Chapter 26
Two weeks later
Orcoid camp, at the site of the looted caravan, two days' journey from the city.
Amid the darkness of night, barely lit by the occasional torch, the orcoid camp was full of noisy activity—some of them continuing to eat and mate even now. And as much as I found them disgusting and wanted to tear them limb from limb, I had to admit their vigilance: they were better at it than most of the bandits we'd encountered in the past two weeks. On small man-made mounds, guards stood watch, and they didn't get distracted from their duty. Still, they remained quite primitive—the distance between them was such that the disappearance of one wouldn't be noticed by the others.
I drew my bow and, wearing the slightly mad smile I'd grown accustomed to lately, shot an orcoid in the throat, savoring how agonizing his death would be, knowing he wouldn't be able to raise the alarm as his consciousness faded from a severed carotid artery.
Was I aware that I could no longer be called normal? Oh, yes. In fact, I'd fully realized it over these past two weeks. The idea that I'd one day take pleasure in killing used to seem wild to me—but now… now I almost revel in the pain of others. It had gotten so bad that Big Mama seriously considered whether to keep associating with me, or just finish me off before I birthed another monster. She was only stopped by the fact that I behaved this way exclusively with enemies—and otherwise remained the same sometimes-dim Lona.
How did I even know her thoughts? Easy: I overheard her talking with Indiana when they thought I was asleep. The archaeologist was deeply troubled by my bloodlust—especially after I tried to recreate the "Blood Eagle" on a slaver, taking care to keep him alive till the end this time. When it was done and my victim, struggling for breath, seemed to flap his "wings" made of his own ribs, Indiana couldn't take it anymore and finished the man himself, unable to keep watching. At that moment, it was like I got slapped mentally—realizing I'd gone way too far.
I didn't apologize—honestly, I thought the bastard deserved every second of agony. Still, I started keeping a closer watch on my impulses. I didn't want to lose the only friends I had in this world.
While these thoughts raced through my mind, I had already moved further on, nocking another arrow to claim my next target. Ah, how I'd love to just let loose and hack this filth apart with my saber! But self-preservation, and not wanting to give Merimi—who kept an eye on me—a reason to interfere, held me back. Why? In the game, scouting the wrecked caravan was an early quest you could brute-force by wiping out all the orcoids. The problem was sheer numbers—recently, in a cleared tower, we found there were way more of these creatures in reality than in the game. But unlike the game, they didn't "respawn" after death—and to balance that, their numbers were about ten times higher. That tower had at least two hundred of them. I totally messed up then, using up my mana too soon, and had to swing my sword for ages. If it weren't for Merimi and Indiana's support, things could've ended badly. These monsters, while clumsy, are dangerous in numbers: when they spot a target, they act in a wave, and if any try to retreat from fear, their own kind trample them—or worse. That, they can do.
That's why now I started my sweep as quietly as possible—to conserve stamina and resources for the real fight. Slowly, but surely, I took out sentries until I was sure I could slip into the camp unnoticed. The camp, where—aside from where the slave girls were kept—most orcoids slept out in the open, totally defenseless.
Switching my bow for my now-familiar saber, I crept into the camp. From my first steps, I was struck by the disgusting stench—a mix of blood, excrement, and other bodily fluids. This is why, given the choice, I prefer hunting slavers—their bases at least don't stink as strongly.
I moved slowly, careful to make no noise that might wake the prey—most of whom slept sprawled right on the grass, surrounded by the larger specimens lying on animal hides. That's the kind I crept up on now. Unlike their smaller kin, who looked like typical fantasy goblins, this monster was at least 2.5 meters tall. They're slow, but get too close and, pain be damned, they could snatch away your weapon and crack your skull with a single blow. Still, even these beasts have vulnerabilities.
Aiming carefully, I drove my blade in a swift motion into its carotid artery. The massive body jerked in agony, eyes snapping open, but in the next moment, blood spurted from the wound in a fountain, splashing me, and the light faded from its eyes before it could cover the wound. A quick and, frankly, undeservedly easy death compared to the sentries.
Shaking my head in disappointment, I moved on—no lingering over each sleeper: a swift stab to the neck, and on to the next. With every new corpse, the scent of blood grew stronger. I aimed to take out as many enemies as I could before the real battle began.
As the silent slaughter continued, one of the smarter (though weaker) orcoids nearby, who'd dragged some human clothes under a wagon, wrinkled his nose and woke up. Yawning, he looked around, clueless as to what had disturbed him. He sniffed the air—and then…
"BLKRIIIII!!!"—a vile, retching shriek echoed out from the orcoid. Sleeping orcoids began to wake.
