https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-572-The-Battle-of-Blackstone-Mountain/13677352/
Chapter 573: The Slaughter in the Valley
As the sole passage leading to Aivendeldan, Glory Path was unnaturally narrow—barely wide enough for half a dozen orcs to pass abreast. No railings lined the road’s edges, and on either side loomed sheer rock walls, riddled with cavern tunnels painstakingly carved by dwarven artisans, each bristling with meticulously laid traps. One misstep, and an orc could plummet into the Ten-Thousand-Foot Abyss beneath, where, it was said, the bones of tens of thousands already formed a river of the dead—the River of Bones.
The orcs gasped heavily, eyes bloodshot, roaring in frenzied, chaotic battle cries.
“Hahaha! Aivendeldan is ahead!”
“When we’ve conquered this place, I’ll smash every one of these dwarven idols into dust!”
“As the great Father GodGhuush declared—the weak, the one who fears death, must be pierced by a spear!”
Their minds were consumed by war’s lust. Fear of death had vanished entirely.
With gnarled hands clutching bone spears and curved blades, they charged forward, heedless, into the deadly trap laid by dwarven hands.
“They’re coming!”
“Kill every last one of these orc filth! Drown Glory Path in their blood!”
From the shadows of the caverns, dwarven warriors emerged in a flash. Some drew bows, others nocked hand crossbows, unleashing volley after volley of flaming arrows.
Whoosh—
Zzzzip-zzip—
The arrows streaked through the air, crisscrossing like a net woven from fire.
A orc screamed in agony as flames erupted across his body. He rolled on the ground, writhing, before tumbling off the path into the abyss. His wails echoed long into the silence—then, one by one, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the bone-strewn river below.
One orc officer, his shoulder pierced by an arrow, was consumed by a searing flame. The dwarven gunpowder in the arrowhead burned fiercely, filling the air with the stench of charred meat. His companion cried out in alarm, rushing to his side.
“Monk! Sir Monk!”
“Leave me! Just a dwarf trick—keep charging!”
Monk tore the arrow from his shoulder, then slapped his palm over the wound, extinguishing the fire.
“But these weaklings…”
His single eye burned crimson as he stared into the caverns—his gaze locked onto the dwarves hidden within. A beast of immense strength, he hurled his dual-headed axe with a snarl, unleashing a torrent of fury.
The axe spun through the air, slicing open the wind with a thunderous crack. The dwarf warrior barely had time to react—his chest plate shattered like glass. His small but powerfully built body was driven deep into the rock wall, lifeless.
“Dare you provocate me? Humiliate a brave Ghuush warrior?”
Monk roared, his body erupting with unnatural strength. He leapt across the chasm, landing with a heavy thud on the far side—on a cliffside cavern only meters away.
The dwarves above flinched, but did not panic.
“He’s coming!”
“Hold the line! Push this Ghuush filth into the abyss!”
“Let him fall into the River of Bones—just like the rest!”
They dropped their weapons, drawing their round shields and charging forward, hoping to strike him down mid-leap.
Boom—
Monk crashed down with the force of a falling boulder. The impact shattered the oak shield, crushing the dwarf beneath it into unconsciousness.
“Weaklings,” Monk spat, “I’ll crush every one of you. The orcs will rule Aivendeldan!”
With a single, brutal blow, he brought his fist down like a hammer, reducing a dwarf’s skull to pulp—splattering brains and blood across the stone like a burst watermelon.
“Molradin above!”
“Bess is dead! What monster is this?!”
Seeing their comrade’s horrific death, the dwarves finally felt fear. They gripped their shields tighter, retreating in tense, trembling steps.
“Fear! Tremble! Shudder!” Monk bellowed, his face twisted into a feral grin. “This is the strength Father God has given us!”
He seized a dwarf by the hair, lifted him high, then hurled him into the abyss.
“By Molradin’s name, avenge our fallen!”
“Brothers! Together! Send this damned orc filth to meet his Ghuush!”
