Chapter 574: The Fortress
Toru's hands went numb from the impact. His long-handled hammer dented, nearly slipping from his grasp, while his opponent stood motionless, perfectly at ease.
"What tremendous strength!"
The seasoned dwarf commander's expression darkened. Something felt wrong.
He had just delivered his full-powered strike—with a heavy weapon like a warhammer—yet the orc had blocked it effortlessly.
That could only mean one thing: this orc's strength far surpassed his own—he was outmatched.
Regret crept in. His reckless, rage-fueled tactics had been a mistake. He tried to slide his hammer down to smash the orc's hand.
The hammerhead scraped violently against the axe shaft, sparks flying at the clash.
"Heh..."
Monk simply grinned, yellowed tusks showing as the black cloth over his face tore, revealing a hollow eye socket that flashed red.
As an Eye of Gruumsh, Monk's blind eye held strange powers—he saw what others could not.
"No!"
The dwarf saw the red flash and froze. A deep, soul-piercing fear took hold.
In his mind, visions of dwarf corpses and blood-soaked Avenderdan flooded in.
That moment of distraction was all Monk needed. He yanked back his axe—Toru stumbled forward.
As Toru snapped back to reality, Monk's axe swept down in a crimson arc.
Blood-streaked steel, howling like a storm, slashed toward his throat.
"Shing—"
Blood gushed like a fountain. Toru's headless body dropped to its knees, then toppled forward.
His face, still frozen in confusion and terror, dangled from Monk's grip by the braided hair.
Nodding in satisfaction, Monk ignored the blood. "This dwarf... barely worthy of a sacrifice to Father."
The guardian of the "Orc Tombstone" was dead. A hero who once slew a fire giant, killed without resistance.
Dwarves on the wall, stunned by their hero's death, howled in grief and fury.
"Toru is dead!"
"Surround that damn orc! Retrieve Toru's head!"
"That Gruumsh-blooded bastard defiled our comrade! Kill him!"
"He's alone! We'll avenge Toru even if it costs our lives!"
Rallying to Toru's fallen head, the remaining dwarves surrounded Monk.
Faces flushed with rage, they longed to tear him apart.
"Help Lord Monk!"
"The dwarves are swarming him! Orcs, annihilate them!"
Orc warriors prepared to charge, but Monk raised a hand. Blood-covered and grinning, he stopped them.
"No. Stay back. I want to savor this."
"Hahaha! You hate me? I love that look—furious, helpless!"
Playing with Toru's head, he moved the jaw as if making it talk.
"What's this dwarf's name again? Oh right, Toru.
Dwarves, look! Toru's talking—he says: 'You cowards! None of you dares avenge me!' Hahahaha!"
The vile mockery broke the dwarves' composure.
"Kill him!"
"Smash that orc bastard!"
Dozens of dwarves raised hammers and shields, charging Monk in a tight ring.
Monk dropped the head, gripped his twin-bladed axe, and shouted excitedly: "Good! Come at me!"
"Shing—"
He spun, forming a storm of blades. The dwarves were pulled into the whirlwind.
Metal screamed, armor shattered, flesh tore.
Screams turned to sobs. Blood splashed in every direction.
In mere breaths, every attacking dwarf was dead. None remained standing.
Half-bodies, severed limbs, spilled organs—blood ran like rivers across the wall.
Standing atop the mound of corpses, Monk raised Toru's head and looked out over the conquered battlements.
"My kin!
Ahead lies Avenderdan, the dwarves' royal city!
Keep pushing! Father Gruumsh watches! We'll sacrifice heads and blood to him!"
Devotion filled Monk's one eye. He lifted the head skyward.
"Pop!"
The head burst, forming a red mist that shaped an eye in the air.
It was Gruumsh's sign—the One-Eyed God had accepted the offering.
"For Father Gruumsh!"
"Blood shall soak the earth! Orcs will rule the world!"
Roars erupted. Orcs raised bloody weapons, howling in ecstasy.
Corpses blanketed the wall called "Orc Tombstone." Thousands more lay in the River of Bones.
But the orcs had taken the wall. They were victorious.
For the sixth time in millennia, the barrier had fallen. This time, no elves or god-blooded foes stood in their way—only dwarves.
Mountain goats leapt across cliffs, carrying dwarf knights to Avenderdan's wall.
Dismounting swiftly, the knight knelt before King Edd, armored and hammer-wielding.
"Your Majesty, the orcs have breached the outer wall. They're regrouping to attack Avenderdan."
