Chapter 445: Still Remember, Pulling Out of the Water

"Pop."

As if emerging from the viscous, gelatinous body of a slime, the white-haired youth and the orc Berserker stepped out from the terminus of their teleportation. Yet, thanks to the youth's masterful control, space barely rippled, and the sensors deployed in the vicinity failed to detect their arrival.

"Hmm, nothing has changed. The reliance of orcish technological progress remains exactly as it was all these years. Though, that is precisely why they require individual handling."

The white-haired youth scanned his surroundings, murmuring to himself as his magic obediently extended his senses, probing the environment and feeding back any obstacles that might impede their path.

They had appeared in the capital of the Bloodfang Empire. Compared to the rest of the orcish territories, it was significantly more developed; at least the buildings were no longer mere hovels of animal hide and timber. More brick-and-tile structures were scattered throughout this city, which, compared to those of other races, resembled little more than a frontier village.

The "palace" where the Orc King of the Bloodfang Empire resided was, in scale, roughly equivalent to the manor of a Lester noble. The guards stationed outside were all powerful, approaching the realm of legends.

Yet, despite such prowess, not a single one sensed the arrival of the white-haired youth and the orc Berserker.

"Snap!"

With a casual flick of his fingers, the sensory runes left by the orc shamans were enveloped in a layer of distorted space. The power intended for detection was forced into an internal loop within this warped shroud.

Transmitted outward again and again, only to be inverted and reflected back by the distorted space, all monitoring means within the area were rendered completely ineffective for a limited time.

"Let's go. Let us see what has become of that existence."

Pointing to the sealed gate of the "palace," the white-haired youth reminded the Berserker, whose gaze had lingered on the surroundings, that it was time to enter and fulfill their purpose.

"..."

Without a word, the Berserker followed the youth straight toward the sealed doors. Though the path was blocked, the moment the youth touched the gate, its surface turned into a phantom, water-like state.

The two stepped through, causing only a slight ripple; the barrier neither shattered nor hindered them, allowing them to pass through unmolested.

Traversing the wide interior corridors, they continued to skillfully bypass every sensory trap set by the orc shamans. The orc elites distributed throughout the "palace"—or rather, the mansion—were even stronger than the guards outside.

Yet, whether they were Great Knights or the rare few legends, none reacted to the presence of the youth and the Berserker. It was hard to imagine what level of concealment could achieve such a feat.

"They still haven't changed..."

Berserker watched the orcs who looked right through them, his brow furrowing slightly, his tone laced with a hidden, simmering anger.

"Indeed. That is the very reason we are doing this, isn't it? If we do not change some things, they will never change at all."

The white-haired youth offered a languid smile, stopped, turned to shrug at the orc, and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

The Berserker did not react to the youth’s pause, instead quickening his pace. At the end of the heavily guarded hallway, he reached out to touch the heavy door.

"Click..."

This time, the door did not yield to a direct passage like the outer gate. Instead, something seemed to be activated, and it slowly swung open. The guards outside were startled, quickly lowering their heads in a gesture of submission and respect toward the opening.

"Quite majestic, isn't it?"

The youth glanced at the guards who kept their heads bowed, not daring to look directly at them, and after this remark, followed the silent Berserker into the chamber.

"Clang..."

The doors slowly closed with a dull thud. Only when the sound of the closing doors echoed did the guards straighten up, returning to their vigilant, focused state—as if they hadn't just allowed two uninvited guests into the King's bedchamber.

The room was bathed in soft, warm light, and the air was fragrant with herbs prepared by orc shamans, creating an environment of profound comfort. In this room, which was not particularly spacious, the bed of the Bloodfang Empire's Orc King sat in the center.

"Who?!"

The sound of the door had not stirred the old man on the bed, but the moment the youth and the orc stepped within ten meters, the resting elder sat up abruptly, his eyes locking onto the intruders.

The King of the Bloodfang Empire, Kaslope, looked incredibly frail. His once-mighty muscles, which could have withstood legendary weapons, had withered to a gaunt, unrecognizable state. In his hand, he already gripped a dagger drawn from a hidden compartment in the bed—a blade hollowed out and etched with complex, layered runes that radiated terrifying energy.

"Don't be so agitated, will you?"

The youth raised a hand, and a specific magical force tore through the air, touching the dangerous legendary dagger. After disrupting several nodes of magical flow, the energy accumulating on the blade dissipated instantly, flicked away by the youth.

"Sigh, how long have you lived? Look at this decrepit body; it is truly sad to see. You never used to rely on weapons like this. Aside from your perception, which still holds a shadow of what it was centuries ago, everything else is gone."

The white-haired youth stripped away the disguise that Kaslope had seen through, revealing his true appearance. As the elder fell into a daze upon seeing his face, the youth gently took the dagger from his hand.

"You... how? How could it be you? Are you not already dead?"

The old orc's voice was filled with disbelief, as if he could not fathom the identity of the being before him; his question seemed directed as much at the youth as it was at himself.

"As for that, there is nothing special to say. I am who I am. I did not die, and now that I have returned, I must finish what was left undone."

The youth offered no further explanation, merely confirming that the "you" the elder spoke of was indeed who he suspected.

"What do you want? What do you seek from me?"

