The journey to the orc camp at the foot of Mount Gram was grueling, but Mordred and his army pressed forward with unrelenting determination. As they crested the final ridge, the camp came into view—a sprawling, chaotic cluster of tents and makeshift barricades nestled at the base of the mountain. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke, blood, and filth. Mordred, his golden eyes glinting, surveyed the terrain, his mind already dissecting the situation.
Beside him stood Rose, adjusting her grip on her bow. Her green eyes scanned the camp with a hunter's precision. Behind her waited eighty archers, ready for action. During the march, Mordred had outlined his battle plan to her: a two-pronged assault to catch the orcs off guard. He would lead the main force from the front, while two hundred minions would circle around to strike from the rear, sowing chaos in the enemy ranks.
"The orcs won't expect an attack from multiple directions," Mordred had said, his voice calm but resolute. "Your archers will weaken them before they can even reach us."
Rose had nodded, her face set with readiness. "My people are prepared. Every shot will find its mark."
Now, standing at the edge of the forest, the moment of truth had arrived. Mordred raised a hand, signaling silence. The two hundred minions behind him—small but ferocious warriors clad in light armor—froze in place, their eyes locked on their master. Rose and her archers took positions among the trees, drawing their bowstrings taut.
With a final glance at Rose, Mordred stepped out from the forest. At that moment, the orc camp erupted into chaos—shouts and guttural roars filled the air. "Enemies! Form ranks! Form ranks!" the orcs bellowed, scrambling to organize a defense.
Mordred allowed a grim smile to cross his face beneath his helm. "Now," he commanded, his voice cutting through the din.
Rose's archers unleashed their first volley. Arrows whistled through the air, raining down on the orcs like a deadly hailstorm. Enemies fell, pierced by arrowheads, their screams of pain mingling with enraged roars. But the orcs quickly rallied—their leaders barked orders, and the warriors formed a ragged line, charging toward Mordred's position.
"Minions, forward!" Mordred thundered, drawing his sword. The blade gleamed menacingly in the dim light, promising slaughter to any who stood in his way.
The minions surged into battle, a wave of small but fearless warriors flooding the battlefield. Though smaller than the orcs, they were agile and utterly without fear, ready to give their lives for their master. The two forces collided in a brutal clash—the clang of steel rang out as swords met axes, and shields splintered under the force of blows.
Mordred waded into the fray, his sword moving with lethal precision, cutting down one orc after another. His new armor, heavy and majestic, deflected the crude strikes of his enemies, while his own attacks were swift and deadly. At his side, Rose fired her bow, each arrow striking its target with unerring accuracy. Her archers maintained a relentless rhythm, wave after wave of arrows decimating the orc ranks.
Yet the orcs were no easy foe. Their strength was crushing, and their numbers gave them an edge. Minions fell under their axes, their fragile bodies unable to withstand the enemy's brutal power. But for every minion that perished, two orcs fell—either pierced by arrows or overwhelmed by the relentless press of Mordred's forces.
At a critical moment in the battle, when the outcome hung in the balance, wild cries erupted from the rear of the camp. The remaining two hundred minions, who had circled around as planned, stormed into the orc ranks from behind. Their sudden assault threw the enemy into disarray, forcing them to turn and face the new threat. The orcs, now caught between two fronts, faltered under the dual onslaught.
Mordred seized the opportunity, driving deeper into the enemy lines. His sword sang, severing limbs and heads with each swing. The orcs, surrounded on both sides, began to break, their formation crumbling under the pressure of the double attack.
Then, from the heart of the camp, a massive figure emerged. The orc chieftain, a towering brute in crude iron armor, roared with fury as he charged straight for Mordred. His eyes burned with hatred, and his blood-drenched axe gleamed ominously.
Mordred met the challenge, his sword clashing with the axe in a shower of sparks. The two warriors circled each other, trading blows that would have shattered lesser fighters. The orc was powerful—his strikes dented Mordred's armor—but Mordred was faster, his movements precise and calculated.
With a deft feint, Mordred dodged a massive blow and struck back. His sword sliced through the orc's arm, severing it in a single cut. The chieftain howled in agony, his axe falling to the ground as he clutched the bleeding stump.
In a desperate act, the orc turned to flee, but his fate was sealed. An arrow from Rose's bow sliced through the air and buried itself in his back, dropping him to his knees. Mordred approached slowly, his steps carrying the certainty of death. With a single swing of his sword, he severed the chieftain's head, and the orc's body collapsed into the dust.
The sight of their leader's death broke the orcs' spirit. Panic spread through their ranks like wildfire, and they turned to flee, abandoning weapons and hope. Mordred, breathing heavily but unyielding, raised his sword.
"Minions, pursue them! Leave no orc alive!" he commanded, his voice carrying across the battlefield.
The minions, fueled by bloodlust, gave chase, cutting down the fleeing orcs with ruthless efficiency. The battle was over, but Mordred knew true victory required eliminating every threat.
As the last orc fell, a familiar glow appeared before Mordred's eyes. A SYSTEM notification materialized, illuminating his helm with an ethereal light.
Congratulations on defeating the orcs.
Reward: (?)
Mordred allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The first step toward domination had been taken, and each victory built his legend. But for now, other duties awaited—tending to the wounded, gathering spoils, and planning the next move.