, and the bloodspear finally pierced its way through the raging torrent of flames.
By now, its momentum was nowhere near as unstoppable as before, diminished significantly.
Even so, the bloody radiance representing Gruumsh's divine power still clung to its razor-sharp tip, poised to pierce whatever stood in its path.
Watching the spear hurtle toward him, the gold dragon curled his maw into a grin. He lifted a massive talon, and an inconspicuous green ray shot from the tip of his claw.
Eighth-tier spell: *Spell Wither*.
The green beam touched the spear, instantly unraveling the divine blood-glow suffusing its surface. Fissures immediately spiderwebbed across the darkwood shaft.
*Crack!*
With a crisp snap, the overtaxed bloodspear abruptly dimmed and shattered into countless flying fragments.
Seymour stared up at the raining debris, his mouth agape in disbelief. "*Mage's Disjunction*? No, that seemed to be an even older, more sophisticated form of magic... Draconic magic?
"To cast a spell instantly at such speed and achieve an effect on par with *Mage's Disjunction*... truly worthy of an epic spellcaster!"
"The Dragon of Dawn!"
"These orcs can't defeat Lord Titus!"
Seymour stood in awe atop the battlements, while dwarves and elves broke into raucous cheers. On the opposite end of the battlefield, fear flickered in the eyes of the orcs, and Batu's face turned an ugly shade of livid.
Gritting his teeth, Batu's expression darkened further. "This gold dragon possesses such spellcasting power?! This is no mere coincidence!
"It's Bahamut! He was definitely sent by the Platinum Dragon! The gods of Mount Celestia must already know of our plans!
"If metallic dragon reinforcements arrive alongside him, even my horde won't be able to conquer Evindeldan."
Batu's countenance hardened with grave urgency. "We can't wait any longer!"
The old shaman approached his side, coughing softly before speaking in a hoarse rasp, "Lord Batu... I can tie down that gold dragon."
Batu raised an eyebrow, not bothering to disguise the scorn in his eyes. "You?"
He showed some respect to this old shaman, who was said to have lived over two hundred years, but only because the elder knew the history and rites of the orcs and understood how to commune with the All-Father.
Without his status as a shaman, this crippled old orc would have been cast out of the tribe long ago to become food for the vultures of the steppe.
Such was the law of survival among orcs: the strong took everything, and the weak lost everything, including their lives. The crippled, the aged, and even the cowardly were mercilessly exiled without hesitation—a practice sanctioned even by their All-Father, Gruumsh.
This decrepit, faltering orc shaman before him clearly stood no chance against such a mighty gold dragon.
Had senility finally claimed his mind?
The old shaman paid no heed to Batu's disdainful glare, merely offering an indifferent chuckle. "Lord Batu, as you know, I have lived for two hundred years.
"Throughout these two centuries, I have watched with my own eyes as the tribes of the Ugo Steppe slaughtered one another over pitiful scraps of resources. A hunting ground, a stream, or even a single miserable sheep—in that barren land, any of these was reason enough for two clans to butcher each other to the last.
"Heh, my own son died at the hands of another clan, simply because he poached a rabbit. Years later, I slaughtered their chieftain with my own hands and wiped out his entire bloodline. Yet I felt no hatred toward him, nor did I feel the sweet satisfaction of vengeance.
"It was merely the most ordinary occurrence in orc society, as natural as an eagle hunting a hare, or a wolf chasing down a goat.
"I looked down at my bloodstained hands, then gazed up at the stars, unable to keep from asking—why?
"Why should an orc race so vast and numerous be relegated to such desolate lands, forcing hundreds of thousands of our kind to slaughter one another for pathetic crumbs?"
He turned his head toward the magnificent, towering silhouette of Evindeldan in the distance, extending a trembling finger. "While to the south, the dwarves, humans, and elves comfortably enjoy such fertile, bountiful lands. By what right?!"
Finally, the old shaman turned back to face Batu Skullsplitter. Within those turbid eyes, normally as placid as stagnant water, there flickered a rare glimpse of the greed and fury typical of an orc.
For a moment, Batu found himself stunned. It was as if a vigorous, fiercely ambitious orc chieftain had appeared before him—just like his present self.
The old shaman continued, his tone growing increasingly impassioned. "And so, I searched relentlessly among the ruins of the ancient orc empire. I realized that all of this was a trial bestowed upon us by our great All-Father, Gruumsh.
"Barren resources, harsh climates, savage beasts—all of it existed only to forge our race into something far stronger and more resilient than the others, so that one day we might tear from their grasp everything that was rightfully ours!
"Yet by the time I understood, I was already too old—too old to even lift a spear. Only the strongest can emerge from the bloody slaughter to lead the orcs in conquering the world. Which is to say..."
His trembling finger shifted to point straight at Batu Skullsplitter.
"...you."
The old shaman rasped on, "My withered life is no longer worth anything. My only remaining wish is to spend its dying embers in one final burst of use.
"And you, Lord Batu—the blood of Gruumsh still surges fiercely within your veins. You are the one who will forge a brand-new future for our kind."
Batu Skullsplitter was both astonished and perplexed—astonished that this usually taciturn old shaman possessed such a past, and perplexed by what he meant by spending his dying embers.
Yet the old shaman merely gave a raspy chuckle. Suddenly, he plunged his claw into his own chest and ripped out his bloody, beating heart.
"I shall tie down that gold dragon. Go, Lord Batu! Lead our people to conquer Evindeldan, execute the will of the All-Father...
"Conquer the lands we orcs deserve... This is true vengeance!"
