NEC Chapter 41: Heavenly Punishment, Heavenly Punishment!

For Lady Frost of the Cloudmist Domain, her special status ensured she never lacked for money, but genuine affection was painfully scarce.

An exceptional girl born into a noble family carried the innate mission of forging alliances for her kin. Though she held a nominal place in the line of succession, over the millennia, only a handful of women had ever claimed a title or ascended to the throne.

Those rare women who briefly shone were soon melted away like snowflakes under the scorching heat of history, leaving only faint, moist sighs in the melancholic ballads of bards.

As the twenty-second in line to inherit, with twenty male heirs ahead of her, Lady Frost’s position was, in theory, meaningless unless a catastrophic war wiped out her entire clan while she was away.

Thus, since her mother’s early death, Frost had felt no warmth from her direct relatives. All the affection she knew came from the three steadfast companions by her side.

Old Locke, as kind as a grandfather; Linda, the lady-in-waiting, as caring as an aunt; and now, Captain Paven, shielding her like an uncle.

These were the treasures her mother had left her, an inheritance even the first-in-line heir could not take away.

Now, watching Captain Paven pierced like an underdeveloped porcupine, Frost could only weep, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Her small frame shuddered violently with each sob. At this moment, she despised her own feeble strength.

Faced with the little girl crying her heart out, the orc leader Mogru grew increasingly agitated.

Killing this tenacious human swordsman would be as easy as snapping his fingers, but if it provoked the sobbing girl to the point of reckless desperation, a fight to the death would ruin his mission to “escort” her as ordered by the chieftain. His fate back at the tribe would be no better than this swordsman’s.

Suppressing his violent instincts once more, he forced the knotted muscles of his face into an ugly smile and issued a half-threatening invitation to the frail human group for a “tour of the North.”

Then, the nearly lifeless human swordsman tossed a small object into his collar.

It was called a thermite grenade.

A gift from a mage apprentice adorned with a small skull, given to the lady as a token of gratitude.

The little fellow had mentioned it was a fire-spitting device and had solemnly explained its use. Captain Paven, with his sharp memory, pulled the safety pin and hurled the small cylinder toward the exposed flesh of the orc leader.

The orc leader had pushed up his visor, leaving a gap.

A gravely wounded fourth-tier Goldscale Swordsman, still a Goldscale, performed with one hand an action that typically required two. Paven flicked the pin free and accurately tossed the grenade into the joint of the plate armor.

At first, everyone, including Paven himself, thought it was a futile struggle.

Mogru even cast a disdainful glance at Paven, unbothered by the cool sensation of the object landing in his collar.

Until, seconds later, the delayed fuse ignited.

What did this little device do? It burned for forty seconds at a temperature of three thousand degrees! If the flame’s direction held steady, it could melt through an armored vehicle’s steel plate.

The first blast, capable of carbonizing skin from ten meters away with its shockwave and heat radiation, was entirely contained within the orc leader’s plate armor, like a sealed can. Mogru let out an excruciating howl, his exposed face contorting into a twisted mass. The intense burning and agony caused his eye sockets to burst, blood spraying from the corners of his eyes.

“Ahhh!”

Under everyone’s gaze, the heavy armor, at least of Blueforge quality, began to glow red, deform, and melt. Mogru frantically clawed at his plate armor, trying to undo the bindings encasing the searing heat.

The armor’s contact points had already fused. The orc leader’s furry, massive hand sank into the once-smooth, resilient steel breastplate as if it were mud, tearing open a gash. Blazing hellfire erupted from the breach.

Charred flesh mingled with molten iron, cascading down from the orc’s giant hand, now reduced to white bone.

The orc’s earth-shaking roars came one after another, until they abruptly stopped at a piercing high note.

Like a bird soaring into the sky, only to plummet into an endless abyss.

The Bonebreaker Tribe’s frenzied warrior, Barrier-level Great Knight Mogru, died in utter humiliation here.

Carbonized flesh and twisted, gnarled steel fused together, crafting a grotesque “true steel body”!

His flesh and the iron casing absorbed most of the thermite grenade’s damage, leaving Paven with only minor burns after the armor shattered. Closest to the scene, feeling it most acutely and reacting fastest, the guard captain rolled twice toward his allies’ position and let out a booming shout: “Healing!”

Old Locke and Captain Paven had worked together for years. Though stunned by the sudden turn of events, he instinctively unleashed the first healing wave upon hearing the swordsman’s cry.

Immediately after, the old man fully grasped the situation and hurled the [Life’s Benediction], stored in his wooden bracelet, toward the guard captain. Warm, surging green vitality began to flow through Paven’s body.

The Goldscale Swordsman went on a rampage.

Facing almost no resistance, the orc cavalry collapsed into chaos.

Due to their line of sight, even the humans facing them couldn’t fully comprehend what had happened. The wolf cavalry, fixated on the human position, had even less chance to see. When they turned at their leader’s earth-shattering roars, they were met with a terrifying scene of death.

“Tika, tika!”

This was an orc phrase, translating to “Heavenly punishment, heavenly punishment!”

The orcs couldn’t fathom how their leader, in full control of the battlefield, had turned to charcoal and dust along with his peerless armor.

They could only interpret it as a punishment from the gods or ancestors, shattering the orc knights’ will to fight.

After Paven cut down several dazed wolf cavalry, the remaining riders snapped out of it and scattered in all directions, fleeing in a panicked rout.

Without their leader, the orcs were no different from a pack of stray dogs.

Lady Frost finally rushed out from the defensive position, tears streaming down her face as she shouted while running, “Uncle Paven, how are you? Are you okay?”

Locke, his face full of disbelief, was quicker, squatting before Mogru’s iron-heavy corpse.

His withered fingers trembled, wanting to touch but not daring to, his voice hoarse as he asked, “What happened? What in the world happened?”

Paven, propping himself up with his sword, gritted his teeth as he roughly yanked out the comb, fork, and other objects embedded in his body, issuing his orders as guard captain.

“Stop looking! We can’t stay here! Protect the lady and retreat to Boulder Fortress immediately!”

“Leave everything behind, go, now!”

“Confirm safety first!”

>>> NEXT CHAPTER