The lich did not recoil.
It smiled—a slow, knowing curl of bone and malice.
"So you are a dragon," it intoned, lifting one skeletal hand. The phylacterial shards above its crown flared violently.
"Then let us see how long that arrogance lasts."
The chamber howled.
Necromantic sigils ignited across the floor, crawling like living things into the legs, spines, and skulls of the High Orcs. Their bodies swelled, muscles tearing and reforging, armor cracking outward as black energy flooded them.
Their roars shook the dungeon.
One thousand High Orcs—now further boosted, their abyssal power forcibly elevated beyond natural limits.
"Kill him," the lich whispered.
They rushed.
The ground detonated beneath their charge.
Kaelen's expression didn't change.
He unsheathed Axiomfall.
The blade sang.
And then—
Kaelen vanished.
Not movement.
Erasure.
The first wave of orcs never saw him.
Axiomfall carved through space-time itself, each strike precise, ruthless, inevitable. Heads left shoulders before bodies realized they were dead. Gravity folded inward with each swing, pulling enemies into the path of the blade.
Dozens died in a single breath.
Then hundreds.
Kaelen reappeared behind the formation, sword already dripping black blood as bodies collapsed in delayed unison.
The surviving orcs howled and surged from all sides.
They adapted.
They learned.
Several of them abandoned offense entirely, throwing their massive bodies onto Kaelen, grappling his arms, locking his legs, piling onto him with raw strength meant to restrain gods.
Hands clamped around Axiomfall.
They wrenched.
Kaelen let go.
The sword fell.
The orcs froze—confused.
Kaelen smiled.
"Rewind."
Reality snapped.
Time folded backward.
The orcs were suddenly no longer touching him.
Axiomfall was back in his hand.
The moment reset—but Kaelen remembered.
Before they could react—
"Gyro Telekinesis."
The air screamed.
Gravity twisted violently around the clustered orcs, rotating inward at impossible angles. Their bodies lifted, contorted, and then—
CRUSHED.
Bones imploded. Armor compacted like tin. Dozens were flattened into blood-soaked masses that slammed into the floor as gravity spiked again.
Kaelen extended his left hand.
A point of absolute darkness formed in his palm.
A micro black hole.
It was silent.
Then it fed.
The remaining High Orcs were ripped off their feet, screaming as space bent around them. Weapons, bodies, blood, and magic were torn inward, stretched into strings of red and black before vanishing into nothingness.
One by one.
Hundreds gone in seconds.
The chamber finally fell quiet.
The floor was ruined—cratered, cracked, warped by gravity and time. Only Kaelen remained standing at the center, coat fluttering faintly as the last traces of the black hole collapsed into nonexistence.
Above him, the lich's phylacteries pulsed faster.
The two Death Knight Commanders shifted, instinctively stepping forward.
Kaelen lifted Axiomfall and pointed it directly at the lich.
"Send your strongest commanders only," he said calmly.
"No fodder."
Then—
He released it.
Dragonic Pressure.
The dungeon groaned.
An intent so vast it pressed down on reality itself exploded outward. The air thickened into a crushing force. The walls cracked. The runes shattered. Even the sovereign death knights staggered, forced to one knee as their armor screamed in protest.
If a mortal had been here—
They would have been erased.
The lich's throne cracked beneath it as it leaned forward, eyes burning brighter.
For the first time—
It took Kaelen seriously.
And the dungeon understood:
This was not a hero trapped in a nightmare.
This was a calamity that walked forward willingly.