{Chapter: 149: Orc Man}
A flash of silver.
A scimitar—gleaming, curved, and longer than a man's arm—sliced silently through the air, passing just above his horns. The blade's edge shimmered with deadly precision, designed not just to cut, but to kill with one swift motion. Had Dex hesitated even for a fraction of a second, the strike would have split his skull cleanly down the center, right between the two obsidian-black horns that jutted from his crown like jagged crescents.
Calmly, he turned his head.
Before him stood the attacker—a figure towering nearly seven feet tall, radiating both raw power and primal savagery. His broad shoulders and muscular frame were vaguely human in outline, but his features retained an unmistakable trace of the beast. Thick, weathered skin the color of dark clay, tusks curving from his lower jaw, and a heavy brow marked him as something other than human.
Dex's eyes narrowed slightly as recognition dawned.
"Orc."
He'd read about them in the vast records of the outer realms, studied them through spy reports and ancient battlefield archives. Everything clicked into place with frightening speed.
Here Orcs were, in many ways, similar to humans—capable of abstract thought, language, tool use, and reproduction at nearly the same rate. Their physical strength often exceeded that of humans, but their magical aptitude was limited. Rarely did one encounter an orc born with an affinity for arcane arts. Instead, they had developed a unique mystical tradition—shamanism—a spiritual path where the magic didn't reside within them, but flowed through them from the world around them.
And it was through this tradition that the orc standing before him had become a living totem of war.
Dex's gaze roamed across the orc's body, noting the intricate patterns that crisscrossed his bare chest, arms, and back. At first glance, one might mistake them for elaborate tattoos or tribal paint, but Dex knew better. These were war totems—sacred sigils painted or carved into the flesh using rare alchemical dyes, bones of beasts, and blood drawn during spiritual rites.
Each one hummed with latent power.
[Brave Warrior] — increased battle focus and fearlessness.
[Swift Body] — enhanced reflexes and blinding speed.
[Lion's Heart] — unshakable will and resistance to fear or charm.
[Poison Retreat] — nullification of toxins and venoms.
[Damage Reduction] — physical resilience beyond mortal limits.
There were dozens more—perhaps over a hundred—layered one over another like a living spellbook. Such power came at a cost: each totem etched into the skin inflicted searing pain during its application, and only the strongest could endure more than a handful. To wear a hundred? That was the mark of a legend among orc tribes.
Dex arched an eyebrow in fascination.
"You," he said, his voice smooth and curious, "must be a warrior of considerable status. Judging by the number of totems on your body, I'd place you somewhere near legendary rank, by your world's standards."
The orc's brows furrowed slightly in response. He didn't reply—whether because he didn't understand what Dex spoke or because he didn't care to answer was unclear. But his expression betrayed a flicker of confusion, as if the question itself caught him off guard.
Perhaps he hadn't expected his opponent to speak at all.
Rather than respond verbally, the orc snarled and launched another attack.
This time, he didn't hold back.
The scimitar came sweeping down with blinding speed, carving through the air in a deadly arc. Dex shifted slightly to his left, his movements minimal but precise—just enough to avoid the razor edge. The orc's momentum carried him forward, but he recovered quickly, spinning into a rapid series of strikes.
Dex remained calm, his hands still resting at his sides.
He wasn't just dodging—he was studying.
His eyes caught the glint of arcane inscriptions carved into the blade of the scimitar. The runes were unfamiliar to most—but not to him.
"Exorcism Runes," Dex murmured as the sword narrowly missed his shoulder. "That explains it. You're hunting something like me. Painful if they strike true—effective against spirits, demons, and the undead."
The orc didn't answer. He continued his relentless assault, his muscles coiling and springing like a predator in motion. Every strike was backed by decades of practice, each one faster and more precise than the last.
Under the power of his totems, the orc's body blurred into motion. His blade split into afterimages, creating a lattice of silver arcs that covered every angle of escape.
This was no ordinary technique.
It was a killing formation, a secret method known only to orc champions. Dex realized its purpose: to deny the enemy any path to retreat or counterattack. The scimitar danced through the air with terrifying speed, forming a cage of flashing steel that closed in on his neck.
And then—
The orc's eyes widened in shock.
His blade passed through empty space.
No blood. No spray. No thud of severed flesh.
Dex had… disappeared?
No. He was still there.
Still standing in front of the orc.
But… his head was gone.
In the span of a heartbeat, Dex had reached up with one hand and removed his own head from his shoulders, raising it casually as though lifting a helmet.
The scimitar whistled through the space where his neck had been a moment earlier, missing completely.
Holding his head by the base of its horns, Dex turned it in his hand like a juggler sizing up a new prop. His crimson eyes blinked slowly, then focused on the stunned orc.
"Interesting angle," he mused aloud, his disembodied voice echoing from his severed mouth. "Not something I'm used to. Feels a little… lopsided."
The orc stood frozen.
Shock rooted him in place. His scimitar dropped slightly, as if the sheer impossibility of what he had just witnessed had shattered his sense of reason.
The other party actually took off his own head, just in time to avoid his blade.
Dex tilted his own head in his hand, then smiled faintly.
"I suppose this isn't fair," he said conversationally. "You brought a weapon meant to kill spirits and cursed beings. But I'm neither."
Ignoring the other party's surprised expression, Dex lifted his own head with his right hand and shook it like a basketball. Then the head spoke, "This perspective is a bit strange. I'm not used to it."
Then, with casual grace, Dex lowered the head back into position atop his neck. There was a sound like silk stitching itself together as the connection resealed without scar or seam. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, letting out a content sigh.
"I'm something a little more… difficult."
The orc, to his credit, didn't run. Despite witnessing something beyond comprehension, he raised his blade again, readying another strike. His courage, if nothing else, was admirable.
Dex's eyes gleamed—not with malice, but with genuine curiosity and excitement.
*****
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