The sky above the Ugo Steppe had always been cloudless, crystal-clear, and vast. But at this moment, dark silhouettes suddenly swept across the heavens.
They belonged to the aviation corps of the Cinder Empire—a specialized force of wyverns clad in Skyfire Armor.
A chuckling voice came over the comms from Singo: "Mantou, you'd better watch yourself this time. Don't go turning into a burnt bun again."
Hearing this, the other wyvern knights burst into cheerful laughter.
"Hey Mantou, how much EXP did you lose when you died back there? Was it ten grand?"
"Yeah, yeah, got it," Mantou answered sourly, his face darkening. "What the hell are you laughing at? If I hadn't laid down my life to cover the retreat, who knows how many of you would've been butchered by that muscle-bound freak of an orc!"
"Alright, alright! You worked hard and achieved great merit, you're the grand hero among us, and you even died in a crash—let's just call you 'Old-Hard' Lao Da then!" Another chorus of laughter immediately erupted over the channel.
"Why you little—"
Mantou's face flushed red with exasperation. Deciding not to waste his breath arguing, he turned his attention to browsing the mission briefing.
This time, their mission was simple: destroy the spawning grounds of the green-skinned orcs and completely eradicate a race with such terrifying reproductive capacity.
The imperial court wizards had already gathered substantial intelligence through magic. These orcs all originated from the Bindler River—or more precisely, from the river's source: Ilneval Valley.
The valley was densely carpeted with green mushrooms. Almost every day, thousands of newborn orcs spawned within its depths, and as the dark-green river flowed, orc spores were carried to every corner of the Ugo Steppe.
Surveying the intelligence, Mantou sighed. "I originally thought I came to Elezerg to be a chosen hero saving the world. Who would've guessed I'd end up flying a wyvern to carpet-bomb a valley instead?"
Singo remarked, "Those adventurers who honestly grind regular quests aren't even level ten yet. You should count your lucky stars you have the kind of strength you do now."
Mantou grinned sheepishly. "Fair point, fair point."
Suddenly, Curtis's voice crackled over the comms. "Everyone, you are approaching the mission objective. I've detected an extremely powerful orc forcefield. Engage defensive cloaking systems immediately."
"Understood."
Mantou pressed a button. A torrent of light particles flooded out from the Skyfire Armor, gradually coalescing into countless interconnected hexagonal shields of light.
Beneath the cover of the light shields, the wyverns vanished into thin air, cloaked within the atmosphere. The sky once more appeared spotless and pristine, just as it had always been.
For this mission, the empire had spared no expense. Embedded within every suit of Skyfire Armor was a molt scale shed by the Cinder Emperor himself, brimming with legendary-tier power.
Before long, Mantou spotted Mount Ilneval in the distance. Named after the orc god of war, the mountain was exceptionally towering and precipitous, while the valley below was fathomlessly deep, exuding an eerie aura.
"This must be the drop zone." Gazing down at the valley shrouded in pale-green mist, Mantou swallowed hard, thinking to himself how utterly sinister this place looked.
Even with the protection system shielding them, the moment he entered that airspace, a tremor ran through his whole body, and the wyvern beneath him wobbled slightly.
"Emergency braking system offline!"
"Gravity compensation system offline!"
"Warning! Magical turbulence detected! Magical defense system malfunction!"
Red warning text flashed across Mantou's display one after another. Panicking slightly, cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Shit, what the hell is happening?"
Fortunately, the turbulence had not damaged the propulsion system, allowing Mantou to keep steering the wyvern so he wouldn't crash once again straight into the orcs' nest.
Static hissed over the comms, and Curtis's voice grew choppy and distorted: "You... *crackle*... have entered... mission objective area... You must... within three days... complete the mission... *crackle*... *click*."
With a crisp snap, communication with headquarters severed completely, with no telling when it might be restored.
"This place is creepy as hell!" Mantou cursed aloud.
The other wyvern knights chimed in agreement. "No kidding. Good thing we have the defense shields, or we'd all end up crashing like Mantou did before."
"Stay sharp. There are bound to be plenty of tough orcs in this nest—maybe even another legendary boss like last time."
Mantou protested, "Can you guys drop that already? Let's just finish the mission fast, or we're all screwed!"
Meanwhile, Singo circled at high altitude, continuously gathering data until a clear map gradually formed on his screen.
