Chapter 27: Let's End This Farce (Extra)
Then the other seven Orcs surged forward.
Their fury roared through the throne room, shaking the ancient walls. Their footsteps were like drums of war, a relentless beat closing in on their lone enemy.
The man stood still. Unbothered. His crimson eyes flickered under the dim dungeon light, reflecting the chaos approaching him.
"Getting angry, are we?"
The Orcs did not answer with words.
They answered with steel.
The first strike came from an Orc—his colossal greatsword arcing through the air like a falling executioner's blade, aiming to cleave the man in two.
CLANG!
A dagger, impossibly small compared to the greatsword, met the steel in a flash. Sparks erupted as the man deflected the strike, his wrist twisting effortlessly as he redirected the force away from his body.
Another attack followed. A massive axe carved a vicious path toward his ribs.
CLANG!
The man twisted, the axe whistling past his side, missing by a hair's breadth.
From behind, a spear lunged forward, its silver tip gleaming in the dim light, aiming straight for his back.
CLANG!
He pivoted in time, his dagger's edge grazing against the incoming spear, altering its path just enough for it to stab empty air.
A warhammer, then a twin-blade, followed by a polearm.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The throne room became an orchestra of violence, steel clashing with steel in a relentless tempo. The sheer force of the attacks shook the stone beneath their feet, the echoes of battle ricocheting off the towering walls.
Yet—the man moved like liquid shadow.
Each strike aimed to end him, but he was never where the blows expected him to be. He weaved through their reach with fluid grace, sidestepping, ducking, pivoting, never staying in one place for more than a fleeting moment. Every block was precise, every movement effortless. His dagger, despite its small size, deflected the heaviest of blows as though he were redirecting falling leaves rather than weapons meant to kill.
The Orcs gritted their teeth. This wasn't just defense. He was toying with them.
A deep bellow erupted from the Orc as his body pulsed with heat. His veins ignited, glowing a molten orange beneath his thick skin.
Molten Fury.
His twin axes turned to liquid fire, each swing creating scorching arcs that threatened to melt through the very stone.
He struck—again and again—each attack powerful enough to turn lesser men to cinders.
The man sidestepped the first.
The second came instantly, a deadly cleave aiming to bisect him.
His dagger flicked—
SLASH!
A clean cut across the orc's wrist. The molten fire wavered. His grip faltered.
A mistake.
SLASH!
A second strike, deeper, across the throat.
The Orc choked, his molten fury extinguishing as he stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief. He fell to his knees, gasping, before collapsing entirely.
But there was no time to dwell on his death.
A warhammer the size of a boulder descended from above.
Titan's Might.
The sheer impact alone shattered the floor, sending debris flying in every direction.
But the man had already moved.
He stepped onto the descending hammer—
Then—
Launched.
A blur—above.
Midair, his dagger flashed.
SLASH!
A deep wound carved across the orc's chest. The warrior howled, staggering back, his grip weakening.
Another orc advanced, spear in hand.
Piercing Gale.
The wind howled as he lunged. His thrusts came blindingly fast, relentless, each strike faster than the last.
CLANG! CLANG!
The man parried. Deflected. Pivoted around the spear's deadly path.
Another orc crackled with blue veins, arcs of lightning surging across his body.
Thunder Step.
In a blink, he vanished—
Only to reappear behind the man, his lightning-charged blade aiming for his spine.
SLASH!
But the man didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
His dagger flicked back.
CLANG!
A perfect parry—without even looking.
Then—
CRACK!
A kick. Brutal. Merciless.
The orc's ribs shattered. He flew across the throne room, crashing into the far wall with a sickening crunch.
The remaining Orcs hesitated.
They had surrounded him. They had attacked with everything.
Yet—
He still stood.
Unbothered. Unscathed.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on the dagger. His posture never changed. Still relaxed. Still effortless.
"Is that all?"
Their hesitation shattered.
A berserker roared, his wounds closing instantly as his muscles swelled.
Blood Berserker.
Another, his skin turning to unbreakable metal.
Iron Fortress.
The last, his dagger wrapped in writhing black tendrils.
Demon's Pact.
Together, they charged.
The man moved first.
SLASH!
The berserker collapsed, his knee torn apart before his regeneration could activate.
SLASH!
The iron-skinned orc gasped, a single precise strike piercing the one weak point in his hardened flesh.
SLASH!
The tendrils never reached their target. His dagger severed them before they could form.
They barely had time to react.
Barely had time to understand.
Blood painted the floor.
And one by one—
They fell.
Until only one remained.
The strongest. The last warrior. His cursed blade trembled in his hands.
The man stepped forward.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just deliberate.
The orc lifted his weapon.
The man vanished.
SLASH!
Darkness.
His head rolled across the floor.
His body followed.
Silence fell upon the throne room.
Only the quiet drip of blood remained.
The man flicked his dagger, shaking off the last traces of green.
The Orc King sat in the colossal black throne, his fists trembling with barely contained rage. His sharp tusks gleamed under the dim dungeon light as he clenched his jaw. The air around him thickened, heavy with the stench of blood and failure.
