“Nick my man! We’re fucking doing it!” said the sandy haired youth wearing an old aviator uniform and grinning like a fool on his Mark 7 modified naval gun, earning a snort from the older salt and peppered man chomping on his stogie, hard-lined face curled in a perpetual scowl as steely-grey eyes frowned thoughtfully at the too thin wall of marble and silver that shouldn’t be taking countless weeks to break through.

Nick gave an angry shake of his head, snorting at the over-excited youth beside him. “Same thing they told us yesterday, Jamie. And the fucking day before.”

Expert eyes considered the orcs scurrying to reload their smooth-bores without anything even approaching consistent ratios, rehearsed procedures, or even a lick of discipline. Their powder to shell ratios were so far off from optimal it defied belief, and they were too fucking dense to do anything but scratch their too-thick skulls when he tried to break it all down.

The man sighed, taking a quick look around on his automated swivel, glaring at the sight of ten thousand orcs hooting and cheering and celebrating as if victory was imminent. Same state as they had been in for fucking weeks. And every night he was still sleeping in chilly tents that weren’t that much better than sleeping on the ground, even if he did have slaves to bring in his bed and warm it.

It was nothing compared to the comforts of his ranch house that he and his wife had put twenty years of their lives and raised four kids in. Then things had gone south, long before the world ended. His wife had gotten old, his children distant, and he was tired of always towing the line. Side deals and hooking up his workmates had become his main source of income, and he quit being ashamed of giving treats to the cuter coworkers desperate for a thrill. So long as they took care of him in turn.

He flashed a hard smile. He was no fucking saint. He knew that. But he wasn’t as crazy as the fuckwad sitting next to him. As much as he hated being here, surrounded by ten thousand stinking swine, invaders of his planet, if he was honest with himself, at least he had gotten on the winning side. And the girls that warmed his bed were grateful. They said so every night, and he didn’t even need coke to keep them happy. All they needed was a gentle slap or two and they did exactly what they were told. Hell, the goblins had even found a couple quality suppliers, and now his bitches could fly high as kites, happily partying all night long.

“Or at least we will, once this fucking wall goes down,” Nick muttered to himself, spinning his gun around one more time, enjoying the looks of fear a few orcs flashed him when he smiled and winked, miming firing at them with his modified sweetheart. But as much as it warmed his heart to seeing those eight foot tall slabs of pork meat flinch, the itching, the restlessness, was driving him mad. He couldn’t focus.

He needed to focus.

His job required it. But nothing was wrong with him heading to his tent, just for a bit. Time enough for a quick bump. It would make him sharper. Better. And he knew his whole stash would be there. Should be there. His girls knowing damn well what would happen if they snuck any of it when they weren’t partying with him.

He turned back to the shaman, muttering whatever curse-shit they did, enough to generate a swirling purple field of something that supposedly kept them safe from eleven arrows.

Fucking elven arrows.

He wanted to laugh at the thought of it, right out of a cheesy fantasy novel, had he not seen hundreds of orcs struck dead in the blink of an eye when a disorganized band of musketeers charged an opening that had been a faint. A trap. And shit if they hadn’t bombarded the shit out of the wall that day.

He turned to the shaman. “Hey man, crack it open for a second? I gotta take a major piss.”

The shaman glared. “Break wall, then you can piss all you want. Party all you want! You need to focus. Wall is coming down today!”

Jamie snorted. “Shit, old man, we’re about to break this siege! You can’t keep your shit together? You’re worse than your strawberries, always begging my girls for treats.”

Nick glared and snarled, heart rate spiking as he spat out his stogie, so close to pulling out his kukri and gutting this little fuck… this little saint! He thought, eyes widening when a smirking Jamie flipped him a tiny golden vial he caught in the blink of an eye, loving how quick and coordinated he was, now that he could level up like a character in a fucking game.

“Thanks man,” Nick said, meaning every word. “You’re all right, you know that?”

Jamie laughed. “Don’t snort it all, old man. And you owe me. You’re girls are joining mine for the post victory celebration.”

Nick laughed at that, nostrils now clear as a whistle, heart racing with the thrill of the battle to come. “You fuckin’ know it, boy! Who knows? Maybe we’ll get ourselves some of that elven pussy!”

