Karl slowly raised his sword, its point aimed at the scarred orc: "Your life."
The scarred orc stared at Karl with a grim expression; his grey-green face twisted with a mix of anger and fear. His grip on the spear tightened and loosened, a fierce glint flickering in his eyes. The man before him was unmoved by either soft or hard methods; he understood that negotiations had failed, but he dared not make a move. That brief, less-than-half-minute episode spoke for itself.
This man had slaughtered ferocious wolves as if cutting grass; his movements were so fast they were nearly imperceptible, and his strength was terrifying. Orcs had low intelligence, but this one considered himself quite clever. He knew that even the three of them together would likely not last long.
Just as he hesitated, he noticed that the other's gaze had shifted from him to another direction. Karl looked over his shoulder, gazing into the distance behind him. There was no tension or fear in his eyes, but rather a flicker of... interest?
Something behind him? The scarred orc instinctively turned around, his gaze sweeping toward the horizon. Then he saw a cavalry unit approaching rapidly against the setting sun. The riders were tall and slender, clad in light golden armour — they were Elves. There were no fewer than twenty of them, moving in tight formation at incredible speed. At the front rode a dark-haired Elf in a silver crown, mounted on a black horse, holding a sword whose blade gleamed.
The scarred orc's heart tightened; Elves were among their mortal enemies. These long-eared creatures had superior eyesight, were exceptionally skilled archers, and showed no mercy to orcs. Elves typically did not act alone; their presence often indicated an Elven fortress or patrol nearby.
At that moment, one of the Elves in the group drew his bow, his movements so graceful they resembled a performance. The bowstring was drawn, and the arrow was aimed directly at him. "FWOOSH!" — the sound of an arrow piercing the air came, and the scarred orc instinctively turned to the side, nearly rolling off his wolf's back. The arrow grazed his shoulder, spraying blood and fragments of broken leather armour.
Pain made him groan, and fear overwhelmed him. He hastily grabbed the wolf's fur. Then, with all his strength, he climbed back onto the wolf's back and hissed: "Faster! Get out of here! Those damned Elves!" Before he had even finished speaking, he slapped the wolf on the head, which let out a low growl and turned to flee.
However, he received no response from his companions. The scarred orc turned around, about to curse them for their stupidity. What was the point of being dazed at a time like this? Were they just waiting to die? But what he saw made him choke on his words.
His two companions, along with the wolves they rode, were all missing their heads. They had indeed "flown" off — the heads of the two orcs were rolling on the grass several metres away. Their faces still wore expressionless looks, as if they didn't realise they were dead. The heads of the two wolves had rolled even further, their eyes still open, but their light had faded. Four headless corpses froze in place for a moment. Then, strong streams of blood gushed from their necks, like four small fountains. The blood splattered onto the dry grass, forming vivid crimson patches. Finally, the bodies slowly fell to the ground with a dull thud.
It had all happened so fast: from the moment he turned and saw the Elf, nearly struck by the arrow, to the moment he turned back and saw his companions dead. The entire process had probably taken less than two seconds; he hadn't even seen when Karl moved or how he had done it.
The scarred orc trembled, not from pain, but from deep-seated fear. Without further hesitation, and without even glancing at Karl, he desperately urged his wolf to flee into the distance, not looking back. The wolf, sensing its master's fear, broke into a desperate run, even faster than when it had arrived.
After riding some distance — perhaps dozens of metres, perhaps over a hundred — he involuntarily glanced back. Karl remained standing in the same spot, showing no intention of pursuing. He simply stood there calmly, his sword angled diagonally toward the ground. A relieved smile gradually appeared on the scarred orc's face, as if he had escaped death. This man truly couldn't match the speed of a wolf; no matter how strong a man was, two legs couldn't outrun four...
In the next moment, the smile on his face froze, because a spear was flying toward him.
Karl saw the last remaining orc trying to escape and calmly wiped the blood from his sword. Then, with a light flick of his toe, he sent a spear dropped by a dead orc into the air. The spear spun in the air, and Karl raised his foot and kicked its end.
"Boom!" The spear instantly accelerated, slicing through the air. The scarred orc had no time to react; he only felt a chill in his back, followed by agonising pain. Immediately after, his body was violently torn from the wolf's back by tremendous force.
"Ah!!" A short, piercing cry. The spear pierced through the orc's back and emerged from his chest, carrying him another few dozen metres. Finally, with a loud "thud," it pinned him to an outcrop of rock. The spearhead embedded itself in the stone, and the shaft trembled violently from the impact, emitting a humming sound.
The orc was nailed to the rock, his limbs twitching, dark red blood flowing from the corners of his mouth. He gripped the spear shaft protruding from his chest with both hands, trying to pull it out, but in vain; the spear had already impaled him. He struggled several times, his yellow eyes gradually losing their light, and finally his head lolled to the side as he breathed his last.
The wolf felt the lightness on its back, turned around, let out a frightened whimper, and fled into the distant forest without looking back.
After all this, Karl couldn't be bothered with the remaining fleeing wolves. He found a rock, moved away from the corpses, sat down, and waited. The Elves fought quickly and skilfully, and the fleeing wolves, despite their ferocity, were defeated. But they were practically powerless against the well-trained Elven cavalry. The Elves split into several groups and surrounded the fleeing wolves from different sides, shooting them down with arrows.
When the last wolf fell in a pool of blood, its heart pierced by an Elf's longsword, silence fell over the plain. Soon after, more than a dozen Elves on horseback, led by the dark-haired Elf in the crown, stopped not far from Karl.
The Elves were highly disciplined; no one spoke, and even the horses stood still, but their expressions could not be hidden. On every Elf's face were surprise, wariness, and a faint, almost imperceptible sense of awe. The Elves' gazes swept over the horrifying scene around them. On the ground lay neatly butchered wolf carcasses, wolves beaten and folded in half. Headless orcs and wolves, and the orc chieftain pinned to the rock by a spear.