Sharing the map with the rest of the aviation corps, he said in a low voice, "That valley should be the breeding ground of the green-skinned orcs and the source of the Bindler River. And our mission is... to blow it to pieces."
...
Deep within Ilneval Valley.
Pale-green orc spores drifted everywhere through the air, and the water was filled with a thick, foul, dark-green sludge, while mushroom-like fungi carpeted the shadowy corners of the valley.
Standing beside the Bindler River, Solo stared at the flowing water and commanded, "Throw them all in."
"Yes, Great Chieftain."
The green-skinned orcs untied blood-soaked burlap sacks from their backs. Inside were mutilated orc corpses—severed heads with eyes frozen in despair, limbs lopped off by sharp blades, and disemboweled torsos.
Among them were not only the clan chieftains who had conspired in rebellion, but also the elite warriors of the various clans. Now, these former champions of the orcs had all been reduced to butchered scraps.
Three days ago, Solo had hung the heads of those clan chieftains on display, branding them traitors to the orc race.
The moment those heads were seen, an uproar shook the Red Blood Tribe. The pureblood orcs were appalled and terrified. Loyal warriors from various clans—the Jackdaw, Frostwolf, and others—were consumed by fury, screaming curses at Solo and rising up in indignant rebellion.
But Solo's army of green-skinned orcs had already surrounded the area. Bloodthirsty and ruthless, the green-skinned orcs swung their butchering blades without mercy, slaughtering every last dissenter.
On that day, the blood of orcs stained the valley red, and the massacre came to be known with dread among the surviving pureblood orcs as the "Day of Blood."
From then on, Solo held absolute control over the Red Blood Tribe. Any orc harboring thoughts of independence—or dreaming of defying Solo—only had to recall the gruesome fate of their kin in that slaughter.
"Heave-ho!"
"Chuck 'em all in!"
"Hahaha, stupid old farts!"
The green-skinned orcs bustled about with savage glee, tossing the mangled pieces of flesh into their mother river, the Bindler River.
These brutal brutes felt not the slightest guilt over butchering their nominal "kin"; instead, they reveled in it, finding the act immensely satisfying.
They had long been sick of those arrogant "old bastards" who looked down their snouts at them.
Solo stood with his arms crossed, gazing intensely at the surging dark-green water. "Nourished by the corpses of these extraordinary-tier orcs, even mightier new orcs will surely be born...
"Five years... no, not even five years. With the All-Father's favor, three years will be enough to raise an invincible army of legendary orcs.
"When that time comes, I'll take Evindeldan first and slaughter every Imperial inside, and then lead my horde to invade the Cinder Empire..."
At the thought, Solo couldn't resist licking his lips. Bloodlust flooded his eyes, and his hands trembled with excitement.
What a glorious future that would be!
All the humiliation and rage would be washed away in boundless slaughter. The orcs would become a walking natural disaster across the continent, bringing eternal terror to those hypocritical, frail races.
Beside him, Moke, draped in black robes, chuckled grimly. "Great Chieftain, the raw materials this time are of exceptional quality. Especially the corpse of that Frostwolf chieftain—his remains should be able to spawn a legendary-tier orc."
"A legendary tier?"
Solo was delighted at first, but then furrowed his brows with concern. "Moke, if an orc of that caliber truly is born, will it obey me?"
Having seized the mantle of Great Chieftain in the vacuum left by Batu, Solo feared nothing more than losing his current position and facing betrayal from his subordinates.
That was precisely why he had slaughtered the clan chieftains and their followers without mercy—to eradicate any future threat.
Moke rasped out a laugh. "Of course, Great Chieftain. You are the chosen one favored by the All-Father, standing far above these newborn orcs. They are born to bow before you."
At this answer, Solo broke into a broad grin. Folding his arms, he declared, "Of course. I am the one destined to lead the orc race back to its ancient glory."
Suddenly, Moke turned his head and pointed toward a shadowy recess in the valley. "Do you see that? That is the orc spawned from the spores of the Rock Lizard chieftain."
*Rrrrip!*
A bulge swelled abruptly from the damp soil. A slime-slick hand thrust upward, followed by a powerful, muscular green body.
Soon, a hulking green-skinned orc nearly three meters tall burst from the earth. The moment it spawned, it glanced about, its cloudy eyes brimming with insatiable hunger, as if yearning to devour everything in sight.
