Sanguine Paradise - Chapter 222

∼ Day 237 ∼

The General let out an abrupt scream of pain that ended only moments later as the shock of the loss was washed away by his battle experience. Still, fear and terror racked his mind as he stared at the monster before him, clutching his bleeding stump.

“Who-are-you?” He gritted out, teeth clenched so hard could feel them crack and flake.

His assailant did not respond.

As rage and anger gave way for his badly hidden fear, Wagnar took in the figure standing over the remains of his right-hand man.

Tall and imposing in stature, he initially wanted to identify the monster as a Drow with his elf-like appearance while definitely not being one. No, this was a monster of a whole other make. One that he himself had never seen or even heard of before.

With those dangerously handsome features, as if bred a high-born of the monster society, and those crimson eyes, he couldn’t fathom why such a person would be in a backwater place such as this. This kind of monster was something Wagnar would’ve only ever expected to see in those boundless cities deep within the heart of the wastelands.

But now, for whatever reason, here he stood.

Wagnar wanted to draw his weapon sheathed at his hip, but even just that notion made his body freeze up in pure instinctual worry that any show of aggression would incur the wrath of this much more powerful predator.

As the monster suddenly took a step forward, the thud of his black spear hitting the wood beneath as he stepped over the corpse making Wagnar flinch, he took an unconscious step back.

“Kneel,” The monster finally spoke, his unreadable face displaying nothing whereas his voice portrayed some of the hatred lying beneath those cold yet vibrant eyes.

A proud greenskin through and through, he’d never kneel no matter how afraid he was. But before he could even retort or think of anything else, pain once again streamed through him, surging in waves of pain that came from his legs.

His kneecaps had been blown out, the speed of the spear in the monster’s hand moving so fast the general didn’t have time to react as the monster stabbed twice in rapid succession that made the weapon turn into a black blur.

Falling to the wood boards of the damaged battlement from where he had overlooked the battlefield, Wagnar felt now not only utterly terrified – but also humiliated.

He knew that he stood no chance to survive this. Mag’nar would claim his warrior soul and guide him into the afterlife. However, now he kneeled there, pitifully – not even granted the warrior’s death he’d looked forward to ever since picking up his first blade as but a child.

This individual… this monster… knew.

Wagnar could see it in his eyes. He knew of the humiliation he was going through, yet he did nothing to allow him to fight to the very end.

That rage, that hatred.

What possibly had he done to earn it?

He did not know, and he would die not knowing that reason for his death, the reason for his dog’s death.

In a desperate attempt to keep whatever dignity he had left, he drew a dagger from his waist with his only good arm, not even sparing a moment’s hesitation as he plunged the blade into his throat.

At least, that was what he tried to…

For the third time, Wagnar screamed in pain, his hand and dagger fell to the ground, the shaft still clutched in a grip despite the hand having been severed from the wrist.

Walking up to the high orc, the figure crouched on his haunches before the general, spear resting up against his shoulder.

“No-no, you don’t get to die just yet – you’ve long lost that privilege, and I’m far from over with you.”

“Just what is it that you want!?” Wagnar blurted out, all notions of bravado, hope, or even resignment gone. The only things that remained within his mind was a jumbled mess of pain, confusion, and despair.

“You see, I have just returned home, and now this little war of yours – the conflict of your shitstain of a Warlord, has cost me a lot. It cost those dear to me. Gravely. So, it would appear that he and I now have unfinished business.” The monster paused as if thoughtful though his face didn’t change in the slightest. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where this Warlord of yours is?”

Wagnar paled as he listened.

“I never leave unfinished business,” “For me, there is always only one outcome – I die, or my enemy does.”

“I-I will never-!” He protested but was cut off as he was seized by the throat and lifted up into the air like some limp ragdoll.

“Oh – I know you won’t. ”

“Yet, unfortunately for you, very much so – I still have uses for you despite that.”