The lone man stood still, his dagger held up before his face as he stared at the Orc King. His sharp eyes mirrored the blade—cold and focused. His stance showed nothing but disinterest. He sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of sheer boredom.
"So, this is it?" His voice was low, calm—dangerously calm. "This is the big, bad Orc King? Tch. Pathetic."
The Orc King's dull orange eyes blazed with fury. His massive foot slammed down, sending a tremor through the dungeon. Cracks splintered through the stone floor, dust and debris raining from above. But the man? He didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge it.
The monster bared his fangs. "You dare mock me, human?! You stand in MY domain, surrounded by MY dead, and you DARE act superior?!"
A soft chuckle. The man tilted his head, his smirk carrying the slightest trace of amusement—just enough to irritate.
"Superior? No." His voice dipped into something colder, something sharper. "Disappointed? Absolutely." He exhaled again, shaking his head slightly. "I walked in here expecting a fight, a challenge. Instead, I find a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum because someone broke his toys."
The Orc King's claws dug into the stone, muscles flexing as his rage built. "You insufferable little worm! You think yourself untouchable? I'll grind your bones into dust!"
"Grind my bones?" The man let out a short, breathy laugh. "You couldn't even protect your own soldiers. And now? Here you are, sitting in front of their corpses, barking empty threats like a dog that's forgotten it has no teeth."
"Or maybe..." He took a slow step forward. "You're not an Orc King at all."
The Orc King's entire body tensed. Then, for the first time, something shifted in his expression. Just for a second. A flicker. A hesitation.
The man's eyes glinted. He caught it.
The monster stiffened.
Then, a low chuckle. A deep, guttural sound that rolled through the dungeon like distant thunder. It grew, rising into a full-bodied laugh that echoed against the walls.
"Hah... Hahaha..." The creature's lips twisted into something between amusement and menace. "So, you do know. Impressive. But tell me, human, how could you possibly know what I am?"
The man smirked, unfazed by the thickening malice in the air. "Because it's obvious. No self-respecting orc would be this weak and still call himself a king. You're something else." His gaze sharpened. "A demon."
Silence. The laughter stopped. The air grew colder, heavier.
The demon stared, orange eyes burning into the man's own. "No human should know of us." His voice lost its earlier fury, turning into something far darker. "So tell me, worm. How did you?"
The man let out a quiet snort. "How? Tch." He clicked his tongue, as if the answer was too simple. "It's because I'm... a Demon Slayer. An ancient hunter who tracks demons and wipes them from existence." His voice dipped, deepened. "A relic of an age long past."
For a moment, the demon simply studied him. Then, another slow grin stretched across his monstrous face.
"I see. That explains it." Then the demon's gaze darkened. "But you... you're not just a mere human, are you? I can see it in your eyes. Something unnatural. No mere human should have done what you did. No mere human should possess such power."
The man's smirk widened ever so slightly. "You're wrong." He took another step forward, voice calm, steady. "Humans are stronger than you think. You're just too blind to see it. But that doesn't matter... because you shouldn't exist in this world to begin with."
The demon's grin twisted, claws flexing. "Hmph. You amuse me, human. Very well." His monstrous aura rippled outward, thick with raw malice. "You've earned the right to hear my name. I am Zandagar. Remember it."
The man exhaled slowly, unimpressed. "A name? How thoughtful. Didn't expect a mindless beast to have one."
Zandagar's amusement flickered, that murderous glint returning. His claws clenched, the very air around him distorting. "You won't be leaving here alive, human."
The man took another step forward, locking eyes with the demon.
"You still don't get it, do you?" His voice dropped, colder than ice. "It's not about me leaving. It's about how long you'll last before I make you beg for death."
Zandagar's grin faltered. Just for a second.
Then, with a roar that shook the walls, he lunged.
"ARROGANT FOOL! DO YOU THINK YOURSELF A GOD?!"
The man met his gaze, unwavering.
"No." His smirk widened, cruel and merciless. "But you do. And that's your first mistake."
Zandagar's monstrous aura exploded, fury fueling his every movement.
"THEN I'LL CARVE THAT ARROGANCE OUT OF YOU, HUMAN!"
The man tilted his head slightly, his smirk never fading.
"Come then, Zandagar, the False King."
A pulse of energy surged beneath his feet—dark, oppressive, and suffocating. The ground cracked with a faint tremor as a jet-black aura erupted around him, climbing like smoke from the abyss. Shadows twisted at his feet, crawling up his long, black coat as if bowing to his presence. His crimson eyes glowed with a cold, inhuman intensity.
He took a half-step forward.
His body leaned slightly to the side, knees bent just enough for a burst—one hand loosely hanging, the other raised at chest level, gripping the dagger in reverse grip. His coat fluttered behind him in the force of his own aura, framing him in a silhouette of death.
A predator's stance. Relaxed—but coiled. Ready to strike.
"Let's end this farce."
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(Chapter Ended)
A/N: Hey everyone, I'm writting another book titled "A Love That Doesn't Bloom", inspired by "Your Lie in April". Although it may seem similar, it's actually quite different from typical romance stories, with action and some dark themes. If you're a fan of romance anime or novel, give it a try. Thank you!
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To be continued....