Chapter 68: The Counter Attack Begins

  The Orc Stronghold trembled under the relentless onslaught. Every devastating impact from the Siege Titans sent shockwaves through the stone walls, shaking the very foundation of the fortress. The air reeked of blood, ash, and fire, and the once-imposing battlements now looked ragged—charred, crumbling, and splintered under the brutal siege.

  Yet, despite the devastation, the orc warriors fought on.

  Marcus, slumped against a cold stone pillar inside the war room, felt the distant vibrations through his weakened limbs. His body still burned with the remnants of the Psycha-infused poison, disrupting his internal flow of Ki, Mana, and Psycha. Stem was working tirelessly to purge the toxins, but the process was painfully slow. Each breath was a battle of its own.

  He struggled to sit up straighter, but his muscles felt like lead.

  "Marcus."

  Miran’s deep voice cut through the haze like a war horn in the night. The Chieftain’s golden eyes were unwavering, his massive form looming over Marcus like an unbreakable wall. He placed a firm, heavy hand on Marcus' shoulder, steadying him.

  "You’ve done enough."

  Marcus clenched his teeth. "I can still fight." His voice lacked the steel it usually carried.

  Miran shook his head. "Not yet. Rest. That’s an order."

  Marcus wanted to argue. Every instinct told him to push forward, to keep going. But Miran’s words carried the authority of a leader who had seen countless battles. This was not a request.

  The Chieftain turned to Vira, his tone sharpening. "Watch him. Make sure he doesn’t do something reckless."

  Vira crossed her arms. "He’s stubborn, but I’ll keep him in one piece." There was a slight smirk in her tone, but her crimson eyes held concern.

  Satisfied, Miran rolled his shoulders, turning his attention toward the battlefield. His massive twin axes rested against his back, the weapons etched with countless victories, their edges worn yet deadly.

  "Boruk. Ragn."

  The two warriors stepped forward without hesitation.

  Boruk grunted, rolling his shoulders. His war axe rested easily against his palm, its weight familiar, comforting. "Finally." His knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip.

  Ragn smirked, adjusting the twin blades strapped to his back. "Let’s see how many of these bastards we can send to the dirt before they figure out what’s happening."

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  Miran’s presence dominated the space, his sheer presence an unshakable force.

  "We go to buy Marcus some time."

  With a mighty creak, the iron gates groaned open.

  The battle beyond the gates was chaos.

  Xenorian soldiers swarmed the ruined outer walls, shields raised, swords flashing in the firelight. Mages in crimson robes stood behind their ranks, hurling firebolts and arcane blasts at the remaining orc defenders. The ground was littered with the dead, yet no side was relenting.

  Above them, the Siege Titans loomed. Their runed steel plating shimmered with molten power, and their fire cores pulsed with ominous energy.

  And then—Miran charged.

  The first Xenorian soldier never saw the axe coming.

  SHUNK.

  The blade cleaved through iron armor and bone in a single brutal strike, the force so powerful that it sent the soldier’s bisected corpse flying. Miran spun, using the momentum to bring his second axe around in a wicked horizontal slash.

  A soldier’s head flew. Blood sprayed the dirt.

  Two kills in two steps.

  Boruk followed suit, a whirlwind of raw power, his axe smashing through shields, sending enemies flying like ragdolls. Each devastating arc of his weapon broke bodies, shattered steel, and painted the battlefield in carnage.

  Ragn was deadly precision incarnate. His twin blades flashed like streaks of silver, weaving between soldiers, cutting throats, slicing tendons. A mage raised his staff to cast—only to choke on his own blood as Ragn’s dagger embedded into his throat.

  And then—Miran faced the Titan.

  The massive war machine registered him as a threat, its molten core pulsing as it adjusted its stance.

  The hammer came down.

  BOOOOM.

  The earth split. The force of impact blasted apart the ground beneath it, sending debris flying in all directions.

  But Miran was faster.

  He dodged by a hair, using the Titan’s own momentum against it.

  Then—he climbed.

  Miran leapt onto the Titan’s arm, his axes embedding deep into the enchanted steel. With terrifying strength, he pulled himself up, using the very weapon meant to crush him as a foothold.

  The Titan tried to shake him off, but he was relentless.

  With a mighty roar, he brought his axe down on the Titan’s fire core, sinking deep into the pulsing energy source.

  The ground beneath them ignited.

  Heat exploded outward, flames licking at Miran’s armor, but he held on.

  One more strike.

  He yanked the axe free—

  And drove it home.

  The core shattered.

  The Titan convulsed.

  Then—it collapsed.

  A deafening explosion rocked the battlefield. Molten steel melted into the dirt, the behemoth’s final groans lost in the firestorm.

  The Orc warriors roared in triumph. Their Chieftain had felled a Titan.

  But victory had a price.

  Miran, still standing, staggered. His side was torn open, blackened armor fusing to his flesh, fresh blood pooling at his feet.

  Boruk and Ragn, battered but alive, rushed to his side, catching him before he could fall.

  And then—they saw it.

  The Titan’s dying core wasn’t fading.

  It was redirecting.

  The remaining Siege Titans absorbed its power.

  Their runes burned brighter.

  Their forms stood taller.

  Miran cursed under his breath. "They're absorbing its power."

  Boruk’s fists clenched. "Then we just have to take the rest down faster."

  A shockwave rippled through the battlefield.

  A silver and blue streak shot forward, colliding with a Siege Titan with enough force to send it skidding back.

  A massive shield, newly forged and gleaming under the firelight, absorbed the Titan’s retaliatory strike.

  Vealeth had arrived.

  The Drake warrior stood tall, his shield anchored deep into the battlefield, his blade gleaming in the firelight.

  Behind him, Arixa rested her massive war hammer on her shoulder, Ki energy pulsing through its weight.

  And then—Thalron.

  The half-elf, half-dwarf warrior stood, his newly forged rapier gleaming, mana radiating off him in powerful, controlled waves.

  His eyes scanned the battlefield.

  His tone was casual, but his presence was commanding.

  "We’re late," he mused. "Let’s fix that."

  The battle had just shifted.