Chapter 434: Old Node, God-Slaying Soul Blade

In the central-southern reaches of the continent, where the orc kingdoms cluster, lies the Bloodtooth Empire—the largest of these realms and the one closest to human lands. For several years, this kingdom has been mired in civil war, with rebellious orc clans locked in a protracted stalemate against the royal family.

Wang Yu’s interactions with these orcs were few. His only "battle" against them had been watching the Sky Mechanical City obliterate a swarm of rampaging chimeras, synthesized by rogue orc shamans, that had spiraled out of control.

And that was that. The internal affairs of the orcs were for the orcs to resolve. As a neutral organization, the Sky Mechanical City, much like the Church of Light, would not interfere in the domestic politics of a race, intervening only when something threatened to cause catastrophic destruction.

The forces of the orc royalty and the rebels were divided roughly six to four, with the Taliban River—which bisected the Bloodtooth Empire—serving as the rough boundary. Both sides garrisoned their respective territories, clashing in large-scale conflicts from time to time.

Years of ceaseless war had stained the Taliban River with the green blood of the orcs, so much so that the river’s ecosystem had undergone a radical transformation.

Many herbivorous fish had gone extinct, replaced by mutated species that filtered the blood from the water to survive. Large carnivorous fish had also proliferated; whenever war broke out, these giants would wait for the corpses of fallen orcs to drift their way, occasionally even launching active attacks on the warriors themselves.

Rumors circulated among the tribes that these predators were the creations of enemy shamans, though such claims were never verified. In truth, since the fish ate the orcs and the orcs ate the fish, no one truly cared who had brought them into existence.

South of the Taliban River lay the Stoneheart Tribe, the largest encampment—or, more accurately, the largest rebel stronghold. In reality, there was no distinction; the orcs were born warriors who never ceased their fighting from the moment they drew breath. Every orc tribe could be viewed as an army.

In the camp, a sprawl of tents fashioned from hides and the branches of massive trees, orcs of every shape and size moved about—some furred, some hairless, some with protruding tusks, others with teeth like humans. Now and then, orc children would dash past, screaming and laughing, eyeing the prey held by the adults with ravenous hunger.

The atmosphere here lacked the grim, desolate air of the battlefields at Alastair or Sewentan. It was dusk, and female orcs knelt by the Taliban River, scrubbing blood-stained prey and armor in the rushing current.

"Splash! Argh!"

The water erupted. A massive "catfish," over three meters long, vaulted into the air, clamped its jaws around the head of a female orc on the bank, and dragged her screaming into the depths.

"Squish!"

Before the predator could savor its new prize, an iron spear shot from the bank, piercing the great fish through and through.

"Ah, you startled me. But at least there’s more meat now. A treat for the little ones."

The red-skinned female orc pried open the dead fish’s jaws and surfaced, her thick, muscular neck bearing the marks of the creature’s teeth. The berserker rage that had triggered automatically in the face of danger had prevented the fish from snapping her neck.

"Thank you, Lord Garush."

Dragging the fish from the water, the female thanked the orc who had thrown the spear in a tongue that was not the common language.

"Watch the water more closely. This was just an ordinary fish. If you encounter a mutated one, I might not be able to save you."

Garush was a hulking male orc, his skin hairless and the color of tanned leather. His massive frame radiated a terrifying, rugged strength, and two enormous tusks protruded from his mouth, giving him a ferocious appearance.

The war paint etched onto his face by the shaman marked his status: War Chief, or Hunting King. Whether in battle or the hunt, he was the primary authority to whom all others deferred, his commands superseding those of the more intellectual orc leaders.

Garush said no more, merely reminding the female to be wary of the river’s dangers before moving on to more pressing matters.

As he strode through the camp, the orcs parted, offering the traditional salute. Even the most mischievous children stepped aside cautiously, careful not to make a sound.

This reverence was not merely the result of adult warnings; even one-year-old infants, their minds still clouded, would instinctively avoid Garush. The aura of his immense vitality was far too potent for their race to ignore.

Garush walked in silence until he reached the largest tent in the camp. He pulled back the flap and entered. The light inside was dim, and a strange, pungent odor hung in the air.

Beneath a massive cauldron, wood burned with a ghostly green flame. Inside, a thick, viscous concoction—brewed from unknown mutated materials—emitted a faint, shimmering light that was neither blue nor green, illuminating a small corner of the tent.

"You're here? Help me taste this."

The tribal shaman, a hunched figure hidden beneath black robes, scooped a small bowl of the sludge and handed it to him.

"Gulp."

