Chương 68: 68：The Archmage's Skull

[Eagle Eye Perception] activated instantly. The fleeing Karl, the galloping warg, the direction of the wind, and the ambient humidity—everything materialized in his vision as precise ballistic data lines. Soren stared coldly at Karl's heaving back. He released the bowstring. Twang! Three wind-element runes flared to life simultaneously. The first arrow streaked out like lightning, viciously piercing right through the giant warg's hind leg!

The beast let out a shrill howl as its massive body suddenly pitched forward. The sheer momentum of its frantic sprint sent it tumbling wildly through the mud. Karl was violently thrown from the saddle, crashing heavily into a pile of jagged rocks. Fighting down the churning nausea in his guts, a frantic will to live burned in Karl's eyes. He snatched up his fallen heavy serrated blade and planted his hands in the dirt, trying to force himself back up using his formidable physical strength.

But Soren gave him no such chance. Two more sharp whistles tore through the air. Thwack! Thwack! The second steel-fletched arrow accurately pierced Karl's right arm, brutally pinning his ruined limb—along with the heavy serrated blade—dead to a decaying log! The third arrow struck without an inch of deviation, driving deep into the juncture of his right thigh. The arrowhead burst half a foot out the back of his leg, sending a geyser of dark green blood spewing into the air!

"Argh!!!" Karl let out a bloodcurdling shriek like a slaughtered pig. Like a mangy cur stripped of its spine, he collapsed, convulsing into the foul-smelling mud, utterly paralyzed. Right arm crippled. Right leg ruined. The once-arrogant Orc Commander had been systematically and thoroughly stripped of any ability to fight back or flee. The moment Karl hit the ground, a mud-caked figure slipped out from the nearby bushes like a phantom. It was Gary, Captain of the Stealth Squad.

Flipping his poisoned dagger into a reverse grip mid-air, he aimed its cold edge squarely at Karl's exposed throat. A mere half-inch was all that kept him from slitting the Orc leader's windpipe.

"Gary, stand down," Soren ordered, dropping lightly to the ground. Gary's wrist froze instantly in mid-air, the dagger's edge resting right against the coarse bristles of Karl's neck. He cast a questioning glance back at Soren, but without a second of hesitation, he withdrew his blade and melted back into the shadows a meter away. Soren approached with unhurried steps, looming over Karl, who was still groaning in agony in the muddy water.

"My Lord, a Greenskin Centurion like this holds little intelligence value. Why not just finish him?" Gary asked in a hushed tone from behind.

"A dead man has no value. But an enemy left half-dead? That is priceless." Soren's gaze shifted past Karl, landing on Victor, who was panting heavily in the distance. Soren's mind was clear as glass. To recruit a high-tier mage consumed by hatred, a mere 'life-saving debt' wouldn't be enough to earn his absolute, undying loyalty. If Soren had killed Karl with a single arrow, Victor would undoubtedly be grateful. But the burning hatred he had harbored for half a year would have found no release.

Deep down, Victor's spirit would remain dead. Only by placing the blade of vengeance directly into Victor's hands could Soren forge the purest, most unbreakable bond of loyalty. By now, the skirmish on the valley floor had completely quieted down. Sixty-four heavy infantrymen were methodically and apathetically moving through the area, delivering killing blows to every Orc corpse they found. Victor, slowly processing the reality that he had survived, felt his knees give out.

He collapsed heavily onto the muddy ground. Then, a violent shudder ran through his body.

"Karl… Where is Karl?!" Acting like a madman, Victor ignored the excruciating pain of jagged rocks slicing his bare soles. He sprinted barefoot into the mangled heap of Orc corpses, wading through mud and severed limbs. His pale, slender mage's hands suddenly erupted with terrifying strength. He frantically overturned the heavy bodies of the Black Iron Orcs, one after another.

Dark green blood smeared his face, soaking into the tattered remnants of his silver mage robes—garments that had once symbolized his prestige. He was searching for a specific demon. The one with a scarred face.

"Where are you?! Where did you go, you beast?!" Victor screamed. As he dug through the butchered remains, he let out a harrowing, guttural cry, like a wounded lone wolf. Just as he teetered on the edge of utter, despairing madness, a firm hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Victor whipped his head around. Standing before him was a grim-faced, dark-haired man. Soren didn't waste a single word. He simply raised the tip of his longbow, silently pointing toward a sunken, muddy crater to their left.

