Chapter 67: The Siege Breaks

  The heavy gates of the Orc Stronghold slammed shut behind Marcus, their iron bars groaning under the relentless weight of battle. The instant he crossed the threshold, the sudden loss of adrenaline hit him like a collapsing wave. His vision blurred, his legs wavered beneath him, and his balance gave out.

  Before he could crash into the stone floor, two strong hands caught him—Boruk and Vira at his side, steadying him.

  "You're still standing, huh?"

  Miran’s voice, deep and unwavering, carried through the fortress yard. His golden eyes locked onto Marcus, studying him not just as a warrior, but as a leader assessing an injured soldier. There was a hint of relief, but mostly approval in his expression.

  Marcus swallowed the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and forced himself upright, even as his muscles screamed in protest. His body was failing him.

  "I'm here," he muttered, his voice rough, almost hoarse.

  But the truth was, he was barely holding together.

  The Psycha-infused poison still curled through his veins, disrupting his Ki, Mana, and Psycha synchronization. Stem was working to purge it, but the process was agonizingly slow. His energies were disjointed, slipping between his grasp like oil on water.

  Miran stepped forward, reaching out with a firm grip on Marcus’ shoulder—not in hostility, but in solidarity. "You bought us time," he said, his tone carrying the weight of respect. "But this battle isn’t over."

  Marcus exhaled through his teeth, trying to steel himself, but every breath felt shallow, his ribs struggling against the tightness in his chest.

  The fortress trembled around them.

  Even beyond the walls, the sounds of war were deafening—the clash of steel, the roars of dying warriors, and the relentless thunder of siege bombardments.

  Orc warriors, emboldened by Marcus’ arrival, fought with renewed fervor. They had seen the Spell Fist tear through the enemy ranks, had felt the surge of hope that came with his presence.

  But hope alone wouldn’t hold these walls.

  The outer defenses were in ruins—sections of the stone fortifications reduced to rubble. Fires raged in pockets across the stronghold, ignited by the Xenorian fire mages, their spell barrages growing more coordinated.

  This wasn’t a desperate push by a struggling army.

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  This was a war machine adapting—learning, adjusting, pressing forward with precision.

  The Thane’s forces weren’t retreating.

  They were gearing up for something worse.

  And they weren’t done.

  A deep, mechanical rumble rolled through the battlefield, sending shudders through the ground.

  It was slow at first—almost imperceptible against the chaos of war.

  Then, the tremors intensified.

  The very earth beneath them shook.

  From his elevated forward command, Thane Vulgaris stood still, watching with the patience of a predator. The firelight of the burning battlefield cast eerie shadows over his features, his expression unreadable—except for the small, knowing smirk at the corner of his lips.

  Beside him, Commander Dresk inhaled sharply.

  "They’re moving," he muttered, his grip tightening on the pommel of his sword.

  The Siege Titans were advancing.

  The Orc Stronghold defenders heard it before they saw it.

  The first thunderous footstep cracked the ground.

  Then, another.

  The cries of battle faltered. Soldiers—Orcs and Xenorians alike—paused, some turning their heads toward the oncoming doom.

  Then, they appeared.

  Towering behemoths, three times the height of a man, forged from steel-reinforced plates, their massive limbs etched with arcane runes that pulsed with contained power.

  The Siege Titans were not simply machines—they were walking weapons of annihilation.

  Their central cores pulsed like molten hearts, fed by fire mages channeling streams of pure Mana, their hands outstretched in controlled synchronization.

  These weren’t conventional siege weapons—they were arcane monstrosities, designed for war, engineered for destruction.

  A Titan halted—its massive, hammer-like arm lifting into the air. The runes flared brighter, arcs of red-hot energy racing through the engraved circuits across its form.

  Then—it swung downward.

  BOOOOOM.

  The impact ripped through the Stronghold's outer wall, sending massive chunks of stone collapsing in a violent eruption. The shockwave alone sent defenders staggering backward, some outright flung off the battlements.

  The fortress groaned, the very foundation trembling under the Titan’s fury.

  Then, a second Siege Titan, stationed further back, adjusted its stance.

  A mechanical whine built up.

  The Titan’s ballista arm, fitted with a mana-infused spear as thick as a tree trunk, locked into place. The spearhead glowed, crackling with a terrifying concentration of fire and kinetic force.

  A tense silence gripped the battlefield for half a second.

  Then—the ballista fired.

  The sky screamed as the spear tore through the battlefield, carving a trail of destruction in its wake.

  The moment it hit, the entire rampart exploded—stone, fire, and shattered bodies sent flying in all directions.

  A nearby watchtower collapsed, its structure giving way to the sheer force of impact.

  The Orc Stronghold shook violently, the walls now barely holding.

  From the battlements, Miran’s gaze remained locked on the Siege Titans, his jaw set in a hard line.

  Inside the war room, the tension was palpable.

  Marcus stood over a crude battle map, his hands bracing the table, his breathing still unsteady. The poison was still in him, slowing his mind and body, but even without it—this sight was something else entirely.

  "If those Titans breach the walls fully," Miran’s voice rumbled, low and heavy, "we lose the Stronghold."

  A statement of fact.

  A grim truth.

  Marcus exhaled sharply, still wrestling with the sluggishness of his poisoned body.

  "We can’t take them head-on," Vira muttered, her expression tight as she studied the imposing war machines outside. "Not like this."

  Boruk’s fists clenched, knuckles cracking under the strain. "There has to be something we can hit—a weak point, a power source—something."

  Miran’s eyes flicked toward Marcus.

  Marcus gritted his teeth.

  He wasn’t ready to fight. Not yet.

  But the Siege Titans weren’t going to wait for him to recover.

  And neither was the Thane.