Chương 214: 214：The Shadow Priest's Atonement

This was the Blade of Atonement, a technique unique to Shadow Priests. Once plunged into his shadow core, his soul would instantly dissipate in blinding agony, violently stripping away even the possibility of being resurrected as an undead. It was the most ancient, absolute tradition of penance among the Orcs. Zagar raised his head, his ethereal face locked in absolute resolve. Gripping the bone spike, he thrust it mercilessly toward the soul core burning within his chest!

But in that hair's breadth of a second— CLANG! A fierce streak of black light tore through the heavy air of the hall. Warchief Blackstone had hurled the short-hafted heavy axe from his waist, the weapon spinning with terrifying velocity to strike the bone spike with pinpoint precision. The deafening shriek of metal upon stone echoed through the chamber.

The bone spike was violently wrenched from Zagar's grasp by the overwhelming kinetic force, sent flying across the room to embed itself deeply into the solid stone wall. The impact was so severe it spider-webbed the rock face with dense fractures. Blown flat against the floorstones by the sheer shockwave, Zagar looked up in stunned bewilderment. The ghastly blue soul-fire of his eyes flickered with deep confusion.

In an empire where might made right—where the defeated didn't even possess the right to breathe—why would the Warchief intervene in his honorable suicide? In truth, within that brief heartbeat of silence, Warchief Blackstone's mind had been racing.

'If I stand by and let Zagar die, then we truly lose everything on this board.' The Governor of the Blood Province was a naturally paranoid and deeply sadistic politician. Mogg's death would undoubtedly invite the Governor's apocalyptic fury. But the Warchief knew the political reality: the boy was a "blood-nephew," a mere collateral descendant. He wasn't the Governor's actual flesh and blood! His death was a symbolic blow, not a substantive loss. Warchief Blackstone knew exactly where his true power lay.

As the supreme military commander holding the frontline, the combat effectiveness of his army was his absolute foundation. Meanwhile, Soren had already kicked up a raging storm in their rearward swamps, not only severing supply lines but racking up a terrifyingly lethal combat record. If he could preserve a high-tier asset like Zagar and force him to redeem his sins by personally severing the head of that Crimson Moon Vice Commander, Soren, the stains of their recent humiliation would be washed clean.

Successfully eradicating a human commander with such horrifying potential wouldn't just offset their current blunders; it would be a monumental achievement worthy of the Governor's highest commendations! Most importantly, Zagar had always been arrogantly aloof. By sparing his life now—shattering his pride and reforging it from the ground up—this master assassin Priest would be bound to Warchief Blackstone as the most fiercely loyal hound in his entire arsenal.

"Coward!" Warchief Blackstone took the heavy stone steps two at a time. He reached down, grabbing Zagar by his collar and lifting the weightless, shadow-woven entity right up to eye level.

"You think death solves anything?! You think shredding your own soul will breathe life back into the brothers who died because of your sheer incompetence?!"

"Using death to flee from the crushing weight of your own failure... that is an act of cowardice so pathetic not even the lowest half-orc slave would stoop to it!" Zagar trembled violently under the Warchief's thunderous roar.

"But... but my sins are entirely unforgivable..."

"Bullshit!" The Warchief ruthlessly hurled the Priest back onto the floorstones.

"As long as I, Warchief Blackstone, sit upon this throne, I am the absolute arbiter of who lives and who dies!"

"From this day forth, bury your pathetic death wish! I demand that you embrace your humiliation and forge it into courage! You will use whatever miserable life you have left to personally atone for the catastrophic blunders you've made!" Those crude, brutally harsh words—laced with an undeniable undertone of expectation—instantly ignited a spark of hope deep within Zagar's battered soul.

The Priest, who had fully embraced oblivion mere moments ago, felt his wavering blue soul-fire suddenly flare with a burning, white-hot intensity. A true warrior dies for the lord who recognizes his worth. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. With a single, calculated pull from the abyss, the Warchief had utterly and entirely subjugated the High Priest. Zagar dropped heavily to one knee.

Clenching his ethereal hands into fists, he threw his head back and swore an unbreakable vow.

"Warchief! Your boundless mercy and absolute magnanimity shall be etched into the very core of my soul!"

"Next time... if I fail to slaughter that rebel commander, I, Zagar, shall stand before the entire vanguard and allow the fires of purgatory to slowly consume me from the inside out to wash away today's disgrace!" Watching his formidable general radiate with a renewed will to fight and genuine submission, a look of profound satisfaction surfaced on Warchief Blackstone's grizzled, calculating face.

Slowly pacing back to the tactical sandbox, he pulled a thick stack of the latest consolidated intelligence reports from his breastplate and tossed them onto the table. His voice dropped to a cold, analytical timber.

"Come here. Look closely at exactly what kind of opponent defeated you. Bury your indignation. You didn't lose unjustly." Fighting through the agonizing, stinging pain in his soul, Zagar drifted over to the sandbox.

As his eyes fell upon the newly updated battle markers—Soren's meticulously layered ambushes, the relentless advance of the Macedonian Phalanx, the surgical severing maneuvers of the Wolf Cavalry, and the horrifying close-quarters execution of four fully grown Earth Drakes—the Priest couldn't stop a sharp hiss of cold air from escaping his teeth.