“Damn right we will!” Jamie declared before his eyes bulged, lurching back in his gunner’s seat.

Nick’s high instantly crashed to ice-cold focus, old warrior instincts immediately coming to the fore. “Jamie, report!”

But the boy could only point, eyes wide, not even having the presence of mind to spin around on his gun. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! What the hell is that!”

Nick didn’t bother answering with anything but spinning his gun, feeling at one with the weapon now bonded to his soul, heart pounding with the thrill of battle, a high just as sweet as the coke making everything so bright, crisp, and clear… before beholding what looked like dozens, no, a whole fucking heard of rhinos charging right for them. “Fuck! Fire at will! Fire at fucking will!”

He didn’t hesitate to squeeze the trigger, as fast as he could, boosting every skill he had, even at the cost of his own experience pool, to obliterate the monstrosities closing in on him.

Eyes widened with horror to see the orc honor guard just outside the wards sent flying like bowling pins, if bowling pins exploded, sending bloody entrails hurtling absolutely everywhere.

But at least the fucker was dead!

Nick wanted to whoop when his shot exploded into the lead beast’s flank, inflicting a massive crater as flesh exploded everywhere, not giving a shit if he popped the now snarling shaman’s ward a second early. Blocking arrow fire would do nothing against a fucking charging… rhino?

“Fucking hell! Giant fucking dinosaur pigs!” Jamie screamed.

Which made no sense. None at all, Nick thought. Before his hands froze with horror. Because the massive warthog he had shot was still standing. It had, in fact, spun around to face him.

As if the massive hole in its flank, a hole that wasn’t spurting the lifeblood that it should have, as if it was hardly an inconvenience at all.

Fuck! He should have targeted the head or limb. Head or limb! His gunner’s instincts were screaming it at him to do just that!

Then the creature charged, and a shrieking Nick, who realized too late that he should have invested more into Strength and Vitality to make full use of the Quickness that didn’t quite let him move his fifty year old body fast enough to get out of his gun in time… a gun he had traded a completely fresh start for… soon felt nothing at all.

“Fuck! What the fuck is this!” Screamed Jamie’s now far-off voice. “Mercy! Quarter! Please don’t—“

You have critically hit Level 25 Gunner!

Gunner slain!

You have earned 25% Standard experience with Mark 1 Blaster Carbine!

Eric flashed a fierce grin as he squeezed the trigger at a rapid pace, doing all he could to take out each and every gunner his tuskers failed to, the instant the shaman’s forcefield had collapsed. Eric had successfully goaded more than one of his targets to firing at his sacrificial tusker that, much to his awe and surprise, was actually standing. A tusker he immediately directed to tearing through the remaining shell-shocked honor guard to heal what it could as he dove to the ground, sprinting for the final trio of orc berserkers and classers by a the farmost modified artillery gun.

The orc shaman responsible for the shattered ward, covered in what Eric realized to his horror were elven skins covered in bile, roared his fury, eyes glaring with hate.

“You will pay for crossing the Bloodtooth clan, fool! Arcanite Zolphoo—“

You have critically struck Orc Shaman. Stat-modified contest of skills in effect.

Shaman’s wards have been ruptured!

Shaman has been sent flying through the air! Multiple organs ruptured! Shaman’s neck is broken! Experience earned!

Eric flashed a bleak smile. Then his heart pounded with a sudden spike of dread as he beheld a gunner grinning right back at him, the man’s modified death cannon already shooting explosive shells streaking wildly through the air, launching them as fast as the Gunner could manage, knowing it would only take one hit to send Eric out of the game entirely.

Title perks screaming unnecessary warnings in his head, time seemed to slow in a desperate crawl as Eric noted each individual beed of sweat dripping from the man’s bronzed forehead as Eric did the only thing he could, racing forward and around his foe, pitting 163 Quickness and an enhanced perception of time as every instant seemed to stretch for endless panicked moments as he forced a tight arc against a furious gunner turning his massive piece of artillery fast as he could, eager to kiss Eric with his deadly rain of explosive fire.

