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Chapter 581: Old Shaman's Revenge
“Filthy, reckless Ogres! Who gave you the audacity—the sheer nerve—to challenge a Golden Dragon?”
Under the weight of countless gazes, Titus unfurled his wings—rippling like storm-tossed waves, stretching from tail tip to the very edge of his massive draconic form—and a surge of unimaginable magical power erupted from within his colossal body. Instantly, a hurricane roared to life, and a torrent of arcane energy surged outward in a violent wave.
With a thunderous sweep, the Golden Dragon raised one massive claw. The sky itself was torn open by a searing flame tongue, and several blazing meteors tore through the heavens, streaking toward the Blood Spear with terrifying speed.
Elven mage Seymour lifted his head, silver-white eyes reflecting the infernal glow. His voice trembled as he whispered, “By Mistrala’s grace… Such spell power… Such speed of casting… This dragon is a Legendary Spellcaster!”
Indeed, this was the Feiansuo Continent—far different from the Northern Regions. Here, no one deliberately suppressed knowledge of magic. Even high-level spells were not unheard of.
Among the onlookers, numerous Elves, Dwarven spellcasters, and seasoned mages recognized the incantation instantly.
It was the famed Ninth-Level Spell: Meteor Storm.
The fiery meteors screamed through the air, their roar piercing the ears, accelerating into a terrifying velocity—until they collided with the Blood Spear in a deafening explosion.
Boom!
A massive shockwave detonated across the sky. Flames flickered wildly, dust clouds billowed, and the resulting shockwave rippled outward for over a kilometer, forcing even the strongest among them to shield their faces from the scorching wind.
But then—whoosh!
The sound of wind slicing through air returned. The Blood Spear, now piercing through the smoke, surged forward with unstoppable momentum—like a masterful blade, sudden and unprepared for.
Yet Kai Xiusu had already braced for the follow-up. He knew full well that a mere Nine-Ring spell could not stop a weapon blessed by Ghuush. It could only delay it—slightly.
The Golden Dragon opened its maw and let out a thunderous roar. Ember sparks scattered like dying stars. The air warped under the unbearable heat, and a scorching hurricane howled forth.
From the dragon’s front, swirling vortexes of molten flame erupted—forming a barrier in the spear’s path. The flames linked together, coalescing into a vast, searing wall of fire.
Seventh-Level Spell: Inferno Storm.
Another series of explosions ripped through the sky. Embers rained down, thick smoke choked the air, and the Blood Spear finally pierced through the inferno—though now, its aura had weakened drastically, its power diminished.
Still, the crimson light of Divine Bloodlight clung to its tip, glowing with the same relentless hunger. It still cut through anything in its path.
The Golden Dragon stared at the oncoming spear, then grinned—its fangs bared in a feral smile. With a flick of its claw, a thin, unassuming green beam shot forth.
Eighth-Level Spell: Magic Wastage.
The beam struck the spear. Instantly, the Bloodlight flickered and shattered. Then, the obsidian shaft cracked—cracks spreading like lightning.
Crack!
A sharp, brittle sound echoed through the battlefield. The Blood Spear, already near collapse, dimmed—and then shattered into a thousand jagged fragments.
Seymour stared upward, mouth agape in disbelief. “Great Disintegration Spell? No… this is something older, more refined. Dragon Language magic? To cast it at such speed… and achieve such a result… No wonder he’s a Legendary Spellcaster!”
“Dragon of Dawn!”
“These Ogres cannot defeat Titus, Lord!”
On the city walls, Seymour could only watch in awe. Dwarves and Elves erupted into roaring cheers. But on the battlefield’s other side, the Ogres recoiled in fear. Batu’s face turned ashen.
He clenched his jaw, his eyes dark with fury. “That Golden Dragon… has this kind of spellcasting ability? This wasn’t luck! It’s Bahamut—he sent this white-scaled dragon himself! The Gods of Heaven’s Peak know our plan now! If the Metal Dragon reinforcements arrive… even my Orc army won’t be able to capture Aivendeldan!”
