Chapter 680: Ghuush!
A primordial, mournful war chant echoed across the Scarred and Wounded Land, its voice ancient and grim, as the aura of the One-Eyed Orc grew ever more terrifying. At the moment of His arrival, a colossal, chaotic spherical force field erupted within a radius of several kilometers, swallowing the thermal shockwave of a nuclear blast as if it were nothing.
Toxic Blackrock oozed from fissures in the rock, and rivers of foul, poisonous liquid surged from the earth—clear signs of a deity’s descent, an omen of wrath.
High above, the Dragon Riders of the Circle in the sky could no longer endure the oppressive pressure. One by one, they collapsed, plummeting from thousands of meters in the air like falling stones.
Yet the Ogre Root paid them no mind. His gaze swept past the fallen riders, as if piercing through them to the immense, stealthy presence lurking behind.
“Foolish Red Dragon,” the One-Eyed Orc thundered, His voice a roar that shook the wilderness itself, louder and more devastating than any previous explosion. It carried a divine weight—raw, unyielding, and filled with the terrifying power of a god’s oath. “Your pitiful empire will be annihilated. You have provoked a True God! From this moment forward, you are the sworn enemy of every Ogre across the Multiverse. We shall wage endless war upon you. I will destroy your homeland, ravage your land, and slaughter every last one of your people!”
In that instant, across the vast expanse of the Multiverse—from the first layer of the Bottomless Abyss to the 666th, from Avernus to Nethres, from the Wilderness of Exuberance to the Raging Void—every single Ogre, whether in the midst of battle, fleeing in terror, or slaughtering innocents, felt the same command echo in their hearts.
—The Empire of Ashen is their eternal, unyielding enemy. Kai Xiusu Claudew Noirikexius is their enemy.
In a remote corner of the Wilderness of Exuberance, a caravan of the Empire of Ashen was conducting trade with an unknown Orc tribe—exchanging pots, pans, and utensils for metal ore and enslaved Ogres. The deal was going smoothly.
Then, without warning, the Ogres’ expressions twisted into pure terror. Their eyes locked onto the caravan with feral, bloodthirsty hatred—as if they had been born enemies.
“You’re from the Empire!”
“Death to you!”
“Will of the Father God!”
They roared, bellowed, and charged, spears and battle axes raised, driven by an instinctual fury.
“Those Ogres have gone mad! Kill them!”
Amidst panicked cries, the caravan guards reacted with precision, raising their rifles and firing. Gunshots cracked through the valley, mingling with the wails of dying Ogres. The air filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.
And this scene played out simultaneously across countless realms—hundreds of clashes erupting at once.
In some worlds, the Empire’s advanced weapons cut down Ogres like wheat. In others, the Ogres’ sheer strength and overwhelming numbers tore apart poorly prepared Imperial forces.
Just as Ogres harbored innate hatred for Elves and Dwarves, this divine command awakened a deep, instinctive aggression toward the Empire of Ashen. Even Ogres who had never seen an Imperial soul in their entire lives—living in distant, unknown realms—felt it. Their children, their grandchildren, were born with this hatred in their blood. Merely seeing an Imperial dog—a mere insult—could spark an urge to kick it without thought.
As the ancient scripture said: Love the one God loves, hate the one God hates.
This was the absolute authority of a race’s supreme deity. A single command, a glance, a mere thought—could ignite the entire race’s fury toward a single target.
Only native Ogres and Half-Ogres of the Empire could resist this divine compulsion, barely maintaining reason. Yet even they were tormented by an uncontrollable urge to destroy, to kill—until they too became fanatical enemies of the Empire.
And all it took was a few words to unleash such a cataclysmic change.
The One-Eyed Orc’s status was now unmistakable.
He was the Powerful Watcher, the Ever-Wakeful, the One-Eyed God, and undisputed Chieftain of the Ogre Pantheon—Ogre God Ghuush.
Now, after the nuclear devastation of Inavu Valley, where nearly all green-skinned Ogres had been wiped out, and in response to Soro’s final plea, Ghuush had finally descended into the world—manifesting in physical form.
Ghuush surveyed the ruined land. The battlefield was littered with charred remains—most of the Ogres reduced to blackened skeletons, their bodies carbonized by the blast.
Though He already knew all through divine omniscience, seeing the wreckage with His own eyes ignited an uncontainable fury in the orcish deity.