Too caught up in the moment, the desperate need to strike his target, the gunner didn’t even think of just exploding shells by Eric’s feet. Yet somehow Eric did, even as he sensed that he would be just a heartbeat too late if he didn’t time everything absolutely fucking perfectly, crying out with something too close to terror when his desperate lurch and lifting of his legs actually carried him over the roaring barrel of the gun that had been so well boosted as to launch multiple shells in the time it took Eric to leap over the barrel.

And he still wasn’t out of danger, he saw to his panic when the Gunner stumbled back and drew a shiny silver pistol that sent Eric’s danger sense screaming. So he did the only thing he could think of, summoning and throwing one of his soul-bound javelins faster than the gunner’s eyes could even widen in surprise when the pyramidal head tore right through his heart.

Piercing Strike bypasses all armor and Lucky trait!

You have fatally struck your opponent!

Javelin Throwing is now Rank 20!

You have achieved Adept Tier in Javelin Throwing!

You now enjoy a permanent +3 to Strength, Perception, and Finesse as the might and prowess of countless warriors before you becomes your own!

(You have deferred Perk Selection at this time!)

“Who the fuck are you? Why didn’t you miss? You have to—” Final words whispered as the Gunner’s eyes rolled back and he slumped over his gun in death, silver automatic clattering to the ground from suddenly slack fingers. Followed by his body flopping lifelessly on the muddy ground ground when the heavily modified artillery and pistol were both claimed by their new owner in the blink of an eye.

“What? What happened to Gimpy? Where did the cannon go?” Queried one confused looking berserker, rubbing his eyes.

The other snarled. “A human rogue! His cover is broken! Kill him before he fades again!” Roared the second orc, trying to make sense of what had just happened as he brandished his axe, raising it high for a cleaving blow, his confused second right behind him.

But it was already too late.

Eric was already under their guard, drawing and striking with a vicious series of cross-cuts before the closest brute could even stumble back, gazing in stupefied wonder at the sight of its own spurting intestines an eyeblink before Eric’s mithril blade sent the Classer’s head spinning lazily through the air.

“You will pay for that, human!” The final guard wheezed, eyes widening with confusion at how weak his voice sounded, Eric paying him no mind, already twisting on his back foot and darting back the way he came. But only after slapping his hand upon every bronze cannon and ammo wagon all but lined up before him, the final stunned orc taking a disjointed step to follow before looking down at his own entrails spilling on the ground, mortally wounded with a blade so sharp, a blow so quick, that he felt nothing but bemused surprise as he sunk into the merciful embrace of oblivion.

Eric shivered, shaking away the flashes of thought, the strange glimpses of lives not his own. As if memories of those he interacted with or killed were now being absorbed as indelibly as the Potency he earned from changing their fates, or from claiming the power locked within in their fading souls.

Eric’s fierce smile of satisfaction, up seven bronze cannons and three Classer-enhanced almost modern pieces of artillery that were a damn sight better than any smoothbore, morphed to a tight frown, feeling a sudden surge of dread, of awful inevitability once more.

For his distraction of a single artillery group claimed had done nothing to stop the other countless scores of cannon from firing at what seemed an even fiercer pace than before. Multiple 24-pounders in their own fortified pillbox batteries, and two more clusters of bronze napoleons.

Worst of all, he had caught more than a few people’s eyes, alarms blaring in his head as he sensed a full handful of classers aiming death his way.

The horns blared in the distance, along with countless shouts and cries. A siege of thousands mobilizing at last, even if just for the distraction of a single piece causing chaos a half mile away, was the least of Eric’s concerns as he slid off his mount with a surge of silent orders given, as he raced for the fortified 24-pounders as the hoots of gunners screaming about fresh meat became desperate cries as his tusker company split into multiple squads, the air quickly filling with the roar of cannon fire, the squeals of wounded tuskers, and the screams and shrieks of orcs and humans trampled to death by swarms of undead spirit boar.

All the while Eric was racing forward to face the ugly smiles and roars of a full hundred berserkers guarding the closest cluster of siege cannon, at least a score of those magnificent weapons that hadn’t stopped their pounding barrage since Eric’s arrival.

