NEC Chapter 40: Northwind Wastes, Bonebreaker Tribe

The immense force of the clash numbed Paven’s arms. Taking advantage of the moment, the lieutenant’s wolf raked its claws across his chainmail greaves, tearing deep gashes that instantly oozed blood.

“Roar!” The orc lieutenant let out a massive bellow, swinging his warhammer again with a gust of foul wind, aiming straight for Paven’s skull!

Gritting his teeth, Paven, bolstered by the last of Locke’s healing glow, didn’t dodge. He swung his greatsword in a counterstrike, bypassing the hammer entirely, adopting a stance that screamed mutual destruction.

The orc lieutenant panicked.

He only wanted to show off his loyalty to the leader, not literally spill his guts for him.

Frantically dropping the hammer, the lieutenant’s massive frame lurched back in an ungainly dodge. The uncontrolled hammer smashed into Paven’s shoulder plate, emitting a teeth-grinding metallic screech as the armor crumpled.

But Paven’s full-force strike, precise and ferocious, plunged into the lieutenant’s exposed abdomen, left vulnerable by his dodge, eliciting a piercing wail.

The orc lieutenant clutched his wound, gushing hot, fragmented flesh, writhing in agony in the mud.

Ignoring his numbed body and the rolling foe, Paven planted a foot, channeling all his strength, will, and courage into a leap. Raising his greatsword high, he launched like an arrow toward the figure seated imposingly atop the hill, unleashing a desperate strike!

Sky Empire standard military swordsmanship—Fury Slash!

The blade tore through the air with a sharp shriek, pale golden fighting spirit flickering on its edge.

Then, this fully charged strike was effortlessly swatted away by a black waraxe the opponent produced from nowhere.

The terrifying recoil sent Paven flying like a broken kite, crashing heavily into the blood-mud mix on the hillside, tumbling several times before stopping.

Too far for Master Locke’s healing to reach, the gravely wounded guard captain struggled as the old mage tried to rush forward, only to be driven back mercilessly by wolf riders brandishing chain-hammers.

Paven struggled to rise, spitting a mouthful of blood. Facing the orc leader striding toward him, he swung his sword again.

Undoubtedly, the orc leader was at least a Barrier-level Great Knight. Even at his peak, Paven could only last a few rounds. Now, wounded and re-wounded, he was powerless.

“Don’t hurt him!”

Seeing the guard captain in mortal danger, Lady Frost let out a heart-wrenching scream. She shoved past Linda, gripping her glowing knight’s sword, ready to charge out of the defensive circle.

Linda, pale as death, blocked her path, voice breaking with sobs. “Your Highness! You can’t go out! Please, I beg you!!”

The orc leader clearly heard Frost’s cry. Lowering his massive black waraxe, he walked slowly toward Paven, looming over him. A low, scornful grunt echoed from his helmet.

Then, with an armored hand, he effortlessly seized Paven’s chest plate, lifting him like a tattered sack. Facing the silent human enclave surrounded by wolf riders, he descended the hill step by step.

Paven still fought back.

But it was futile against the leader’s towering frame and overwhelming strength. He was as weak as an infant.

The orc leader ignored his feeble struggles.

Clad in refined plate armor, the leader was impervious to Paven’s dagger, drawn from his belt, which merely scratched the surface like a rust-remover.

Heavy boots thudded against the ground, each step resonating like a blow to the surviving humans’ hearts.

Blood dripped from Paven’s shattered armor, leaving a broken trail of dark red behind the leader.

In the small human enclave, the remaining guards and mercenaries were ashen, their weapon-gripping hands visibly trembling. Several maids had collapsed to the ground.

Among the professionals, Master Locke clutched a magical device, muttering haltingly. Linda, barely holding herself together, shielded the young girl.

Lady Frost, gripping her glowing knight’s sword so tightly her knuckles whitened, saw its ornate light dim, as if reflecting her despair.

The orc leader reveled in the suffocating despair before him. His right hand steadily held the struggling guard captain, while his left slid the massive waraxe into its back slot. With a thick finger, he pushed up his visor, revealing a muscular face with protruding canines.

“Honored Lady Frost,” his voice was gruff, laced with a heavy orc accent, yet he mimicked human etiquette with a chilling dissonance.

“Northwind Wastes, Bonebreaker Vanguard, Mogru, extends ‘sincere’ greetings. On behalf of the great Bonebreaker Chieftain, I invite you to be a guest at our Northwind Tribe!”

He gave a stiff, mocking knight’s bow, dripping with derision.

“Northwind? You came from the north?” Before others could react, the well-traveled Locke shouted, “Crossing half the Starry Continent, traversing the Storm Sea, to ambush the lady of the Emerald Duchy—what are you planning?”

The orc grinned, about to speak, when a screeching, ear-scraping noise erupted!

Seizing the leader’s distracted moment, Paven, with unknown strength, drew a small knife used for trimming crossbow fletching and scraped it viciously across the leader’s gleaming plate armor, leaving a long white gash!

The grating sound made even the thick-skinned orc leader wince.

It was unbearable, more damaging than the earlier Fury Slash.

“Damned insect!” Mogru, thoroughly enraged, snatched the knife and, without looking, plunged it into the gap in Paven’s shattered shoulder plate, inflicting brutal secondary damage.

The searing pain blackened Paven’s vision. With his still-functional right hand, he groped futilely in his weapon pouch for anything to use.

Against a Barrier-level Great Knight, any weapon was useless.

Mogru, irritated by this ant-like tenacity, refrained from killing Paven to keep the girl compliant, enduring his petty assaults before retaliating.

A trembling sleeve arrow, a silver fruit knife, a small steel trap, a tiny fork for field meals, a hairpin or brooch…

The valiant Guard Captain Paven soon bristled with these odd, domestic, yet absurdly out-of-place battlefield trinkets, resembling a ragdoll pricked by a mischievous child or a walking junk display.

A mix of heroism and absurdity…

“Enough, you damned insect!” Mogru roared in frustration, snatching a comb Paven had just drawn and jamming it into him up to the hilt.

“Honored Lady, my patience is limited. If you don’t make your fools stop their futile resistance and come with me obediently, I’ll feed them all to my little darlings!”

“As for you, rest assured, I’ll deliver you to the Northwind Tribe’s great tent unharmed, where our chieftain will hold the grandest welcome ceremony!”

“So, stop this pointless struggle! It benefits no one!”

As the orc leader rambled, his arm swung, knocking Paven’s head against the ground. Fading from blood loss, the guard captain regained a flicker of clarity. Once more, he reached into his backup pouch.

And he felt a cylindrical object.

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