84：Leave No Survivors
Under this relentless and brutal advance, the massive horde of two hundred and fifteen orcs occupying the Withered Bone Heights had already been cut down by nearly half!
Eighty to ninety gruesomely mangled greenskin corpses littered the camp's muddy grounds!
At that moment, Gul—who had just sauntered over from the main hall with a dozen of his personal guards—finally got a clear view of the slaughter ahead.
His arrogant fantasy of shattering human thigh bones vanished. Upon seeing the tightly packed phalanx advancing with mechanical precision, and watching Renn bare-handedly rip the arms off an orc amidst the chaotic melee... Gul's bravado completely crumbled.
"These... these absolutely aren't some ragtag human stragglers..."
His second-in-command, having lost his feathered cap somewhere along the way, was trembling so violently his entire body shook.
"They're monsters! There's not a single wasted movement! We can't take them down!"
Staring at the butchered remains of his kin littering the ground, Gul’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.
We can't mess with them! We absolutely cannot mess with them!
Even if he had two hundred more men, he couldn't beat these soldiers who had seemingly materialized out of thin air!
These bandit orcs occupying the Withered Bone Heights were cowards to begin with. They were deserters who had fled Warchief Blackstone’s draconian military laws because they feared for their own lives! By nature, they were bullies who preyed on the weak and cowered before the strong. In a winning battle, they were madder than anyone, but the moment they crashed against true, elite veterans... their deep-seated cowardice was laid bare.
"Fight to the death? Fuck that!"
In that instant, not a single thought of avenging his fallen men crossed Gul's mind!
Without hesitation, he tossed aside one of his massive cartwheel battle-axes to lighten his load. Turning tail, he was the first to sprint madly toward the camp's main gates!
"F-Full retreat! Fall back! Run! Make for the main mountain trail!"
The surviving greenskins were already broken, their morale shattered by the slaughter. Seeing their own leader drop his weapon and flee was the final nail in the coffin.
"The boss is running!"
"We can't beat them! Run for your lives!"
The few remaining orcs at the frontlines, who had still been mounting a feeble resistance with their axes, heard the order. Upon seeing Gul's retreating back, their last shred of fighting spirit evaporated.
Wailing in terror, they dropped their battle-axes and discarded their newly looted longbows. Pushing, shoving, and trampling over one another, they bolted out of the camp, wishing they had been born with an extra pair of legs as they stampeded toward the only mountain path leading out.
In an instant, the camp was filled with a routed mob, exposing their defenseless backs to the enemy.
The cold wind cut like a knife, brushing against Soren’s blood-spattered face.
Soren stared coldly at the retreating backs of the greenskins, watching them scurry away like beaten dogs. His mind was flooded with the image of Old Tom's mangled skeletal remains, and the blood-soaked clothes of thirteen-year-old Little Jack, whose leg had been ripped off while he was still alive.
"Trying to run?"
"I swore an oath. I would never abandon a single civilian under my protection."
"And naturally, I will exact the blood debt owed to them!"
Through gritted teeth, Soren delivered his verdict:
"Frontline units, hear my command!"
"Even if they drop to their knees and beg!"
"Leave no survivors!"
"Slaughter them all! Kill them!"
With Soren's order of execution, the sixty-four frontline elites—already brimming with barely contained fury—along with Renn, saw red!
"Avenge Old Tom! Kill!"
Clang! The black-armored elites, previously locked in a defensive circle, seamlessly shifted their formation!
Two-and-a-half-meter-long armor-piercing heavy halberds were leveled in unison. Against the routing bandits who had fully exposed their backs to flee like rats, they initiated a brutally one-sided massacre!
Squelch!
"Aargh!"
Driven by the momentum of their charge, the long halberds easily skewered the fleeing orcs right through the back!
Some orcs lost their minds, dropping to their knees and slamming their heads into the mud as they begged to surrender. The advancing soldiers simply brought their weapons down, crushing helmets and skulls alike, spilling brains and gore across the earth!
Blood sprayed into the air as severed limbs went flying.
Meanwhile.
The ones running the fastest were, naturally, the most physically imposing among them—the leader, Gul, and his second-in-command right on his heels.
Relying on their massive physiques, the two main culprits shoved aside any subordinates in their way, literally stepping on the faces of their own kin as they sprinted toward the camp's main gates.
"Hurry! It's right ahead! Even if only fifty of us make it off the mountain, it's fine! Past this gate is the rolling-log trap array. Those monsters won't dare chase us down the mountain!"