And every second Eric could feel Elonia’s final bastion weakening, his sister crying out as blood flowed from her every orifice, forced to burn her very life force to keep the enchantment going for just a few more precious seconds, praying for a miracle she knew would never come.

Eric howled in fury as his dachi burst into flame, his blade tearing through the front line of berserkers as he unleashed all his pent up terror, fear, and dread, the steadily building anxiety of endless months of struggle. Struggling just to survive as he weaved under limb-cleaving axe swings before whipping his blade past first one then a second Berserker’s abdomen. By the time the two monstrous brutes collapsed in squeels, bodies cleaved by wind, fire, and mithril steel, Eric was racing past, tearing through his foes with a furious howl as his remaining Tuskers charged by his side, sending countless gored orcs flying through the air as Eric became one with his Qi, slipping past increasingly desperate swings before locking blades with beasts whose eyes bulged to find their weapons sent flying through the air before tendons were cut, abdomens perforated, wrists cleaved and necks ripped open as orc after orc collapsed into death’s embrace. Their final moments were filled the endless howl of the monster cleaving through their number with a frenzy that sent the remaining Classers stumbling back in shocked disbelief, before being pounded to oblivion by the massive hooves of tuskers ripping through the survivors moments later.

It was only when the furious roars of increasingly scattered Berserkers became the desperate screams of disoriented and demoralized orcs desperate just to dodge pounding hooves, goring tusks, and six foot blades of increasingly bright condensed flame that Eric found himself crashing to the ground, heaving with exhaustion and dizziness as the sound of gunfire grew ever louder, though the stray muskets almost in range were more than absorbed by the massive wall of porcine flesh between Eric and countless foes just a quarter mile off, the final handful of berserkers fleeing the top of the massive concrete pill bunkers that was nearly invulnerable to enemy arrows or spells, according to Eric’s Unified Perception, with gun ports that gave the gunners inside excellent cover and allowed for a narrow five foot wide and two foot high opening for each cannon within.

20 Spirit Boar Revenants guarding your flanks have successfully countered 24 hits!

You have cleaved 27 Orc Berserkers from the wheel of life using Windfire!

Windfire Strike is now Rank 5!

A heaving Eric bit back a bitter curse for his own folly, having depleted a key resource in his frenzied battle that he would desperately need very soon, if not right now.

Fortunately, he still had a couple of aces up his sleeve.

“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!” Eric roared, his ring glowing once before a massive horror made of whipping ropes of slimy muscle, countless lashing tongues from a massive maw and far too many bulging eyes popping up between strands of flesh as a massive shambling mound of flesh burst from the earth.

The horror’s eyes widened at the scene of chaos and devastation all around, purring happily as impossibly long tongues whipped out, snatching one fallen berserker after another, one actually still living, shrieking as ruptured abdomen was ripped open all the wider before its cries stopped with the crunching of countless teeth.

“Slurpy! Behave!” Eric scowled as the massive 24 pounders, safely secure in their tank-like mounting, continued to pummel a forcefield that once more flickered out.

“Shit!” Eric hissed, heart lurching in genuine terror as near ten thousand enemy troops cheered, their voices now far too close to Eric’s location for comfort, now definitely hearing lead musket balls pining off the cement, though his disciplined tuskers were clearly suffering no injury.

“Slurpy! See those gun ports, and the long cast iron metal tubes sticking out of them? All twenty of them?”

The massive mound of flesh that looked like it had grown since last Eric summoned it bobbed about a dozen eyes. “You have my permission to eat every last asshole inside the pill boxes! Just make sure you shove aside the metal tubes. What comes out of them even you won’t like!”

Eric couldn’t help grinning at Slurpy’s delighted squeal as dozens of fleshy tongues suddenly snaked for the contents of the nearest concrete slot, pulling out shrieking mangled orcs and devouring them with contented crunches, before multiple eyeballs started shifting to multiple pillbox slots and his abomination started to get serious.

In very short order the steady pounding of guns now striking the city walls with no field at all petered off to the very occasional shot fired, at least with this battery, as the disciplined shouts of artillery crews were replaced by the shrieks of men and orcs being ripped free of concrete shells through too narrow openings in sprays of blood, broken bodies given very little time to cry out for medics, Slurpy providing the permanent cure to all their ills.