Batu’s expression hardened. His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “We can’t wait any longer.”
The Old Shaman limped to his side, coughing weakly, his voice dry and cracked. “Lord Batu… I… can hold the Golden Dragon back.”
Batu raised an eyebrow, his gaze laced with contempt. “You?”
He respected the ancient Shaman—yes. But only because of his knowledge of Ogre history, customs, and his rare ability to commune with the Father God. Without that status, this crippled old Ogres would have long ago been cast out, left to feed the vultures of the open plains.
That was the law of the Ogres: the strong take all; the weak lose everything—including their life force. The disabled, the aged, the cowardly… they were cast out without mercy. Even their Father God, Ghuush, approved.
And now, this frail, shuffling Shaman stood before him—no match for a powerful Golden Dragon.
Had he lost his mind?
The Old Shaman ignored Batu’s scorn. He merely smiled—calm, almost serene.
“Lord Batu, you know… I’ve lived for two centuries. In that time, I’ve watched with my own eyes as clans of the Ugo Grasslands slaughtered each other over nothing—over a patch of land, a stream, even a single, insignificant sheep. In this barren wasteland, that was enough to justify mass murder.”
He paused, his voice hollow. “My son… he died at the hands of one such clan. Just for stealing a rabbit.”
A beat.
“I later killed the clan’s chieftain with my own hands. I wiped out his entire tribe. And yet… I felt no hatred. No satisfaction. No victory.”
He turned, pointing a trembling finger toward the distant, magnificent city of Aivendeldan.
“Why? Why do so many Ogres live in such poverty? Why must hundreds of thousands slaughter each other over scraps? Why?”
His voice grew fiercer. “While the Dwarves, Humans, and Elves to the south live in fertile lands, basking in abundance… why?”
He turned back to Batu, his once lifeless eyes now blazing with a rare, fierce greed—something all too common among Ogres.
For a moment, Batu was stunned. He saw not an old, broken Shaman—but a young, ambitious chieftain. Himself, as he once was.
The Shaman continued, his voice rising with fervor. “So I searched for the ruins of the ancient Orc Empire. I discovered the truth: the Father God Ghuush tests us. The barren land, the harsh climate, the deadly beasts—it’s all to make us stronger, more resilient. To rise above others… and claim what should be ours.”
He let out a dry laugh. “But I was too old. Too weak to lift a spear. Only the strongest can rise from bloodshed and lead our people to conquer the world.”
His trembling finger pointed directly at Batu.
“You.”
The Shaman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “My life means nothing now. My only wish… is to burn out my final light. And you, Lord Batu… your blood still carries the fire of Ghuush. You will bring our people a new future.”
Batu stared, stunned. Shocked by the Shaman’s past—shocked by the meaning of “burning out my final light.”
Then, the Shaman grinned.
With a sudden, horrifying motion, he reached into his chest—pulling out his own pulsing, blood-soaked heart.
“I will hold the Golden Dragon,” he said, his voice steady. “Go, Lord Batu. Lead the Ogres to seize Aivendeldan. Pierce the Will of the Father God. Conquer the land we were meant to claim. This… is true revenge!”
The heart still beat in his hand. Blood poured from his chest, gushing into the sky—coalescing into a single, massive, glowing eye.
Batu raised his blood-stained battle axe, staring at the vast, floating Eye in the heavens. His voice tore from his throat, raw and furious.
“Attack! No Dwarf, no fragile-ear Elf, no golden-scaled lizard in the sky—none shall stop the Ogres’ march! Attack! We have no retreat!”
Woo—oo—oo—
The horn, forged from leg bones, blared again—its mournful, echoing cry sweeping across the battlefield. Under the召唤 of the single-eyed symbol, the Ogre offensive intensified.
“Father God has granted us strength!”
“Every Ogre has the right to seek glory and blood! This is our Supreme Authority!”
Under the protection of the Shaman’s Blood Veil, the Orc army advanced steadily through the barrage of arrows, spells, and Dwarven explosive barrels—pressing forward, even as their comrades fell.