Staring at the wooden gates barely sixty or seventy paces away, Gul felt like a drowning man grasping at a lifeline. A spark of hope ignited in his single remaining eye.
However!
Back in the main camp plaza, now a sea of blood and corpses, Soren crouched atop an overturned carriage.
He drew the Windwhisper Bow to its absolute limit!
Locked on via the [Eagle Eye Perception] skill, he analyzed every detail: the shifting muscle groups of Gul's sprinting legs, the exact distance of his strides, and even the aerodynamic drag caused by the headwind.
Beside him, Gary’s eyes were equally cold.
While he couldn't guarantee pinpoint accuracy beyond a hundred paces, a fleeing back at seventy paces was a massive, unmissable target for a man who spent his life hurling short spears at venomous swamp pythons.
Gary drew his right arm back, the weight of a throwing spear balanced perfectly in his palm.
Two men. One with a bow, the other with a spear.
Twang!
Whoosh!
Squelch!
The feathered arrow struck true, punching right through Gul’s left thigh and blowing out a shower of splintered bone and green blood!
Within the exact same second!
Crack!
Gary’s incredibly forceful spear tore diagonally into the back of the second-in-command's right knee, utterly pulverizing his kneecap!
"My leg!"
Two bloodcurdling shrieks echoed simultaneously near the main gates!
The massive bodies of Gul and his subordinate pitched violently forward, crashing into the mud less than five feet from the exit. No matter how they wailed, no matter how desperately they clawed at the mud to drag themselves forward, their ruined legs were useless. All they managed was to leave two gruesome, bloody trails in the dirt.
Step. Step. Step.
The heavy thud of black iron boots approached the fallen orc leader.
Carrying his blood-dripping sword, Soren walked over with a stoic expression, standing over the two orcs who lay paralyzed in the mud like beaten dogs.
Sixty-four elite soldiers tightened the noose around them, their bloody halberds sealing off any hope of escape.
Gul rolled over in despair. Looking up at the dark-haired human who was barely half his size, the orc's single eye brimmed with terror and regret.
"Urgh... cough!"
The heavy rain finally showed signs of letting up. Gul propped his upper body up with his arms and roared hoarsely at Soren.
"Despicable humans! You're nothing but cowards shooting arrows into people's backs!"
"If you've got any guts, heal me! Break your formations! Face me in a Mak'gora (Traditional Orc Duel), one-on-one, like a real warrior! I'll pop your balls with my bare hands—"
Soren stared down at Gul’s pathetic, death-struggle of a face.
Once again, the image of Old Tom’s remains hanging from the totem pole and thirteen-year-old Little Jack’s shredded, bloody clothing flashed through his mind.
Chivalry? To an animal like this? The honor of a duel?
Soren didn’t waste a single syllable.
With a sudden flex of his right arm, his longsword flashed in a cold, deadly arc.
Swish!
Gul’s rabid barking was instantly silenced.
His ugly head separated from his neck, rolling across the muddy ground to a stop a few meters away. From the stump of his neck, a geyser of foul-smelling blood erupted over a meter into the air.
Laying in the mud nearby, the second-in-command's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He watched his leader bark insults one second, only to be completely headless the next. The sight made his teeth chatter uncontrollably as a warm, yellow stain spread across his crotch.
"M-My Lord! M-Mercy! I know where the loot cellar is..." He reached out a trembling hand, his voice pitching higher than a squealing goblin in his desperation.
Soren's gaze remained utterly devoid of warmth. With a casual flick of his wrist, his blade danced across the orc's throat.
A thin red line bloomed along the second-in-command's neck.
He clutched his throat as blood bubbled from his windpipe. After twitching violently for a few moments, he stiffened like a dead fish.
With that, the wicked and vile bandit faction of the Withered Bone Heights had been thoroughly eradicated.
Soren lifted his head and surveyed the aftermath.
The area was littered with severed limbs and broken bodies. Over two hundred ferocious orcs had been butchered by his squad of sixty-five men in less than an hour. Not a single greenskin had managed to flee down the mountain alive.
In stark contrast, aside from a dozen or so soldiers who sustained minor scrapes and bruises during the close-quarters push, his elite troops had suffered zero heavy casualties. Not a single man had died!
Thanks to the potent regenerative properties of the [Basic Troll Serum], even those minor scratches would be completely healed within a day.