Without questioning the contents, Garush swallowed the thick, gritty liquid in one go. As it hit his stomach, a unique power began to take effect, surging from his gut and pumping raw vitality through his veins.

"No problems. The vitality is abundant—better than what you brewed before, Shaman."

Garush touched the war paint on his face, which had begun to glow brightly from the infusion of life force. His voice was low, focused on digesting the overwhelming energy.

"Excellent. Then we can begin shaping their bodies. Bring me what I asked for."

The shaman nodded, satisfied, and walked to a corner of the room. There, a sturdy orc lay bound, seemingly drugged into a deep, unnatural sleep. Even as the shaman drove the sharp tip of his staff into the orc's chest, the man did not stir.

The shaman chanted a long, complex incantation. A stream of green light was drawn from the orc’s body. As this materialized life force was extracted, the orc’s strong frame withered rapidly, flesh dissolving and bones melting until only a puddle of slurry remained on the floor.

Garush exited the tent as the shaman dropped the glowing green orb of life force into the cauldron. The liquid inside brightened; the vitality contained within was far greater than it appeared.

After all, when it came to the study of biological life force, these orc shamans possessed knowledge that surpassed even the elves. They were true masters of vitality; the spell-fire used by Wang Yu was hardly high-level knowledge to them.

Though they knew nothing of the arts mastered by other races, the orcs’ unique method of passing down their secret knowledge meant that even the Sky Mechanical City had no record of their techniques. A self-imposed, two-way blockade of knowledge was the standard state of the orc tribes.

Garush ran toward the edge of the camp. From there, he could see a medium-sized hill behind the settlement, at the center of which sat a massive crater.

Inside the crater stood a tower over a hundred meters tall, with a significant portion still buried underground. Its architectural style and form were clearly alien to the orcs.

This spire had appeared only a few days ago, yet the Stoneheart shaman and those of other tribes seemed entirely unsurprised.

There were many such spires, but they shared one commonality: they appeared only south of the Taliban River, within the territory of the rebel orcs. Not a single one stood within the lands of the royal family.

Days ago, the shaman had ordered Garush to place certain items here. The shaman had said little about the towers, but Garush, with his keen hearing, had caught him muttering words he didn't quite understand: "Old Era," "Nodes."

"Click."

Garush picked up a skull that had grown stuck to the ground due to the leaking fluids. He could feel a difference in this object—crafted by the shaman—compared to a few days prior.

When the shaman had first given him the skull filled with life force to deliver, it had felt like nothing more than a "corpse" to Garush, despite its energy rivaling that of a formal knight. Now, he could feel that the skull was alive.

"..."

He stared at the skull in his massive hand for a moment before returning to the shaman’s tent.

"Good. No issues. In that case, Garush, the existence that will forge a utopia for us orcs can finally enter this era!"

The shaman inspected the skull, marked Garush’s face with another stroke of war paint in approval, and dropped the skull into the cauldron.

As it sank, the viscous, life-rich liquid converged upon it, slowly molding and filling out a new body.

"Ah, it seems to be proceeding smoothly. Tell me, what era is this? And have those Abyss creatures been dealt with? I should hate to see such rule-breaking, disgusting things in my utopia."

Within the cauldron, the "newborn" life looked at the expressionless Garush and the robed shaman, asking for information with a hint of excitement.

...

In the Dwarf Kingdom, at a branch of the Twilight Merchant Guild under the Church of Night, Damian had just finished unloading the day’s cargo with two other members of the "Unlight Secret Order." They collected their rations from the guild canteen and returned to their wooden cabin to eat.

Since joining the Church of Night, they had spent a long time following Elliot’s caravan. As Elliot’s business expanded, they—the followers of the Lady of Night who were not as close to Elliot as the original members—had been assigned to these branch stores.

Damian and his companions had spent nearly a year in the Elven Kingdom before following the expanding guild to the Dwarf Kingdom.

They had witnessed the Church of Night’s explosive growth and wonders they had never seen in their lives before. By now, the three of them had amassed a small fortune.

"Creak..."

Damian pushed open the door with one hand, his other holding his lunch box, but he froze.

Sitting at the wooden table was a figure he knew all too well. He should not have been surprised, yet a sense of unreality washed over him.

"It seems you’ve done well—better than simple erasure. The Night Deity is a dangerous god; if we can twist her to serve our plans, it will be a far better choice. Come, take this."

A dagger was tossed toward him, landing precisely in Damian’s hand. Looking at the blade, feeling the countless consciousnesses—poised between life and death—compressed within a tiny crystal, Damian felt a sudden, profound sense of bewilderment.