Forever.

“Don’t get sloppy! Remember what I told you about the metal tubes, Slurpy. Try to avoid getting shot by the...”

Eric blinked when Slurpy’s bulging right side suffered a massive hole from what had been a solid shell projectile… that immediately closed with a burp, several eyes blinking almost guiltily Eric’s way.

“Cannon.” Eric sighed. “Look, just be careful, alright? Eat your fill of orcs and gunners… but no elves, Slurpy! And feel free to devour whatever musketeers are stupid enough to come your way. But be smart and use this fort for cover… once you finish off the sardines inside!”

Slurpy actually saluted with a tendril Eric swore had only popped into existence seconds before.

Eric laughed, saluting his horrific abomination back before slapping the flank of his tusker as his spiritual reserves slowly climbed back up to where it needed to be, more than happy to have a significant fraction of the marching infantry heading his way.

Far rather slow moving infantry focus on his mobile ass than the static crumbling hole in the fortified wall. A wall now absent any force field, presently being blasted open by the still fully intact leftmost bank of heavy cannons. It was a sight that filled Eric with dread.

But at least his tuskers had managed to take out the remaining clusters of bronze cannon, all of them knocked akimbo, wheels destroyed, the artillerists who had been manning them pounded to unrecognizable smears on the ground.

Though he swallowed a painful lump in his throat, seeing that no less than five of his Greater Revenants had actually fallen, forced to appreciate anew just how deadly the Gunner class truly was. And how chilling it was to realize, as musket balls began to fly all too close, that any of those spirit boar could have been him.

He took a deep breath, his surviving 42 tuskers having circled around to surround him once more, and Eric could just make out the glint in the eye of an imposing 9 foot tall orc general standing before the massive infantry companies less than half a mile from his present location, his voice booming by one class perk or another, as he jabbed a finger Eric’s way.

“And there you have the final course to the feast that awaits us, hidden behind his swarm of summoned warthogs! Mocking our people’s very existence with his foul magics! The thorn in our side who dared to steal multiple territories under our noses without a lick of honor, before surrendering them all to Blue!” The massive orc roared, snarling his hate and spitting on the ground as the air came alive with the cries of thousands of roaring orcs. All of them were now crying out for vengeance, all of them now eager for Eric’s blood despite the mayhem he had already caused, as surprise and uncertainty where transformed to fury, a General’s moral boosting powers now on full display.

“And vengeance we shall have, my brothers! For that is none other than Eric Silver, brat of the Winter Queen herself! And brother to the bitch who will soon be on her knees before us!”

The entire regiment hooted and roared in response, the general flashing Eric a killer’s grin.

Eric smiled right back, thrilled by the general taking the time to boost the moral of his men, to better paint the scene for the annals of whatever bardic verse he thought he would soon star in.

Eric’s smile grew all the wider when he shivered with the tingle of spiritual energy now filling his soul, reserves topped off once more.

“Charge him, my brothers! Butcher that annoyance for my pleasure, so we may throw his head at the ice queen’s feet, the moment we shatter their wall, slaughter their remaining archers, and claim this territory for ourselves!”

“Except for the portal giving access to the realm of Pristine Forms! That alone is to be the property of Bloodtear Syndicate, and will be directly overseen and supervised by Snicklit Tribe Elders which your troops will aid as necessary, and under no circumstances interfere with! That was our agreement, signed in your blood!” hissed the four foot goblin glaring up from the general’s thigh, Eric’s absurd Perception actually allowing him to hear those words across a battlefield, half a mile away.

The general rolled his eyes. “None of us care about your damn portal. We’re in it for glory! Victory! And death to all elves!”

“Death to all elves!” Roared the musketeers and sizable bands of Berserkers Eric saw racing ahead of the steadily marching infantry, all of them psyched for battle, the berserkers racing ahead, perhaps 30 seconds away from crashing into Eric.

By the hundreds.

“I think it’s about that time, boys,” Eric said to the tuskers racing about him in a tight defensive circle, patting the half-moon shaped bulwark of iron-hard flesh and bone, now additionally faced with actual thick angled steel plates he had happily claimed from Greystone’s vast supply depot. A massive cannon battery his tuskers had camouflaged from the charging regiment of orc troops rapidly approaching.