"This... this is nothing like the rigid, orthodox knight-charges favored by the Empire," Zagar muttered, his eyes wide.

"Dispersed concealment, bait-and-bleed tactics, multi-dimensional layered volley fire, heavy weapon suppression..." The Shadow Priest lowered his head, genuine lingering fear bleeding into his confession.

"I admit it. When it comes to tactical paradigms and seizing the absolute perfect window of opportunity, this human named Soren is vastly more lethal than any Silvermoon Kingdom veteran I have ever encountered. Every single phase of our march—even our psychological state—was dancing perfectly in the palm of his hand."

"Exactly." Warchief Blackstone stabbed a thick, calloused finger onto a specific point on the sandbox. It was the wooden marker representing Greywater Village.

"This man, Soren, is an absolute military anomaly. A human prodigy unbound by any traditional rules of engagement!"

"And what's even more terrifying is his uncanny ability to buy absolute loyalty. He has base-born human refugees, half-elves, and even goblins eagerly laying down their lives for him." The Warchief tightened his massive hands into fists, his knuckles popping.

"The man hasn't even fully established his footing, yet he has already dealt a crippling blow to our core forces."

"I can state with absolute certainty: he is now a paramount, existential threat to the entire Orc Alliance."

"If we don't rip him out by the roots now, while he is still trapped within that swamp and his wings have yet to fully develop... I swear to you, the day will come when the entire Blood Province will be reduced to scorched earth beneath his boots!"

"Pass down my orders!" Warchief Blackstone abruptly ripped a heavy war-banner from its stand and hurled it at Zagar.

"Scrap the original operation to infiltrate the fortress and assassinate Grand Duke Valentine! That wily old veteran is undoubtedly surrounded by heavy legions by now; striking at him has lost all strategic value."

"Zagar, you have a new target! Rally every last ounce of strength at your disposal and drive it straight into the heart of the enemy's stronghold—Greywater Village!"

"You are to execute a Maximum-Priority Decapitation Strike against Vice Commander Soren!" Catching the heavy war-banner, turbulent waves crashed through Zagar's mind. He was a High-Tier Shadow Priest. In the past, he would have sneered at an order to assassinate an enemy Crown Prince, scoffing that the target's value was beneath his skills. Had he been ordered half a month ago to stoop so low as to assassinate a mere thousand-man commander in a backwater village, he would have taken it as a grievous insult.

But today, staring at the literal mountain of blood-debts and the sheer tactical deterrence Soren had displayed, Zagar didn't feel a single shred of contempt. Instead, he elevated Soren to the pedestal of the most lethal, terrifying mortal nemesis he would ever face!

"I swear upon my very soul, I accept this mandate!" Zagar declared, touching his agonizingly throbbing chest, his spectral face twisting into a mask of pure murderous intent. His mind meticulously replayed the previous two campaigns as he outlined his analysis to the Warchief.

"During the engagements at the Sunken Bone Shallows and last night at Bloodfang Fortress, our forces were operating entirely in the open, exposed to his shameless ambushes."

"But this time, the positions of hunter and prey will be violently reversed!"

"I will seize the initiative and launch a dead-of-night raid directly into his supposedly impregnable camp! I'll make sure he can't escape even if he grows wings! I will use his severed head to pave over every last ounce of my shattered dignity!" However, Zagar abruptly shifted his tone, his voice now laced with intense, cautious calculation.

"But, Warchief... our Wolf Cavalry scouts near Greywater Village previously reported that the perimeter is cloaked by an unknown, highly-advanced concealment array. Not only is it exceptionally difficult to track, but the approaches are choked with chevaux de frise and toxic spike-pits."

"My retinue of Sons of Titan has suffered catastrophic losses. If we attempt to force a blind, ground-level breach through heavily fortified kill-zones under the cover of darkness, I fear we would be pincushioned by Soren's heavy crossbow volleys long before we even breach the walls."

"I require time," Zagar requested, his rationality completely restored.

"Grant me the time to purge this silver poison from my soul, and to conduct the Shadow Sacrifices necessary to harvest new undead or feral beasts to bolster our vanguard!"

"More importantly, I need to deploy suicide scouts to thoroughly map out Greywater Village's thorny defensive perimeter. I must ensure that this raid is utterly untraceable... a true, guaranteed one-strike kill!" Warchief Blackstone stared down at the severely wounded Priest. Seeing that Zagar had entirely shed his blind arrogance and returned to a state of meticulous, cold-blooded calculation, the Warchief let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle.

"Since you possess such unyielding resolve, I will naturally grant you the time you need." The Warchief heavily paced back to his massive iron throne and sat down. Spreading his thick legs, he rested his chin on his knuckles, a deeply venomous, ruthless smile slithering onto his face.

"However, in the grand game of military strategy... placing all your chips on a single gamble is never as effective as a synchronized, two-pronged assault."

"Doesn't this Soren absolutely love digging his little traps and laying out those repulsive, poisoned spikes at his doorstep?" The Warchief's eyes gleamed with dark, brutal malice.

"He sits in his camp, smugly believing his ground defenses to be utterly impenetrable..."

"But how will he fare... when divine punishment rains down upon him from the skies?"