The Chaos Ogres—His creation, forged through alliance with the Abyss and paid for with unspeakable suffering—had been wiped out to the last. Not one remained.
How dare they?!
How dare that Red Dragon?!
This is an open declaration of war against all Ogres!
Only months ago, Ghuush had watched over that very dragon with fascination. He had admired its slaughter of the Shield Dwarves and its defeat of Dumason’s avatar. He had even considered forming an alliance with the Empire of Ashen.
But Ghuush had never imagined the Red Dragon would be so arrogant—so reckless—willing to defy two powers at once, merely for the greed of devouring a city.
In the long ages of existence, Ghuush had seen countless dragons with immense strength who defied the gods. They all met the same fate—madness, then death. And He was certain: Kai Xiusu Claudew Noirikexius would be the next.
As Ghuush’s rage surged, a crimson-red gale swept across the earth, spreading for tens of miles around Him like crashing waves. The wind carried chaos, frenzy, and evil—raw divine power that seared the soul.
Mortals who glimpsed the red glow from afar felt their hearts freeze with terror. Those caught within it fainted instantly. Weak creatures—rabbits, moles—were driven mad, some even dying of sheer fright.
Those who stood at the heart of the realm, gazing directly into Ghuush’s manifested eyes, could not withstand the pressure. Even legendary monks with unbreakable willpower trembled, their legs buckling, collapsing to their knees under the sheer weight of divine oppression.
As for mortals? They would be shattered before they even reached Him—overwhelmed by the maelstrom of chaos, evil, hatred, and war, their minds exploding in a burst of madness.
Ghuush scowled, His face twisted in fury. He raised His bloodied spear, its tip pointing toward the sky.
Then, from deep within His throat, a guttural, ancient voice emerged—Orcish, crude, and dripping with vile hatred:
“Until the enemy is dead, Ogres will never truly die.”
The words had barely faded when wandering spirits above began to descend, seeking their lost bodies.
In response, shadowy mist rose from the earth, spreading like a creeping plague. Remaining Ogre spores gathered, and the corpses began to stir—reviving, reassembling.
But those caught in the heart of the explosion—those reduced to vapor—could not be resurrected. They were gone, scattered into the air, leaving no trace.
Even Ghuush’s divine power could not restore more than two percent of the fallen. Fewer than a hundred thousand survived.
“Father God!”
“Damned Empire scum!”
“I’ll kill them… I’ll kill them all!”
Whispers of fury and hatred echoed through the air as tens of thousands of Ogres rose from the ground, limbs torn, bodies scarred and blackened. They had died in the blast—yet now, by the power of the Orcish Deity, they were reborn.
In Ghuush’s realm, they were stronger, taller, more fearless than before.
With His Blood Spear now pointing south, Ghuush roared:
“My warriors… return! To the Empire of Ashen, for vengeance! Kill every last one of them!”
Instantly, the wasteland erupted once more. The resurrected Ogres screamed, cheered, and charged southward in a wild, frenzied tide.
Boom!
With a single step, Ghuush crossed tens of kilometers. Space shattered and warped around Him. The crimson-red realm followed, shifting with each stride—a mobile cataclysm.
In just a few steps, He led His army hundreds of miles, arriving at the northern base of the Blackstone Mountains, returning to the battlefield littered with shell craters and ruins.
Far away, in Aivendeldan—the Dragonfly Capital—Imperial officers and soldiers stared in horror at the approaching crimson horizon, a sea of red engulfing the sky.
“Look!”
“What… what is that?!”
“Ogres?! How is this possible?! We thought we’d killed them all!”
“Damn it… that aura… it’s terrifying. It feels like King Kai Xiusu has arrived. Who… who is that?!”
Even the most loyal and courageous soldiers trembled. The instinctive fear of a superior being, a primal dread, gripped them.
On the city’s tallest tower, Drool—the giant Ogre general—dropped his telescope with a sharp crack. The crystal lens shattered instantly.
He collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing violently. Blood streamed from his tightly shut eyes. Fear, rage, and hatred warred across his face.
The moment he saw the One-Eyed Orc, a sharp, invisible spike pierced his soul. His mind screamed.
For millennia, the Ogre Pantheon and the Goblin pantheon had fought. The fear and hatred of Ghuush were etched into every Goblin-like being’s blood.
