Chapter 326 – "The Dragon Against the Horde"
The Hollow had never known a silence like this.
It wasn't the quiet of peace, nor the restful hush of a town before dawn. It was the suffocating stillness of dread, the kind that weighed on every soul. The council chamber had been loud, voices raised, ideas clashing, fear laced beneath every word, until Kael silenced them all with his plan: they would evacuate the people, marshal defenses, but the true heart of the war would come down to him.
And now, as dawn split the treeline with pale gray light, Kael walked toward the field of death.
Behind him, the Hollow stirred in hurried preparation. Lyria had stood at his side until the last moment, whispering words into his chest that left him feeling both raw and renewed. Azhara had beaten against him in fury, her small fists striking his chest as if to break through to the core of his reckless heart. Rogan, Varik, Fenrik, even Zerathis—all had stood opposed, each for their own reasons, but their voices could not sway him.
The world itself seemed to hold its breath as he stepped out from the treeline and gazed upon the enemy.
The Army of Orcs
The camp was not a camp. It was a sea.
Orcs filled the valley like a black tide. Fires burned in crude iron braziers, war banners snapped in the chill wind, and the thunder of drums rolled like the heartbeat of some vast and ancient beast. At least a hundred thousand orcs stretched before him, their bodies a wall of muscle, steel, and fury. They were not disorganized rabble. They were legion—formed into ranks, armed with jagged axes, curved swords, and massive spears that bristled like a forest of steel.
And above it all loomed the massive crude fortress of wood and stone that the overlord had built at the camp's center.
Even at this distance Kael could feel it. A weight in the air. A malignant pulse of mana, heavy and oppressive, as though the very forest bent beneath the will of the creature within.
The Orc Overlord.
Born once in a thousand years, the ancient stories said. A monster among monsters, chosen by whatever cruel gods had forged the orcs to embody their bloodlust and power. Twice as strong as any legendary beast, the scouts had whispered. Twice as strong—and perhaps more cunning.
Kael's breath left him in a slow exhale. He could feel his people behind him even without turning—his council, his warriors, their hearts hammering with the same fear he himself carried. He reached back through their bond, through the threads of loyalty and connection they had forged in battle, and with a grim thought he cast his will outward.
Shadows surged like chains.
Every council member froze, their bodies locked, their protests echoing through the bond.
"Kael!" Lyria's voice cracked like a whip of grief and rage.
"Damn you, let us fight!" Rogan bellowed.
"You'll die out there!" Azhara's scream tore through him like a blade.
Even Fenrik, wild and unyielding, strained like a beast against a cage, his mana flaring as he tried to shatter the bonds.
And Zerathis… even he looked uneasy, his sharp voice carrying through the bond: "This is folly. Even for you."
Kael's answer came in silence. In the iron tightening of his will.
If I fall, it is only me. If we fall together… the Hollow dies.
Then he turned forward, sword in hand, and walked into the storm.
The First Clash
The orcs roared as they saw him approach. Laughter rumbled in their guttural tongues, jeers carrying across the battlefield. One man, they thought. One fool, walking to his death.
But Kael was no man.
Umbra stirred within him, a shadowy flame licking along the magisteel edge of his sword. His black cloak of fire and darkness flared to life, casting him as something half-real, half-myth. Chaos magic hummed in his veins, restrained but alive, a predator waiting to be unleashed.
The first line of orcs charged.
Kael moved.
Steel whispered as his blade cut arcs of fire through the air. Black flames leapt from his strikes, devouring flesh and steel alike. He stepped past the first orc, severed its arm, spun to take the head of the second, then crushed the third beneath a shadow-forged claw that ripped from the earth at his command. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, soaking into the soil.
The second line came, a dozen strong, their axes swinging in brutal arcs. Kael met them head-on, his sword a storm of strikes. He cut low, sliced through a leg, ducked beneath a swing, then drove his blade through an orc's throat. His free hand shot forward, shadows bursting like spears to impale three more.
And still they came.
Dozens turned to hundreds. Hundreds to thousands.
Kael roared, his voice a sound not entirely human, as his blade burned with black fire. He carved his way forward, every strike felling an enemy, every step leaving corpses in his wake. His cloak of shadows lashed out like living serpents, wrapping, constricting, snapping bones with wet cracks.
But the numbers pressed on him.
Orcs surged from every side. Arrows hissed through the air, blades slashed from every angle. Kael twisted, deflected, ducked, parried—but steel scraped against his armor, axes bit into his shadows, and blood began to streak down his arms where he failed to dodge entirely.
"Kael!" Lyria's voice screamed in his mind.
"Let us go, damn you!" Azhara's voice was broken, desperate.
Rogan bellowed curses, Fenrik howled like a beast straining against chains, even Zerathis' calm voice cut sharp as steel: "You cannot hold forever. Even dragons bleed."
Kael ignored them all. He could not afford doubt.
His blade cut, his shadows lashed, his flames burned. Again and again and again.
Five Thousand
By the time he cut down the five-thousandth orc, his body was shaking with exertion.
His arms ached with every swing. His breath came ragged, his chest heaving. Blood slicked his armor—not all of it his enemies'. Cuts burned along his side, his leg throbbed from a spear that had pierced through before he broke it off. His sword, though forged of magisteel, felt impossibly heavy in his hand.
Yet still he fought.
Each kill was harder than the last. Orcs pressed from every angle, dragging him down with sheer weight of numbers. He would carve through five, six, seven in a flurry, only to have ten more close around him. He slipped in blood, staggered, nearly went to one knee before a surge of shadows burst from his body and hurled them back.
But for every moment of reprieve, another tide crashed in.
Through it all, the voices of his council cut through his skull like fire. Azhara weeping as she screamed for him to stop. Lyria begging him, her voice cracking. Rogan raging, Fenrik snarling, Zerathis' silence speaking louder than words.
Kael's heart clenched. He had bound them because he loved them. Because he could not bear to see them die here. Yet with every passing moment, he feared this choice would kill him instead.
And still he fought.
Blood coated the earth. The valley stank of death and smoke. Piles of bodies lay where he had carved his way forward. Five thousand orcs dead—and yet the sea remained endless.
And then the drums stopped.
The Orc Overlord
The battlefield hushed.
From the crude fortress in the center of the orc host, the earth trembled as something vast stirred. The air thickened, charged with a raw, primal force that made even Kael's heart skip. Orcs parted like water as a shadow rose above them.
The Orc Overlord stepped into the dawn.
He was titanic, towering nearly four times Kael's height. Muscles corded his body like stone, green flesh streaked with black scars. His armor was crude but massive, plates of steel hammered into shape around his enormous frame. In his hand he carried a war-axe larger than Kael himself, its jagged edge glowing faintly with a terrible light.
His eyes burned red as coals. His tusked mouth split in a grin too wide, too cruel.
And when he laughed, it shook the valley.
"A single warrior," the overlord's voice rolled like thunder, mocking, booming over the hushed army. "One tiny man… to stand against my horde."
Kael's sword dripped black flame. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his body broken and bloodied but still standing. Shadows writhed around him, black fire smoldering in his eyes.
"I am anything but human."
The battlefield held its breath.
And then the storm broke.