Chapter 7: Reminiscences of Bloodshed (Part 2)

When Sanders saw the arc charging toward him drop its weapon, he realized that this was no longer a battle but a one-sided slaughter. He shouted as loudly as he could, "Everyone retreat! Those who can escape, report back on the situation here…" But he was too busy to finish his sentence. The arc dropped its weapon for a simple reason: it was meant for armor and shields, and now that this opponent had given up defense, no weapon was as agile and capable of ensnaring its opponent as its own claws.

The ogre evaded Sanders' interception and charged into the crowd, beginning a carnage of blood and flesh. The two massive spiked hammers swung without any fancy maneuvers, not even targeting anything specific, aiming only to hit as many bodies as possible. Any armor was as paper toys against the power of these terrifying weapons. In this center of flying blood and guts, there was almost no scream. The moment someone made contact with the swinging hammers, they instantly transformed from living beings into a grotesque mix of weaponry, armor, bones, and muscle.

The ogre madly swung its weapon, moving forward and crashing into the crowd, trampling, then charging toward another group of people, like a killing machine operated by a demon from hell, continually crushing all flesh within reach into a pulp.

Sanders' commands had become meaningless. When the ogre charged into the crowd, the soldiers were consumed by sheer terror. They surged toward the mountain path, with the majority intercepted and slaughtered by the ogre, turning into indistinguishable masses of flesh, while the Arcs and lizardmen deftly picked off any who managed to escape.

The two orcs guarding the entrance took out smaller crossbows, firing at anyone who came close to the exit; every shot hit true, piercing straight through the foreheads of their targets. Some soldiers, in extreme fear, jumped off the cliff, their long screams abruptly cut short.

Those still on the mountain could not even scream.

When faced with the terror of death and fleeing, knowing that they would eventually turn into puddles of blood and flesh, fear and despair consumed all their strength and will, leaving only a mournful wail. It was a sound that one who hadn't heard it could never imagine.

The ocean of wails spread, the strange sounds of bones breaking and bodies deforming mixed with the tones of weapons tearing through air and flesh, forming a concerto that one would never forget after hearing it just once. A fellow human, just moments ago as alive as oneself, suddenly showed pale white bones protruding, innards still pulsating but already torn out, blood and flesh cheaper than garbage. Asa suddenly understood the true meaning of the word 'hell.'

A half body of a soldier flew over and landed beside Asa as he was locked in a deadly fighting with a lizardman. The body was torn in half at the abdomen, with its insides strewn across a distance of over ten meters.

Asa remembered this soldier; they had fought during the conscription check, and that once powerful arm that had wrestled with him was now crushed like mud, embedded alongside its iron shield in its chest.

A mix of sorrowful fear rushed in, immediately overshadowing all his fighting spirit. A few desperate attacks finally forced the lizardman to jump back, and Asa seized this fleeting opportunity to turn and sprint into the camp.

At almost the same moment, Sanders made the same move as Asa. After several quick attacks, a patch of scalp was torn away from his forehead as the arc retreated. He was standing closer to the entrance, with the ogre and lizardman behind him, so he raced toward the exit occupied by only two orcs and the cloaked figure.

A strong gust of wind rushed behind him, and a spiked hammer swept over his head, flying down the mountain with the force that could turn him into mush.

Sanders glanced back and saw the only surviving soldier clinging to the ogre's head, causing its thrown hammer to go slightly higher.

"Captain, run…" the soldier screamed with the last of his strength. His blood-soaked face was twisted by countless scars, with half of it crushed in by a bludgeoning weapon. He was an experienced veteran who had likely played dead and seized the chance to grab the ogre's head.

In that brief glance, he also saw the arc pick up a thrown axe from the ground and throw it. The axe spun rapidly in the air, forming a straight line aimed at his back.

He could no longer dodge left or right. He was already running with all his might; any sideways movement would mean a roll on the ground, and the arc would immediately catch up and ensnare him again.

A roar from the ogre was followed by half a scream and a strange sound, like many dry twigs being twisted forcefully in a wet towel, the sounds of snapping and liquid seeping out blending together.

Sanders had no time to look back; he put all his strength into his right leg and leaped forward, simultaneously bracing his long sword against his back to protect his spine, gathering magic to prepare a healing spell.

A dull thud echoed. Sanders slid through the air for a distance before landing, staggering a few steps and spitting out a mouthful of blood, then charging back toward the exit.

By sheer luck, the axe had struck the edge of his chest plate, breaking three ribs and injuring his lung. The pre-prepared healing spell immediately stopped the bleeding and eased the pain, allowing him to move without immediate hindrance.

Only about ten meters remained to the exit, and he could clearly see the slight panic on the faces of the two orcs, with their fangs visible at the corners of their mouths. The cloaked figure in the middle still showed no reaction.

If he could just run down the mountain and jump into the Dono River, there would be a chance to escape. Sanders concentrated all his remaining magic power into his hands gripping the sword.

The cliff was right before him; Asa clearly remembered the location of the trees, and he leaped into the air.

Fortunately, he turned in midair to take a look; the lizardman had drawn a small crossbow from behind and was shooting at him. He ducked his head and bent down, feeling the bolt graze past his skin, then he fully leaped off the cliff, plummeting downward. The pursuing lizardman could only watch helplessly from the edge of the cliff as he broke a branch in midair with his foot and used a knife to stab another branch, completely halting his fall and landing safely in the water.