Victor followed the bow's direction. There, amidst the sludge, Karl was hopelessly pinned to the earth by two steel-fletched arrows. Dangling from the Orc's waist was a snow-white human skull, adorned with tarnished gold leaf. With every ragged, agonized breath Karl took, the skull rattled softly against his armor. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! Victor's breath hitched in his throat.

Every drop of blood in his body surged to his head in an explosive rush! He bent down and snatched up the rusted iron sword he had discarded moments earlier. Step by excruciating step, he walked toward Karl. Karl struggled to lift his head, his single eye locking onto the frail mage slowly encroaching upon him. Even backed into a hopeless corner, the primal savagery and arrogant pride ingrained in his Orcish bones refused to let him cower before a weak human.

Karl suddenly peeled back his tusk-filled maw into a grotesque grin. He hocked up a thick wad of bloody phlegm and spat it violently. Splat! It landed dead center on Victor's foot. Karl erupted into a maniacal laugh:"Victor! You spineless piece of trash! You don't even have enough mana left to conjure a single spark!"

"What right do you have to kill me? The only reason your pathetic life was spared is because of these wild dogs hiding in the shadows!" Karl fiercely puffed out his chest, making the old man's skull at his waist rattle mockingly:"Look at you, scurrying around like a rat! You aren't even worth a single toenail of your old master! Even if I die here today, Warchief Blackstone's army of a hundred thousand will eventually crush you bugs beneath our boots! Make it quick! Come kill me!"

Faced with the foul-mouthed, utterly unrepentant murderer of his master, Victor's face remained entirely expressionless. He stepped directly over Karl. Victor raised both hands, locking them into a tight reverse-grip on the hilt of the rusted sword. He aimed the bent, dulled tip precisely at a gap in Karl's black iron half-plate, right over his chest. Then, throwing his entire body weight onto the pommel, he slammed it down! Shckk!!

The rust-caked blade tore through the Orc's thick, leathery hide, and finally, pierced straight through Karl's beating heart! Karl's arrogant laughter was violently choked off. His eyes bulged from their sockets as thick globs of bloody froth spilled from his mouth. Yet, he didn't die immediately. Driven by the terrifying vitality of his race, Karl grabbed the rusted blade with his intact left hand, desperately trying to pull it out. Victor's eyes went wide, his jaw clenching so hard his molars cracked.

"Go down there. And repent to him." The thin muscles in Victor's arms strained to the point of tearing. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he viciously twisted the blade a full one hundred and eighty degrees inside Karl's chest cavity! Mangling the heart! Obliterating it completely! Karl's massive frame underwent one final, violent spasm before going completely limp, melting into the mud like a pile of rotting meat. His wicked life had finally reached its end. Victor gasped for air, his chest heaving.

It was as if plunging that single sword had drained the last six months of vitality he had spent just trying to survive. He let go of the hilt. With trembling, reverent hands, he gingerly untied the human skull from the dead Orc's waist. Using his filthy sleeve dampened by clean rainwater, he gently, meticulously wiped the mud from the bone. He then pressed the skull tightly against his own chest.

This was the face of his beloved master—the man who, back in the Mage Tower, had lovingly patted his head with large, warm hands countless times. The humiliation, self-hatred, terror, and grief he had suffocated for half a year finally burst forth like a dam giving way. Victor threw his head back toward the oppressive, fog-shrouded sky.

"Master!!!" His anguished, hoarse scream echoed endlessly through the desolate ravine. They say real men don't cry. But in that moment, the Silver-tier Mage—once hailed as the most dazzling genius of the Silvermoon Kingdom—sat slumped in a pool of blood, wailing like a helpless, broken child. Endless sorrow dragged his memories back to the past. He could almost smell the sunbeams filtering through the stained glass at the apex of the Silvermoon Kingdom's Royal Mage Tower.

He could hear the old man smacking the chalkboard with his wooden ruler, his beard puffing up in anger as he furiously scolded Victor for mispronouncing a basic fire rune. Those had been such bright, beautiful days of learning. The old man used to tell him, "Victor, the true essence of magic does not lie in how many lives you can destroy, but in how many people's dreams you can protect."

But in the end, that gentle old Archmage—a man who always preached mercy and morality—was taken by the most barbaric race in the world. They tied him behind a warg's tail like a dead dog, dragging him across jagged gravel roads until every ounce of his flesh had been ground away. On that day, all of Victor's pride, and all of his innocence, were hacked to pieces by Orcish battleaxes.