"Waaagh!"
Throwing its head back, it roared toward the sky. Instantly, countless green-skinned orcs nearby joined in the howling, their cries echoing back and forth in a spine-chilling wave.
Pointing at the newly spawned orc, Moke smiled. "Look, my lord. The newborns of the past were fragile and weak. But now, the orcs spawned from the flesh of those clan chieftains are already vastly taller and stronger than ordinary pureblood orcs. They are born warriors who will continue to evolve through war and plunder—and all this power will belong to you.
"In just a few years, we orcs will become a mighty race that makes the Feanso Continent—no, the entire multiverse—tremble. When that day comes, dwarves, elves, humans, and even dragons will all grovel at your feet."
"Good, very good..." Solo muttered. Fanaticism, obsession, and anticipation played across his hideous, ferocious face.
Just then, as if sensing something, Moke's expression shifted drastically, his brows knotting.
"This is..."
He slowly closed his eyes, an anxious look washing over his features.
Solo asked urgently, "What is it? What's happened?"
The orc shaman was now Solo's right-hand man. Solo relied on Moke to control the Red Blood Tribe and produce ever-stronger, loyal green-skinned orcs, so he treated him with great concern.
Moke opened his eyes. In a heavy, raspy voice, he said, "Great Chieftain, it seems outsiders have breached Ilneval Valley."
"What?!"
Instantly, a vicious, murderous gleam flashed in Solo's eyes. Gritting his teeth, he snarled, "Damn it... Could it be the Imperials? We must find these intruders! We must butcher every last one of them!!"
His voice grew increasingly agitated until it became a full-throated roar.
It was no wonder Solo flew into a rage. Ilneval Valley was the cradle of the green-skinned orcs; Solo viewed it as the sole hope for the orc race's resurgence!
If Ilneval Valley was lost, the orcs would fall into eternal decay, condemned forever to eke out an existence on this barren steppe—and his dream of becoming the supreme orc hero would be shattered in an instant.
With that in mind, his face twisted in savagery, Solo bellowed his command: "Even if you have to level Mount Ilneval to the ground, find those intruders and slaughter them all!!"
"Yes, Great Chieftain."
Moke nodded and raised the vine staff in his hand.
In an instant, rippling through the airborne spores and mycelial threads, hundreds of thousands of orcs in the vicinity heard Solo's command and learned that daring "outsiders" had intruded into Ilneval Valley.
"Did you hear that? The Great Chieftain's order!"
"Heheh, outsiders! Wonder what they taste like?"
"Haven't killed a living thing in days, I'm bursting at the seams! I'm definitely finding those outsiders!"
Hearing the news, the green-skinned orcs erupted into a frenzy. They tore through every corner of the valley, wishing they could overturn the very earth to flay the intruders and eat them raw.
In their eyes, outsiders were no threat—they were treats upon which to vent their bloodthirsty urges.
Yet never in their wildest dreams did they imagine that while these so-called "outsiders" were indeed within Mount Ilneval's territory, they were not lurking on the valley floor—they were circling continuously right above their heads.
...
"Still nothing? Even now, no sign of the intruders?!"
"Nothing yet..."
"How is that possible?!" Solo sat upon his throne of bone, his expression pitch-black, barely able to suppress the wrath burning in his eyes.
His hundreds of thousands of orcs had searched for an entire day, scouring every inch of Mount Ilneval, yet they hadn't uncovered a single intruder, nor even a trace of their passage.
"Moke, could you have made a mistake?"
Moke shook his head firmly. "Great Chieftain, my senses were definitely not mistaken. Outsiders have certainly entered. Otherwise, the spore web would not have vibrated without cause."
Solo slammed his hand onto the table in irritation, demanding, "There are hundreds of thousands of orcs in Ilneval Valley! If even they can't find them, did those outsiders sprout wings and fly aw—"
At that point, Solo's face abruptly paled. He stammered, "The... the sky! They're in the sky! Those Imperials can ride wyverns!"
Moke's expression turned uneasy. "Impossible... Then why hasn't a single scout spotted them..."
*Whoosh—!*
A piercing scream tore through the heavens.
"No, no—!"
Solo burst frantically out of the command tent, only to see a metallic sphere hurtling down from the sky, plunging straight toward the source of the Bindler River: Ilneval Valley.
Chapter 674