As he took a final glance back at the mountain, Asa saw a white light illuminating the entire mountain like it was daytime.

The sword in Sanders' hand emitted a brilliance rivaling the sun. All of his magical power had been infused into the blade.

The blood trickling from his forehead had turned everything he saw into a crimson haze in his left eye; Sanders felt nothing. All his mental energy was focused on this impending strike.

The two orcs shielded their eyes from the blinding light and retreated to the side, but the cloaked figure in the middle remained unmoved. Under the intense glow of the long sword, the face beneath the cloak became clear.

It was a human face—slender, pale, with sculpted features, silent and serene like a statue. Beneath long eyelashes, black eyes resembled a bottomless abyss that had remained still for a thousand years, reflecting the dazzling sword light without stirring even a ripple.

There were still ten steps away, and that person showed no intention of evading; there was not a hint of change in his expression, and his whole body remained completely still. It was as if he was a statue that had stood there since the dawn of time, destined to remain motionless until the next creation of the world.

Eight steps, seven steps, six steps, five steps, four steps, three steps—Sanders charged forward, pivoting 360 degrees and drawing his sword. The reaction force from the tip of his toes transmitted through his calves, thighs, waist, chest, up to his shoulders, then into his wrists, reaching the sword's body. Every muscle in his body poured its strength into this swing without reservation.

This was not a person wielding a sword; it was the sword controlling the person. Every minute movement was designed to release its sharpness and the latent magical power along the most perfect trajectory without reservation. All the orcs froze in place, completely stunned and captivated by this sword.

The sword's brilliance transformed into a curtain of light as it spun, rapidly extending forward with the power to slice through the entire night. There was no sound, yet all the orcs felt as if they were about to hear the mountain being split in two.

All speed, power, magic, will, spirit, and any minute existence in life fused together in this sword, exploding into unprecedented sparks. In Sanders' heart, there was no longer fear, anger, or even the desire to escape. He was like a passionate singer reaching the climax of a great aria, lost in the ecstasy of dissolving his own soul, about to split the bloodied body before him in two like a figment of imagination with the highest note...

That magnificent radiance, seemingly able to echo to the ends of the earth, suddenly vanished, restored to a motionless sword by a hand.

It was a clean and elongated hand. The fingers were long, each joint proportionate and beautifully defined, naturally evoking thoughts of elegance. This graceful hand, with a matching elegant gesture, pinched the sword's edge as if capturing a butterfly dancing in the air.

The fluid sensation of everything coming together came to an abrupt halt. The first feeling Sanders experienced was one of loss, akin to a singer who had their throat cut just as their most beautiful note was about to be released. Then came the pain and fear.

He couldn't see the other hand, which must have been equally elegant; he could only feel it. That hand had entirely sunk into his chest, and he could even feel the four fingers protruding from his back, equally long and proportionate.

Sanders opened his mouth, wanting to emit a groan, only to find that all sound was drowned in blood in his throat. It felt as if all the blood in his body had been pulled to his throat, rushing out through his trachea and esophagus in a frantic escape. As the hand withdrew from his chest, the blood found a better outlet, joyfully and freely gushing out from his throat.

Sanders clearly felt his strength, will, spirit—all the things that had been surging within him moments ago—flowing out with the blood as that hand withdrew, spilling forth endlessly. Those once tangible and abundant elements that made up his entire life streamed out from the gaping hole in his chest, no matter how unwilling he was, without even a glimmer of hope for recovery. Finally, even the strength that supported his feet dissipated within his body, and he fell despondently.

The brilliance of the long sword rapidly faded, then with a soft "pop," it shattered into countless tiny fragments, scattering over the owner's corpse.

A gust of wind blew by, and the human's cloak fluttered in the mountain breeze, turning into tattered strips of cloth, bearing witness to the unmatched sword energy just moments ago.

The man raised the hand that had gripped the long sword, looking at it in the moonlight. A faint trace of blood crossed the center of his palm, resembling a newly formed palm line. The man's face remained as expressionless as a statue.

Arcs and lizardmen carefully rummaged through the pile of corpses, even delivering additional blows to those that appeared relatively intact, until they were reduced to a heap of flesh with no possibility of life remaining. The lizardman who had fought with Asar approached, reporting the situation in a language dominated by consonants.

The man pointed to the river at the bottom of the mountain, a arc immediately dashed down, disappearing into the night.

An owl perched on a dry branch next to the camp, staring with its large eyes in confusion at the bloody ground, emitting a timely "hoo-hoo."

Suddenly, the man kicked a small stone, which struck the owl perched on the branch, shattering it into what seemed like a pile of rotting cotton. The remains of the owl fell, oozing black liquid, and a strong, foul odor overwhelmed the blood-stained mountain. Half-arcs and arcs emitted strange cries, hurriedly covering their noses. The man looked down at the stinking black fragments on the ground, frowned slightly, and his statue-like face finally showed a hint of emotion, revealing a trace of concern.

In a dim chamber, a red-robed wizard gently touched the suddenly extinguished crystal ball and sighed, "With so many fresh corpses, Sandru must be very heartbroken to see this."