The dwarven warriors, now enraged, surged forward—war hammers raised, charging from every angle, determined to reduce the beast to mashed flesh.
But the orc was far from clumsy. He leapt high, yanked his dual-headed axe from the cliffside—still clinging to the corpse of a dwarf—and flung it into the air.
The axe, soaked in blood, spun wildly, cutting through the air with a bloody arc. Flesh flew. Armor shattered. Screams of pain echoed from every direction.
“Filth! You’ll join my brother in death!”
One dwarf warrior, desperate, snatched up a short spear. With eyes blazing red, he charged from behind, abandoning all defense.
Monk didn’t even turn. He swung back—his axe cleaved through the air, splitting the dwarf’s skull in two with a sickening crack.
On the cliff platform, only the towering orc chieftain remained—two meters tall, standing in a pool of blood. At his feet, a mountain of crimson corpses piled high.
Monk raised his axe, licking the warm blood from his face. Then, with a roar that split the sky, he declared:
> “One who fears death shall be consumed by eternal blazing fire!
> The heroic fallen shall inherit immortality in Father GodGhuush’s kingdom!”
Mongke, the Severed Trunk—a warrior of the Redfang Clan, famed for cutting off enemy limbs. He was the younger brother of the orc chieftain Batu, and a rare, terrifying Eye of Ghush.
The Eye of Ghush was the most sacred title among the orcs—chosen by the god’s frenzy. Only the strongest warriors earned this honor. Each candidate had to undergo a ritual: severing their own right eye with their bare hands. If they screamed during the act, they were rejected—disgraced, broken. But if they endured in silence, their mortal sight would be balanced with divine madness, granting them unparalleled strength and the power to see beyond the veil.
Mongke was such a warrior—honored by his entire clan.
And just now… he could have dodged the arrow. He chose not to.
Why?
Because he hadn’t felt pain in so long… and the taste of it—delicious.
With a thunderous roar, Mongke charged again, dual-headed axe raised high.
> “For the great Father GodGhuush! For orcish glory! Crush these dwarves!”
His cry ignited the orcs’ fury. They surged forward without regard for death, charging into Glory Path like a relentless tide.
> “For Ghuush!”
> “We shall conquer the world!”
Dwarven archers rained down flaming arrows. Barrels rigged to explode burst among the ranks, tearing hundreds apart in fire and splinters.
But the orcs, drunk on bloodlust, paid no mind. They screamed, charging forward, their lives as cheap as grass, driving the advance of their army.
Giant eagles and vultures, trained by the orcs, dove from above, attacking the dwarven warriors on the cliffs—some were thrown into the abyss, others forced back.
Behind them, the orcs adapted. Hill giants and half-orc giants bore massive great shields, forming living walls on either side—blocking the arrows that rained down from above.
And beneath their cover, orc infantry surged forward with terrifying speed, pushing ever closer to the end of Glory Path—toward the towering Orc Gravestone.
On the city wall, a line of dwarven heavy infantry emerged—clad in steel heavy armor, wielding long hammers and great shields. They stood like a low, unbreakable wall of steel, blocking the path without flinching.
At their head stood Tolu Aaron, the dwarf commander, still flushed from drinking strong alcohol.
Unlike most dwarves, he stood under a meter and a half tall—but his long hammer stretched over five meters long.
“Comrades,” he bellowed, voice thick with drink, “For three thousand years, Aivendeldan has never fallen—not even when we fought alone.
By Molradin’s name—stop these orc filth at the Orc Gravestone! Send them to meet Ghuush!”
“Send them to Ghuush! Die, you orc bastards!”
The heavy infantry roared in unison, advancing like a mobile fortress, meeting the orc tide head-on.
The orcs scaled the wall using ladders carried by their giant allies.
Though short in stature, the dwarves were immensely solid—far stronger than ordinary orcs. In a single clash, dozens of orcs were crushed flat by the sheer force of the long hammers.
Tolu raised his hammer high, then leapt forward. With a mighty swing, he spun the hammer in a brutal arc.
Boom!