When the front lines were wiped out, the next wave surged forward without hesitation—stepping over the still-warm, blood-soaked bodies of their fallen brothers.
“Death is not an end!”
“The Father God watches us from the Nishak Realm!”
Half-Orc giants and Ogre tribesmen charged the thick gates of Aivendeldan, unflinching as arrows, short spears, and fire spells rained down from the city walls.
If they breached the walls, if tens of thousands of Ogres poured into the city—Aivendeldan would fall.
Aid’s face hardened. He stared at the horde beneath the walls, then at the mysterious single eye in the sky.
“What… is that?”
But there was no time to wonder. The Half-Orc giants and Ogres were already hammering at the gate. The Dwarves were faltering.
Aid drew his bow, lifted it with calm precision—and shot. The arrow pierced a Half-Orc giant’s skull. The beast collapsed with a thunderous crash.
King of the Dwarves roared, “Titus, my Lord!”
A scorching hurricane swept across the battlefield. The Golden Dragon reappeared in the sky, casting a vast shadow over the Ogres. Their faces twisted in terror as they looked up.
“Ogres,” the dragon growled, “your greed knows no end. I am weary of it. Aivendeldan will never be yours. The Feiansuo Continent shall be ruled by kinder, more orderly races. And I will give you—fire and death!”
Boom—
The Golden Dragon unfurled its wings above the city wall, unleashing a torrent of flame. The inferno swallowed hundreds of Ogres in an instant. Within moments, the ground below was a charred wasteland, blackened flesh and thick gray smoke rising into the air.
Ogre arrows and spears were useless against the dragon’s hide. But the dragon’s intense heat—its breath—was fatal.
The dragon flapped its wings, creating a searing gale, climbing higher into the sky—preparing for a dive.
But then—a roar echoed from afar.
“Golden Dragon!”
A massive, indistinct figure emerged from the sky—a towering, grotesque giant, its flesh rotting and peeling, its body stitched together from countless corpses and trapped spirits. The Soul of the Beast.
This was an ancient forbidden art: harnessing the strength of the Ogres’ death god, Izotis, to bind fallen warriors into a monstrous, living corpse.
And within its head—nestled in the stitched-together flesh—was the Old Shaman. His eyes burned red, his gaze wild with frenzy.
“Golden Dragon! After thousands of years of suffering, of blood and hunger—Ogres deserve the world! We have passed the Father God’s trial! No one shall stop our conquest!”
The decaying giant drifted upward, trailing thick black smoke, standing defiantly before the Golden Dragon.
Kai Xiusu snarled, “Ogres? A stitched-together corpse? This is your strength? Disgusting. Repulsive!”
Flames roared from his maw—but the decaying giant raised a pale, skeletal hand, unleashing a torrent of toxic smoke that choked the sky, shielding it from the dragon’s breath.
Then, with a deafening, bone-chilling howl, the Soul of the Beast charged toward the Golden Dragon.
“I am the avatar of thousands of Ogres’ willpower!”
Aaaaarrrrgh!
Wails, roars, and thunderous crashes echoed from the swirling black mist. Below, Dwarves, Elves, and Ogres could only watch as the two titans clashed—twisting, tearing, destroying.
In truth, the monster was formidable. But Kai Xiusu was merely playing along—faking a desperate battle, buying time.
He didn’t know what Ghuush had in store. If he acted too rashly—if he drew the attention of a True God—losing this Dragon Blood Avatar would be disastrous.
Meanwhile, on the ground, with the Golden Dragon no longer a threat, the Ogre assault grew fiercer. They surged forward, wave after wave, clawing at the city walls.
Under King Aed’s command, Dwarven and Elven elite warriors fought back with war hammers and blades. Blood painted the walls.
Then—the earth trembled.
From the steppe, a land drake burst forth, galloping across the earth. At its head—Batu Skullcrusher, battle axe raised, roaring.
“Crush these weak Dwarves and Elves! Conquer their city! Plunder their wealth! Revenge!”
(End of Chapter)
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