Szzzzz…
As arrows and crossbow bolts pierced the demons around him, Orsaga clearly heard the sizzling sound of flesh being corroded.
Their limbs and even internal organs, under the divine energy imbued into those weapons, reacted as if meeting their natural enemy—once the surface was pierced, large-scale decay would instantly set in, turning them into a pile of rotting sludge.
Casually reaching out to catch a crossbow bolt that had been aimed at him, Orsaga lightly squeezed his fingers and crushed the arrowhead, revealing a fine white powder hidden within.
Szzzzz…
The moment the powder touched him, it released bursts of holy energy, trying relentlessly to break through his defenses.
Orsaga didn't respond immediately. Instead, he observed with interest.
He watched the process carefully.
This substance's structure reminded him somewhat of the so-called "Ashes of Saints" from a previous world. Judging by its properties, it was likely created by processing the bones of devout followers to awaken their latent spiritual power. However, its potency was far less concentrated.
By Orsaga's estimate, the deceased used here hadn't reached the level of a true saint while alive—at most, they were simply devout believers.
The reason it seemed so powerful was because the runes inscribed on the arrows amplified its effects, turning minimal power into maximum results.
This, in turn, revealed the deep foundation of a high-level world.
Unlike those in lower-tier worlds who could only recklessly expend rare resources, this world's inhabitants possessed extensive knowledge, allowing them to skip basic stages and extract optimal results from minimal input.
After pondering for a moment, Orsaga let a burst of his magical power corrode the holy powder entirely.
He murmured to himself, "Using bone ash as a weapon—what a way to disrespect our kind…"
When two opposing forces collide, the stronger one naturally dominates.
Under such circumstances, the destructive power of these arrows was, in Orsaga's view, not much different from ordinary bolts.
The holy energy was neutralized the moment it touched him. And relying on mere physical impact alone, the bolts couldn't even scratch his exoskeleton.
Put plainly, if this was the extent of their attack power, Orsaga could stand still and take the hits without suffering a single injury.
The difference in the purity of power was on a whole other level.
In fact, he could spot hundreds of magical creatures on the battlefield with similar resistance to arrows and bolts.
Most of them, while not possessing bloodlines as pure as Orsaga's and lacking his refined magical energy, still found such attacks nothing more than a tickle.
Compared to the vast number of Lesser rank demons being slaughtered, these high rank monsters, though fewer in number, posed the real threat to the defenders' frontline.
In direct combat, ordinary soldiers were utterly outmatched. These monsters tore through ranks unchallenged—if even one managed to scale the city walls, the casualties would be devastating.
For a race whose reproduction rate couldn't match that of demons, such losses were unsustainable. If this continued, just a few demonic invasions would be enough to wipe out their entire rank-and-file force.
Therefore, it was inevitable that powerful native warriors would step in to intercept these dangerous creatures.
And just as he expected, as Orsaga drew closer to the city walls, a faint current of air stirred behind his head.
He instinctively sensed danger.
Tilting his head slightly, he narrowly avoided a silent, sweeping strike—a curved blade over a meter long slashed just past the spot between his horns.
Had he been a second slower, that blade would have split his skull cleanly from the crown.
Turning his gaze toward the attacker, Orsaga saw a tall, muscular figure—humanoid in shape but retaining some bestial features.
A Beastman.
Based on intel he had gathered earlier, Orsaga immediately identified the opponent's race.
According to what he knew, Beastmen were physically and mentally similar to humans. Their intelligence, lifespan, reproductive rate, and physique all closely matched. However, they tended to be more hot-blooded, and very few were gifted in magic. Instead, they possessed a unique affinity known as Shamanic Talent.
Orsaga glanced at the intricate markings covering the Beastman's body and easily deciphered their meanings.
"Warrior of Valor", "Body of Swiftness", "Poison Repulsion", "Damage Reduction"…
There were well over a hundred of them.
From what Orsaga understood, these markings weren't merely decorative—they were war totems, etched by Beastman shamans using rare magical ingredients.
Among the natives, these totems were considered mysterious and sacred powers, bearable only by the strong.
The more powerful the individual, the more totems they could bear.
So in a way, the number of totems was an indicator of one's strength.
Orsaga cracked his neck and looked up at the Beastman, who stood slightly taller than his current compressed form. Without any trace of anger from the ambush, he curiously asked, "Judging by how many totems you've got, you should be Legendary rank by your world's standards, right?"
The Beastman had quickly stabilized himself after the failed ambush, preparing for a counterattack. Hearing the question, a flicker of confusion crossed his face—clearly puzzled by Orsaga's sudden interest.
After a brief hesitation, he gave no reply, opting instead to swing his blade at Orsaga once more.
Orsaga sidestepped slightly to the left, easily dodging again. Still unbothered, he took the opportunity to carefully examine the runes carved into the blade. After a moment, he remarked calmly:
"Exorcism runes. That'd be pretty nasty to get hit by. Quite the specialized equipment."
The Beastman didn't respond—he simply pressed forward with a flurry of slashes.
Empowered by his totems, the flurry looked as if the strikes had been launched all at once. The arcs they carved into the air were seamless, leaving Orsaga no room to retreat. The blows came straight for his neck.
The Beastman was confident—this was a secret technique he had trained for decades to master. Since learning it, few had managed to avoid it. At most, some had blocked it with brute strength.
In the next instant, however, his eyes widened in disbelief.
He couldn't even tell if his attack had landed.
Because Orsaga's response was far beyond anything he'd imagined.
The demon had taken his own head off—and dodged the strikes that way.
Holding his severed head like a basketball, Orsaga gave it a light toss and said nonchalantly, "This angle's a bit weird. Not quite used to it."
Then, just as calmly, he reattached his head.
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