After the initial shock of recognizing the youth, the old orc, as the master of the Bloodfang Empire, regained his composure. Regardless, since the youth had come here, he must want something, and understanding that desire was paramount.

"Hmm... I want to borrow your identity."

The youth nodded, satisfied that Kaslope had asked the question himself, and stated their goal directly.

"Wha...t?"

The elder paused, asking with hesitation.

"Was I not clear enough? We need your identity—your status as the King of the Bloodfang Empire, the King of the Orcs, the noble ruler of a nation—the identity you have held for so long."

Rolling his eyes, the youth explained clearly.

"If I could, I would not mind giving this identity to you. But it is impossible. The orcs would never accept a king of another race. Even you—it is absolutely impossible."

Kaslope looked into the youth's eyes, speaking each word with deliberate, absolute certainty.

"You are not wrong. But have you considered how I entered this room? You understand the things passed down among the orcs, do you not? Besides, even if we could make the orcs accept us, you would never hand it over anyway. Otherwise, you would have done so long ago."

Without wasting more breath on the point, the youth urged the old orc to think deeper.

"...This, could it be? No, that is impossible. I am the last one. It can only be me, and it will only ever be me."

The elder's body stiffened. A disbelief even greater than when he had first recognized the youth filled his eyes. The breakthrough realization made his frame tremble uncontrollably.

"Right. Since I, who had 'died,' can appear once more, why would it be impossible for another who shares your qualifications to reappear?"

The youth answered with a smile, but Kaslope's attention was no longer on him. Of all the things in the room, his gaze was fixed solely on the silent Berserker.

"Are you so afraid of death?"

The quiet question came from the Berserker. The frail orc before him could not be reconciled with the existence in his memories. In this withered body, there was no trace of a legendary powerhouse.

Even without asking, the Berserker knew how many means the elder had used to extend his life, to delay the encroaching decay: the source water of the Elven World Tree, the stasis potions of human alchemists, the life-remodeling of orc shamans...

But these things, whether they stabilized the body or strengthened the life force, could only grant a longer span. Before the passage of time, and before a legendary body that had already reached its limit, their effects were negligible.

From that era to this, Kaslope’s state could only be described as pathetic—waiting for the arrival of death in a futile struggle.

"You do not understand! You cannot possibly comprehend that terror! Everything drifts away as time marches on. Everything you once possessed ceases to exist! Power is but a phantom bubble, vanishing in an instant!"

The old orc grew agitated, roaring at the Berserker in a voice several octaves higher than when he had spoken to the youth. Anger, resentment, disbelief, fear—emotions of extreme complexity churned within the elder's chest, threatening to tear him apart.

"Those defects of the orcs—did you fulfill your promise to help them remove them? It seems the orc nation has not changed at all compared to the past, has it?"

In stark contrast to the elder's agitation, the Berserker asked his question in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Why would you do such a thing? Can you not see that we were never meant to walk the same path? Those early vows were merely the dictates of the age; did I truly have any choice but to concede? Yet, I could have chosen inaction. The blood of the orcs was destined for this—they are warriors, and we are sovereigns. The savage gift inherent to their kind requires no refinement, nor any alteration.

Facing Basaka’s interrogation, the old man grew increasingly agitated, his withered hand darting toward an object beneath his pillow before lunging forward to strike the orc before him.

Clang!

The blade pierced the orc’s abdomen, but against that tempered physique, it produced only the ring of metal striking metal, unable to penetrate further.

Snap.

Powerful hands clamped firmly around the old man’s throat.

Indeed, we were never of the same path, and I suppose I shall never comprehend your philosophy. Let it be so, then; I shall walk the road that remains. Expecting you to understand was a folly from the start.

Basaka gazed at the hysterical elder, his voice calm and detached.

Crack.

With a swift, twisting motion, he wrenched the head from the shoulders of Kaslope, King of the Bloodtooth Empire.

What did I tell you? If we do not force the change ourselves, some things will remain stagnant forever. Fear not; our purpose is to ensure that what this creature failed to achieve is finally brought to fruition.

The white-haired youth spoke to the orc, Basaka, as magic and void energy surged across the orc’s features, reshaping his face and form until he mirrored the fallen king in every outward detail.

The Orc Empire has remained stagnant for ages; while their strength has grown, their essence remains trapped in the past. Yet, because of their unique methods of ancestral inheritance, they differ from other sentient races. Many likely still remember us, so that is the first matter to address.

As he spoke, he cast the old man’s corpse into a spatial rift, leaving it to be ground into dust by the chaotic turbulence, while simultaneously reaching out to the structures linked to his own spirit and soul, beginning the process of their liberation.

He really should have studied the latest findings of the continent’s scholars. With his resources, extending his own life would have been a trivial matter. Alas, he chose to seal the kingdom away, and now, none of those advancements concern him.

Dismissively evaluating Kaslope’s legacy, the white-haired youth pushed open the doors to the king’s bedchamber, and Basaka, now transformed, stepped out to the respectful salutes of the orc guards.

At that same moment, across the battlefield where the carnage had all but ceased, the earth began to tremble. Structures akin to the relic spires found within the kingdom erupted from the soil, rising like submarines surfacing from the deep, piercing the veil from some unknown origin to bridge the boundary between two disparate realms.