‹ Warlord Tol’zeroth ›

Atop a hill overlooking an endless sea of tents and pyres, amongst an inestimable number of greenskin warriors, a great canopy had been erected. Circular and grand, with an open hole in the center to let in the splendor of the midday suns high in the sky, a gathering of many imposing figures sat atop large thrones, around long tables, and some who sat beside said figures as right-hand men.

All the figures here, be it even the many guards who stood as motionless as statues at the periphery of the canopy, were individuals who wielded such power it was unfathomable to most.

Yet, even amongst all of these Warchiefs, generals, and commanders, none were quite as imposing as the titan sitting upon the throne at the head of everyone gathered. Clothed in massive beast skins, with ivory bones and snow-white fur decorating his huge and muscular form, his presence was as potent as the menace of his appearance.

Even with the many high orcs gathered here, and their abnormally large bodies, none could rival his massive bulk. The only individual that eclipsed him was the ogre sitting in one of the thrones at his side, yet even he did not dare let his gaze wander in the direction of the orc.

He simply sat there, ominous and brooding as the council of warchiefs discussed among themselves.

“Their supply line is crippled on the eastern border! They’ll fall with but a handful of legions and even the briefest of sieges! Rathian is on our side!” A commander proclaimed, practically at the edge of his seat.

“We cannot spare them to seize a couple of pointless clans and settlements, we need those garrisons to stop the fallout from our push on the southern border!” Another called out, this one a significantly older high orc. “Lest, they come right in and retake all the land we’ve captured on the eastern front so far, sever our supply line and retreat, and quite literally siege our invasion from within their very own castles!”

This went back and forth, multiple figures taking part in the now heated discussions.

The massive orc did not utter a word, he just silently watched it unfold.

Yet, even as the discussion turned into an argument, then almost a full-blown challenge as some had even gotten out of their seats, the orc as the head said nothing to quell the discord sowing among his commanders and warchiefs.

Though, right before it seemed as if the high orc who had vouched to assault the eastern body was to challenge the other, much older, high orc, a disturbance cut through the throng of friction like a knife through butter.

A great orc, even older than the high orc, walked unworriedly through the line of sight between the quarreling parties, carrying a wooden chest.

It was one of the warlord’s personal aides, though it was incredibly strange by how he simply waltzed right through the center of the canopy and through the small fighting ring in the middle open to the sky without another care in the world.

Most would’ve been executed on the spot for the disrespect, but since it was the warlord’s personal aide, none dared to make a move. Though, they all found it incredibly odd as they did not know if the aide’s nonchalance as he walked came from being in his position, or if it had something to do with the slightly distant look in his eyes.

Stopping before the massive orc, the aide simply stared up at him.

“What is this?” The warlord finally spoke, a certain edge to this voice that had all fall back into their seats with their mouths shut tight.

“Warlord – a gift,” The aide said a bit lamely, entirely out of character.

Without letting the warlord even respond, the aide opened the chest and revealed the contents inside.

Those who could easily see found their eyes widening in shock and surprise.

Within, a head lay, one of an orc.

A high orc.

Though warlord Tol’zeroth had many generals among already six commanders above them, he did not forget face easily at his level of intelligence and power. The head belonged to a general, one that commanded quite a few legions who were meant to stay back in the rear guard of the invasion in the need of anything the war might need.

“He pays his regards.” The aide said, once again cutting through the murmurs that had arisen.

A silly smile was on his face, and it quickly became evident something was wrong.

And when the great orc’s body began slowly swelling and bloating in a grotesque visage, no one had time to react but the closest to the warlord before the aide exploded in a rain of gore.

Yet the display hadn’t simply been grisly and macabre, as evident by the high orc who had stepped in between the aide and the warlord. He who now was riddled in spikes of blood ripping holes in him like some grim porcupine.

Everyone was dead silent, the only sound being the mournful howl of the wind as it blew through the canopy and ruffled it.