His massive frame, black armor, blood-stained spear, and most of all—his single, piercing eye.
In an instant, Drool knew who stood before him. And he was utterly, desperately afraid.
Hearing the commotion, the Great Goblin Guards at the door rushed in, rifles raised.
“Drool Lord! What’s happened?!”
Drool wiped blood from his eyes, regained composure, and issued his order in a cold, steady voice:
“Go. Find Misha. Tell her to contact His Majesty immediately. Tell her—the Orcish Deity has descended.”
“Yes, Lord!”
The guards froze. Their minds reeled. Without another word, they sprinted toward Misha’s quarters.
Meanwhile, Misha had already sensed the descent. She stood in prayer, her hands clasped, golden eyes filled with dread.
She whispered to the heavens:
“Master of the Empire of Ashen, King of Thunder and Flame, my Supreme Lord…”
Unlike Dumason—neutral, bound by principles—Ghuush was a being of Chaos-Evil alignment, akin to the demons of the Deep Abyss. He cared nothing for consequence. When the Empire slaughtered Ogres, He would respond with equal cruelty: An eye for an eye, a blood for a blood.
And Ghuush was no ordinary god. He was a Powerful Divine Being, capable of destroying a city with a single gesture—even as an avatar in the Prime Material Plane.
If Kai Xiusu did not intervene personally, Aivendeldan would fall. The Imperial garrison here would be utterly annihilated.
Misha’s fear was justified.
Ghuush had come not merely to punish. He intended to completely destroy Aivendeldan—to prove His supremacy.
In other times, He would have hesitated. Such an act would drain His strength and provoke resistance from the Prime Material Plane.
But now—chaos reigned. The world trembled. The spatial membranes cracked. This was the age of transition—the perfect time for a god of war to rise.
And with the Elf and Dwarf pantheons distracted by His Abyss allies, Ghuush could now strike freely—shatter the Blackstone Mountains, and open the southern path for the Ogres’ endless advance.
Ghuush reached into the void and drew forth a massive Iron Torch, holding it high.
A sharp crack split the air. Flames roared to life—turbulent, swirling with red, black, and green.
The spear, stained with Elven blood, now burned with eternal fire. The flame illuminated the last remaining eye of the One-Eyed God.
“Foolish Empire fools,” Ghuush growled, His muscles tensing, veins bulging. “You submit to a mere crawler, yet you have angered the true God. And for that… you will know—Destruction.”
With a mighty heave, He hurled the Blood Spear. The spear pierced through the torch, trailing fire as it shot skyward, blazing through the heavens.
“Spines—!”
The spear tore through the air, ripping open the sky. With divine power, it stretched and thickened—growing in an instant to a hundred meters long.
The colossal spear plunged from the heavens, bringing with it a blood-red hurricane and a storm of fire. The divine aura of intimidation pressed down like a mountain.
Before it even struck the city, the spear caused buildings to collapse, Imperial soldiers to die mid-step, and wyverns to scream as they fell from the sky.
A mage tried to flee, but panicked—realizing that within a hundred miles, space itself was chaotic, like storm-tossed waves. One misstep, and they’d be torn apart.
Imperial officers and soldiers looked up, faces pale with panic and despair. This power was beyond their reach.
“Kai Xiusu above!”
“No… is this really the strength of the Orcish God? Are we… going to die here?”
“Don’t panic! His Majesty will come! He will defeat this Ogre Deity!”
Some screamed. Some surrendered to despair. But most held onto hope—faith in their Emperor, and the will to fight.
“Quick! Follow my orders—activate the Tier-3 Protective Field!”
“Rune array in the wall—activate the High-Level Exorcism Wall!”
“Deploy the Rainbow Magic Wall!”
“All Empire Mages—join me in forming a High-Level Otric Exorcism Barrier!”
To the people of the Empire, the flaming spear grew larger and larger—stretching toward the heavens, ready to turn their city into ruins.
Unbreakable spell shields and barriers shattered like glass under the weight of divine power. One after another, defenses failed.
Despair deepened in their eyes.
Then—a deafening Dragon Roar split Heaven and Earth.
The sky tore open above the city. A rift split the air, and from within poured a torrent of fire—and a massive, clawed hand, impossibly large.
For the first time in ages, hope flared in the eyes of the people.
(End of Chapter)
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