The heart in his grasp continued to throb. Blood poured continuously from the gaping wound in his chest, rising into the sky and condensing high above into the colossal image of a single eye.
***
Batu raised his bloodstained greataxe toward the massive one-eyed sigil overhead, roaring at the top of his lungs, "Attack!
"Neither the lowly dwarves, nor those fragile pointed-ears, nor that gold-scaled lizard in the sky can halt our conquest!
"Charge! There is no turning back for us!"
*Hoooor—*
The leg-bone warhorns sounded once more, their prolonged calls echoing across the battlefield. Galvanized by the one-eyed sigil, the orcs pressed their assault with renewed frenzy.
"The great All-Father grants us strength!"
"Every orc has the right to pursue glory and blood! It is the supreme privilege granted to us by the All-Father!"
Shielded beneath the blood curtain woven by the shamans, the orc host pressed forward steadily through the barrage of dwarven and elven bombardments, closing in on the walls of Evindeldan.
Yet the shamans' divine magic was far from invincible. At the slightest lapse, the barriers they raised were shattered by glowing arrows, offensive spells, and dwarven explosive kegs, leaving the orcs behind them obliterated.
Even when the front ranks were wiped out completely, the warriors behind charged forward without hesitation to fill the gaps, trampling over the warm, blood-slicked corpses of their fallen kin.
"Death is not the end!"
"The All-Father watches over us in Nishrek!"
Half-orc giants and ogres battered relentlessly against the massive gates of Evindeldan, heedless of the storm of arrows, javelins, and fiery spells pouring down from the ramparts.
If they breached the walls and allowed over a hundred thousand orcs to flood into Evindeldan, the consequences would be catastrophic.
King Ed's expression turned grim as he stared down at the seething horde pressing against the base of the wall, then glanced up at the mysterious one-eyed sigil in the sky. "What... is that?"
There was no time to brood. The half-orc giants and ogres were relentlessly hammering the gate, and the dwarven defenders below were beginning to buckle under the strain.
King Ed unslung the bow from his back. With a casual lift of his arm, he loosed an arrow that punched straight through the skull of a half-orc giant.
The giant crashed to the ground like a toppled tower. The dwarven king immediately shouted toward the sky, "Lord Titus!"
A scorching gale swept across the battlements as the golden dragon soared high into the air once more, casting an enormous shadow that caused countless orcs below to gaze upward in terror.
"Orcs, your insatiable greed sickens me!
"Evindeldan will never become your territory! The Feanso Continent will only ever be governed by kind and lawful races, and upon you I bestow—fire and death!"
*Rumble—*
The gold dragon beat his wings above the ramparts and unleashed an endless stream of fiery breath. A sweeping torrent of flame instantly engulfed hundreds of orcs.
In a matter of breaths, the orcs beneath the walls were reduced to charred flesh and bone, giving off acrid grey smoke.
The orcs' arrows and javelins were utterly useless against the massive gold dragon, whereas his blistering breath proved lethal at every turn.
Titus flapped his wings, whipping up fiery gales as he climbed higher into the sky, preparing for another devastating dive.
Just then, a furious roar bellowed from the distance.
"Gold dragon!"
A colossal, indistinct giant resembling an orc manifested in the sky, its form cloaked in rotting, peeling green flesh.
The souls and physical remains of countless slain orcs were imprisoned within, stitched together to form a twisted, grotesque monstrosity.
An Orc Spirit.
This was an ancient dark secret art that harnessed the power of Yurtrus, the orc god of death and disease, to bind the fallen warriors of the battlefield into a horrifying slaughtering construct.
At the head of this Orc Spirit was none other than the old shaman. Curled within the stitched construct, his eyes burned blood-red, blazing with unbridled fanaticism.
"Gold dragon! After enduring thousands of years of barren squalor and bloodshed, the orcs deserve the world!
"We have passed the All-Father's trial! No one can halt our great conquest!"
Trailing billowing black smoke, the rotting titan drifted slowly into the high sky, confronting the gold dragon across the open air.
Cassius declared with righteous indignation, "An orc abomination stitched together from broken spirits and corpses—is this what you rely on? What a filthy, hideous creature!"
Flames erupted from his maw, but the colossal rotting orc thrust out a pale, withered hand, spewing poisonous black mist that blotted out the sky and temporarily held off the terrifying breath.
Immediately after, the Orc Spirit roared toward the heavens and lunged at the gold dragon. "I am the embodiment of the will of countless orcs across thousands of years!"
*Roaaar—*
Piercing wails and ferocious roars echoed from the dark fog, accompanied by continuous, thunderous concussions.
From the ground, the dwarves, elves, and orcs could only glimpse the massive silhouettes shifting and grappling violently within the murk.
In truth, while this monstrosity forged from orc souls and corpses was troublesome, Cassius was deliberately sparring with it, putting on a convincing show of fighting with all his might.
After all, he did not know what hidden cards Gruumsh might hold. If he acted rashly and drew the direct gaze of a true deity, losing this dragon-blood avatar for nothing would be a disastrous loss.
Meanwhile, on the ground, without the threat of the gold dragon hanging overhead, the orcs assaulted the walls with even greater ferocity, surging forward in relentless waves.
Under King Ed's command, the elite dwarven and elven warriors fought tooth and nail, warhammers and blades clashing in an unyielding dance as orc blood painted the stone battlements crimson.
Just then, the earth trembled once more. Wasteland landwyrms thundered across the plains, and atop them rode Batu Skullsplitter, chieftain of the Red Fang Tribe, roaring as he brandished his greataxe.
"Crush these frail dwarves and elves! Seize their city! Plunder everything they own! Exact our vengeance upon them!"
Chapter 577