Orc Warrior's Spirit

Nyx remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the advancing giant Orc. His mind was already calculating the next move, as always. His fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw it just yet.

He knew exactly what this creature represented—a threat

The other two Woodland Orcs around Nyx began to grow restless, their movements jerky as they were pulled between loyalty to their fallen comrades and the imposing presence of the new leader. The battlefield was in turmoil, the shift in power palpable.

"Kill yourselves." Nyx's voice cut through the chaos like a blade, commanding and unyielding.

The controlled Orcs faltered, stumbling backward. Their arms trembled as they tried to follow the command, yet something within them resisted. They stuttered and froze, their primal instincts clashing with Nyx's authority.

Something is interfering with my control, Nyx thought, narrowing his eyes. No... it's not resistance. This is something deeper—a species-specific condition.

Without hesitation, Nyx darted forward. His blade gleamed as it cut through the immobilized Orcs with swift precision. Their bodies fell to the ground, lifeless, the momentary disruption extinguished.

The Orc Commander let out a guttural roar that reverberated across the battlefield, its sheer force shaking the ground. The remaining Orcs seemed to surge with newfound vigor, their wounds slowing down and their movements gaining speed and strength. It was as if the commander's presence alone empowered them.

The massive creature raised its jagged, rusted sword high and pointed it toward the camp where Viscount Wellian and his defenders were stationed. The signal was clear.

The empowered Orcs began ignoring Nyx entirely, their focus shifting solely to the camp. They marched forward with a single-minded determination, a tide of green-skinned brutality threatening to overwhelm the defenders.

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"Huff… puff…" Grall exhaled heavily, his breath ragged. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with dirt and blood.

How much longer can we hold out? Grall wondered, his thoughts heavy with exhaustion.

The camp defenders had managed to hold against the earlier waves, but this... this was different. The Orcs now moved as a cohesive unit, no longer a disorganized horde. Each strike felt heavier, each defense more draining.

Before, we were holding small waves. Now, it's a concentrated attack, he thought grimly, his eyes scanning the battlefield.

Around him, his comrades were faltering. Some leaned on their weapons for support, their breathing labored. Others stood despite grievous injuries, their hands trembling but their grips firm.

Grall himself was on the brink. His arms felt like lead, his muscles screaming in protest with every swing of his sword. His stamina was nearly spent, but he couldn't afford to falter—not yet.

We just need to hold a little longer...

A loud roar shattered his focus. The Orc Commander's presence loomed at the edge of his vision, its armored figure towering over the battlefield. As if responding to its call, the Orcs redoubled their efforts, charging the defensive line with reckless abandon.

"This isn't just an attack," Grall muttered under his breath. "It's a death sentence."

Despite his grim thoughts, he raised his sword once more, rallying what strength he had left. "Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but resolute.