Chapter 383
The soldier tried to pull the spear free and run.
Grok grabbed the spear, pulled it deeper into his own body to close the distance, then seized the soldier’s head in both massive hands.
He squeezed.
The soldier’s skull crumpled like a rotted melon. Brain matter and blood sprayed.
Four soldiers down. Four remaining. Three minutes elapsed.
The remaining soldiers backed away, suddenly much more cautious. They’d just watched an orc kill four trained soldiers in less than three minutes while taking a spear through his torso.
One soldier threw a javelin from fifteen feet away, not willing to get close.
The javelin struck Grok’s shoulder. He broke off the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh and kept fighting, the metal point still embedded.
Another soldier used archery, shooting from cover behind a wall section.
Arrow hit Grok’s leg. Then his other shoulder. Then his chest.
Grok was bleeding from multiple wounds now. Vision blurring. Strength fading.
Four minutes elapsed.
The remaining soldiers coordinated their approach, using shields to deflect Grok’s weakening attacks. They were more cautious now, having learned the cost of rushing an orc.
A sword thrust caught Grok in the stomach. Another in his thigh.
Grok fell to his knees, blood pouring from multiple wounds.
Four minutes, thirty seconds.
One soldier approached carefully to finish him.
Grok grabbed the man’s leg with his last strength and bit down through the armor into flesh. His massive jaws clamped like a vice.
The soldier screamed and tried to pull away. Grok’s teeth were locked in his calf muscle.
Grok kept biting, shaking his head like a predator with prey. Bone snapped. The soldier fell.
Grok didn’t let go. Kept biting even as his vision darkened.
Five minutes elapsed.
Grok died with his teeth still locked in the soldier’s leg, his massive body blocking the stairway entrance.
Behind him, because of those five minutes, twenty-seven goblin defenders had successfully evacuated through this access point.
The human soldiers had to physically drag Grok’s corpse aside to get past.
One looked at the orc’s body—covered in wounds, spear and arrows protruding, jaw still locked on a dying soldier’s leg.
"What kind of monsters are we fighting?" he muttered.
"The kind we’re here to exterminate," another replied coldly. "Keep moving."
[ Somewhere else in the battlefield]
Pix(Goblin) had sixteen arrows when the retreat began. She positioned herself on a slight rise with good sightlines, providing covering fire for retreating comrades.
First arrow: killed a soldier climbing over a wall section, pursuing goblin defenders. Clean shot through the throat. He fell backward off the wall.
Second arrow: missed. Target moved unpredictably.
Third arrow: wounded a cavalry scout in the shoulder, disrupting his pursuit of serpentfolk.
Fourth arrow: killed another soldier—heart shot, instant death.
Fifth arrow: missed again.
Sixth, seventh, eighth: three arrows in rapid succession at a group of soldiers. One kill, two wounds.
Pix was methodical, professional. Each shot calculated. No wasted arrows.
Ninth arrow: killed a sergeant who was organizing pursuit forces. High-value target. His unit lost cohesion without leadership.
Tenth, eleventh, twelfth: covering fire as wounded goblins limped past her position. One kill, two suppressing shots that forced soldiers into cover.
When the retreat order came for her position, Pix had four arrows left.
Thirteenth arrow: killed a soldier about to catch a wounded goblin. Throat shot. The soldier fell and the goblin escaped.
Fourteenth arrow: missed—target moved behind cover.
Fifteenth arrow: wounded a cavalry rider’s horse. The horse stumbled, throwing its rider.
She was nocking her sixteenth and final arrow when she heard the whistle of incoming projectile.
The javelin hit her left leg, punching completely through her thigh and into the wooden beam she’d been using for cover.
She screamed. Tried to pull the javelin free. Couldn’t—it had gone through her leg into the wood, pinning her in place.
Human soldiers were closing in. Ten seconds maybe.
Pix nocked her last arrow despite the pain shooting through her leg. Drew. Aimed at the closest soldier.
Released.
The arrow took him center mass. He fell, coughing blood.
Then three more soldiers reached her position.
She drew her belt knife, slashing at the first soldier even pinned as she was.
A sword strike caught her arm, nearly severing it. Another caught her chest.
Pix died still gripping her knife, her body pinned to the beam by the javelin through her leg.
The human soldiers would find her hours later during cleanup, still clutching her knife, sixteen human soldiers dead from her arrows scattered across the battlefield in a radius around her position.
One soldier would comment: "Sixteen kills from one goblin archer. How many of these damned monsters can fight like that?"
The answer: more than the human army had expected.
Commander Vex’ahlia’s eighteen remaining elites conducted the retreat differently than regular defenders.
They used their supernatural speed and combat skills not to hold ground, but to ambush pursuing humans and then vanish before counterattacks.
An elite named Kesh spotted five human soldiers chasing two wounded goblins.
He appeared from cover with demon-enhanced speed, his twin blades moving faster than human eyes could track.
Three throats opened simultaneously. Three soldiers fell dead before the others even registered the attack.
The remaining two soldiers turned, raising weapons.
Kesh was already gone, vanished into terrain using supernatural agility.
The two surviving soldiers looked at their three dead comrades, then at the empty space where their killer had been.
"What was that?!"
"Demon warrior. Fall back. Regroup with larger force."
Similar scenes played out across the battlefield as demon elites struck and faded.
Another elite named Rethis intercepted a cavalry unit pursuing serpentfolk. She used corruption magic to enhance her physical capabilities, then struck the lead rider with force that shattered his armor and threw him from his horse.
She killed two more riders in rapid succession, then used demon speed to vault onto a horse and ride away before the cavalry could coordinate response.
The elites weren’t trying to win battles. They were buying time, creating chaos, slowing pursuit.