Not all of them managed to get their bearings, but for me, this was the last chance to use surprise. Swinging my saber, I chopped off the head of the orcoid to my right, scooped up an iron shield, and plunged forward—transforming into a killing machine. Every blow aimed to inflict at least debilitating, if not fatal, injury.
I chopped off heads, severed tendons, smashed bones with my shield—anything but stop; in battle, stopping means dying.
Orcoids snapped out of their stupor quickly, and, seeing their kin dying, they howled and rushed me. Some had weapons—spears and swords—most had nothing. Worst of all, even now, their eyes still burned with the lust. Even the spearmen tried to disable, not kill. That made the fight a bit easier—but soon there were just too many, and I had to fall back, fighting as I went. That actually made things easier: fighting orcoids was simpler than fighting humans—like dumb bots in an RPG, they clumped together.
I switched my sword for my staff, summoned a massive water sphere, and flung it into the crowd—just slowing them a bit and soaking them. Then I cast three lightning bolts in rapid succession, blinding myself for a moment, but when I could see again, where fifty or so orcoids had just been was now just a pile of charred corpses—some literally blown apart by the electricity. The reek of scorched flesh was now added to the stench cocktail.
"I feel like a Baldur's Gate 3 character soloing Honor Mode," I sighed, recalling a recent fight.
"Psst"—suddenly a small wooden dart struck my chest, just grazing my ribs. The attack was so unexpected that, had I not inherited Lona's experience, I'd have frozen. Instead, I immediately focused on the origin and saw a small orcoid behind a wagon with a blowpipe.
There was no time to think—I didn't know if the dart was poisoned. Swiftly, I summoned my staff, grabbed a blue potion, yanked out the cork and guzzled it down, blocked the next dart with my shield, pulled out the one stuck in me—and healed the wound.
"You're done, pip-squeak," I muttered grimly, aiming my staff at the wagon.
"Five… ten… twenty… thirty… forty…"—I began counting off each stage of charging a fireball, which, thanks to Lona's memories, I could now create without absurd mana drain, boosting its explosion power.
When the little orcoid popped back out for a shot, he froze in horror—a fireball was hurtling toward him. He never had a chance to run.
"BOOM!"—the fireball smashed into the wagon, and the mighty blast literally vaporized the orcoid. The rest, who'd been having fun with the slaves, finally noticed and turned toward me.
Into the camp's center—now more a slaughterhouse—ran a group of well-armed orcoids, even in armor and with shields—though… with nothing on below the waist. Leading them was a hulking orcoid, practically an ogre.
They glared at me, eyes red with rage, as I stood among the corpses of their kin.
"GRAAAAH!"—the chief roared, charging at me, surprisingly fast, with his minions at his heels.
I just smirked and began charging another fireball, firing it as they'd barely covered half the distance. The roaring explosion tore the brute and his followers apart.
Clap-clap-clap. Three slow claps, and Big Mama entered my field of view.
"Getting better compared to last time," she said, eyeing the hole in the front of my robe and adding with mild disdain, "But with such carelessness, no wonder you kept dying so often."
"I didn't see him," I pouted, realizing which orcoid she meant.
"Ah, whatever," Merimi waved her hand, turning to leave. "I'll prep camp, you deal with the poor souls in their pit."
"All right," I sighed, understanding I was in for another, to put it mildly, unpleasant scene. Unlike slavers, who at least make some attempt to keep their slaves halfway sane, orcoids don't bother. It'll be a miracle if ten percent of the captives maintain even a spark of reason—the rest either die, kill themselves, or their minds are so broken they become 'vegetables.'
Still, those ten percent still have a shot at recovery, and since I possess healing magic, I can't just walk by… plus, it's good XP.
"Speaking of XP!"—I quickly pulled up the system and felt my mood lift: the fight had gained me two levels, reaching the coveted 25th, which unlocks the Sage class.
Calmly investing two points in Wisdom and ignoring the rush of excitement, I saved the last for the next camp upgrade. After all, it wouldn't affect me more than—would it?
Level 25
Mana: 250 + 100 Resource regen: 2 hours
Morale: 30
Strike force: 435 kg
Stamina: 150
Inventory limit: 300 kg
Combat skills: 3
Stealth: 10
Wisdom: 25 + 10
Survival: 10
Physique: 20