Edd nodded and sighed. "Bjorn, you were right. The outer wall has fallen."
"And faster than any past orc wave. Not even Toru could stop them."
Bjorn stepped forward, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "Your Majesty, I wish I had been wrong.
Batu Skullcrusher has unified over 160 orc clans from the Ugo Plains.
They don't just want our kingdom—they aim to conquer all Faenso."
Edd frowned. "Will the gods not intervene?"
Bjorn lowered his head. "I've sent Master Eugene to Heaven's Peak to seek help from Moradin and the gods of justice. But the world is sealed—divine aid is limited.
I've heard that Gruumsh used foul magic to blind Father's gaze and block Heaven's Peak.
Mist veils the Ugo Plains. The Redfang Tribe gathered too quickly for scouts to detect."
This battle-worn, 400-year-old minister sounded weary. His voice rasped:
"Your Majesty, I believe the orcs want a swift victory—before the world can react."
"How long must we hold Avenderdan... before Father aids us?"
"Seven days. If Master Eugene succeeds."
"Understood."
Hearing the orcs' distant howls, King Edd's voice stayed resolute. "The Highland Kingdom's legacy, the glory of our people, will not fall by my hand. Even in a hopeless war, I'll make the orcs pay in blood."
He gripped the hammer—symbol of royal power and Moradin's voice.
Dwarven scouts on griffons soared above, felling vultures and giant eagles to spy on the orcs.
Orc shamans raised staves, chanting spells.
With rumbling, stone paths extended from the Road of Glory, letting beasts cross: plains drakes, fang beasts, and more.
More orcs, goblins, ogres, and hill giants surged into the valley before Avenderdan—like a raging river.
Within hours, the orc horde was assembled. Tens of thousands surged toward the fortress.
On the walls, King Edd and elite dwarves stood ready, waiting.
From murder holes, cliffs, and tunnels, dwarves glared with hate.
All 15,000 combat-ready dwarves were present, defending their home.
The ground quaked. Thundering echoed as a mottled flood filled the valley floor.
Above, vultures and eagles circled, dodging arrow fire.
Batu sat on his bone throne, axe raised, eyes gleaming. "That's Avenderdan. Perfect."
He stood, voice rising to echo through the mountains: "My kin, crush the dwarves! Take their fortress! Only then will we please Father Gruumsh! This city is the start of our conquest!"
"Slaughter the dwarves! Take the fortress!"
"For Father Gruumsh!"
"The orc race will rule the world!"
Frenzied howls shook the peaks.
"Children of Gruumsh—
Kill without restraint! Use your mighty bodies to tear through all who stand in our way!
Sever dwarven heads! Stab elf hearts! Hack human arms!"
Shamans waved bone staves. Blood mist spread, driving orcs into a frenzy.
They swarmed the clearing, storming the towering fortress.
Staring down at them, King Edd gave the command: "Archers—loose!"
Thousands of dwarves fired arrows skyward. A rain of death pierced the orc vanguard.
But giants and half-giants raised shields, advancing steadily.
Atop the wall, dwarf-forged steel ballistae took aim.
Turning winches, the dwarves shouted, "That giant! Kill it!"
"Thwip—"
Arrows two meters long flew, skewering shields—and giants.
Nearly every dwarf was a skilled artisan. Avenderdan housed their greatest masters.
Ingenious machines and constructions—dwarves' greatest weapons.
On Blackstone Mountain, dwarves released massive round stones down tracks.
"Rumble—rumble—"
The orcs realized too late—the rocks were upon them.
"Damn! The dwarves released boulders!"
"Run! Don't get crushed!"
"Boom!"
Boulders smashed dozens—crushing orcs, goblins, and ogres into paste.
"Watch the skies!"
From tall towers, catapults designed by Master Trant launched flaming iron balls.
"Down! Get down!"
"It's dwarven artillery!"
Fiery orbs arced gracefully, striking the orc ranks.
"Boom!"
Red-hot iron smashed into the crowd, exploding on impact.
Fire and shrapnel killed hundreds—leaving only charred remains.
On the main wall, ancient defensive arrays activated, forming magical barriers.
Orc arrows and javelins bounced harmlessly away.
Fire burned before the gates. Stones rolled. Barrels of flame and liquor exploded midair.
Dwarven contraptions—grim reapers of war—dealt death in droves.
The orcs faced not just 15,000 warriors—but millennia of dwarven ingenuity.
Yet even with all defenses, they'd only slain ten thousand.
Batu's army was 200,000 strong.