The half-orc giant’s head exploded like a melon. His massive body crashed down with a roar, crushing several orcs beneath it.
“Filthy abomination—go to hell!”
Laughing, Tolu swung the blood-smeared hammer across the front, smashing a dozen charging orcs. Their bodies twisted, limbs shattered, teeth and eyes flying through the air.
Against the dwarven heavy infantry, the orc tide began to stall. Hundreds were crushed flat. Panic spread. They stumbled back—colliding with the orcs behind, pushing, shoving, falling.
Dozens screamed as they plunged into the abyss—joining the River of Bones.
Above, the orc shaman rode a giant eagle, hovering in the sky. He raised his scepter—its shaft embedded with bones from slain enemies—and chanted an ancient lament.
> “Blood as wine, skull as cup.
> Find joy in wails. Feed on fear.
> When bones cover the earth,
> The orc empire shall consume the world.
> And the great Father GodGhuush shall descend—”
Orc society was built on strength, survival, fear, and war—principles rooted in the worship of Ghuush. These ideals were taught through brutal trials. Shamans passed down orc legends, spreading faith through terror, inspiration, and iron tyranny—so deeply ingrained, no orc doubted it.
Dwarven archers fired arrows at the eagle, but the creature was protected by an invisible shield.
As the shaman finished his chant, crimson light flared from the hollow eyes of the skull on his scepter.
A single, red eye—pulsing like a heartbeat—appeared in the sky, watching over the slaughter below.
A thin red mist swept across the valley, filling the air. Those who inhaled it—breathing in the scent of blood—felt their minds snap.
The orcs lost all reason. They could no longer speak in coherent words.
“Grrr…!”
“Kill! Kill the dwarves!”
They launched a mindless, frenzied assault—forgetting death, forgetting fear. They wanted only to kill.
Time blurred in the chaos of war. Orc corpses piled high at the base of the city wall, forming a mound. New orcs climbed over the dead, scaling the wall without hesitation.
“Huff… huff… These damn scum… how many of them are there? Do they only think about war and mating?”
Tolu panted, spitting out a breath heavy with alcohol. He swung his hammer again, smashing a charging orc off the wall.
Blood and sweat soaked his skin. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d swung—how many orcs he’d crushed.
Three hundred? Five hundred? He’d lost count after a hundred.
But the orcs kept coming—more than he’d imagined. The dwarves on the left flank were on the verge of breaking.
Then—deep in the chaos—a low, mad laugh cut through the battlefield.
It was louder than the screams, the thunder of battle, the clash of steel. It chilled Tolu to the bone.
“Dwarf… your head would make a fine ritual offering to Father God.”
He turned—his blood ran cold.
There, on the left side of the wall, stood a towering orc—shoulders broad, axe in hand, grinning. His gaze, like a predator’s, locked onto Tolu as if assessing prey.
Even worse—clutched in one hand was a dwarf’s skull, eyes wide in death.
“Last Hope,” the orc said, smiling. “You won’t be boring like the others.”
It was Mongke, the Severed Trunk—the powerful, unhinged Eye of Ghush.
At his feet lay a mountain of dwarven corpses. All of them were Tolu’s finest soldiers—his brothers, his treasure.
And the skull in the orc’s hand? It was that of Glando, Tolu’s closest comrade.
Tolu’s face froze. His blood turned to ice.
“He meant something to you?” Mongke chuckled. “Good. Makes you more fun.”
Then, with a sudden, vicious twist of his hand, he crushed the skull in his palm.
Crunch.
A skull fragment, meat, and brain matter splattered across the stone.
Tolu’s eyes turned crimson. His grip on the hammer trembled. His teeth ground together, nearly breaking.
“You… bastard… You’re asking for death!”
With a roar, the dwarf commander lifted his hammer high—then swung it down with all his might.
Mongke, amused, held his dual-headed axe sideways, blocking the strike.
Clang—
Metal met metal. A sharp, deafening sound erupted, sending a pressure wave through the air. Soldiers on both sides staggered, trembling uncontrollably.
(End of Chapter)
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