Because their charge was exactly what he wanted.

Eric allowed himself just a moment’s indulgence, time enough to see the orc generals’ eyes bulge from a not safe at all quarter mile away, the goblin contender Eric recognized actually squealing.

IN a heartbeat of time, Eric sensed the Dominion interface email message frantically sent by a certain desperate goblin.

A goblin owed absolutely no consideration, met across the field of battle.

To which Eric replied with a quick two word response.

- Vendetta, Motherfucker!

Just an instant before Eric said his favorite words in the world as the air roared with the staccato beat of multiple 24 and 12 pounder guns releasing hundreds of pounds of shot like a massive shockwave first sending the rapidly approaching and now desperately backpedaling Berserkers into a bloody mist, the entire regiment stumbling over itself as bellicose roars turned to surprised shrieks as guns with a range of a mile and a half obliterated countless hundreds at three hundred yards, each cannon reloaded and fired in mere seconds, thanks to pre-made shells Eric could instantly visualize being reloaded in each cannon, soul-linked blood soaked cloths pulled back into storage as 4000 degree pellets sent black powder roaring to fresh life.

And hundreds of screaming, wild-eyed orcs collapsing in death, unable to comprehend the intestines oozing from the rents in their mail hauberks, or the sight of their own limbs blown off in sprays of blood and bone, soon became well over a thousand. Countless rows of musketeers, an entire army’s worth, in tightly packed formations that might have been perfect for overrunning a keep protected by no more than archers, sabermen, and a few mana-drained wizards, were now falling like wheat shafts harvested by the deadly scythe forged from the very weapons the orcs themselves had brought to the killing fields of Earth.

Yet now it was the orcs being winnowed to oblivion by their own tools, to the sound of rapid artillery fire and the cackling laughter of a half-blood Roundear embracing Epic Tier Murder-Hobo and having way, way too much fun watching his foes crash to their grisly deaths in a growing lake of crimson gore.

Eric!

He shivered at the cry echoing inside his skull. Instantly recognizing the source, and the cost.

He didn’t hesitate to smack his massive cannon battery and send it to storage once more before giving his boars the word.

“Tusker company, move out!” He cried, choosing not to revel in the glory of riding atop his magnificent mounts, choosing prudence over glory that could end with a bullet to his head, perhaps one that could crack even his skull, now far stronger than it had been even when he had been riding on the blessings of countless lost souls begging for a miracle in Newark.

Because one word was all he had needed to recall just how close he had come to death, repeatedly, by forces that wanted both him and his sister broken at all costs. Forces not at all shy about using the same tactics to try and take out both of them.

The reason, he suspected, why his sister wasn’t roaring out grand ritual spells that would fill him with awe just to glimpse, if they were anything like the spectacular wonders no 18 year old should be able to cast, that still haunted his dreams.

Because a Mark II Antimaterial Rifle cared nothing for destiny, glory, masterwork spells, or righteous causes. It was the tool of the coldest, most ruthless killers Eric had encountered on Earth so far, the threat they posed made shockingly real when one of his tuskers abruptly squealed and keeled over.

“Tusky!”

Eric’s heart pounded, not even needing to see the interface message to appreciate what had just happened. The very fact that a massive multi-tonned and most importantly undead tusker had been crippled by a single shot was all he needed to know to recognize the taste of multiple kill-perks coming to claim his doom.

1 Spirit Boar Revenant has been critically hit by HIDDEN opponent.

Resonance detected! Perception check made! Wound matches plasma beam characteristics of Mark II Deathblaze!

“Shit!” Eric hissed, mind racing as he continued trying to flank the massive orc regiments, though still racing for targets he dare not leave for enemies to claim, two more tuskers squealing, though only one collapsed by the time his band raced past both bronze cannon batteries, Eric claiming each and every one, including the artillery forged human classers and whatever illegal, outlawed, and highly modified holdout guns and blasters they might call their own.

“Spoils of war, motherfuckers,” Eric thought with a cold smile after claiming cannon and mangled corpses before dashing off again, hating leaving to of his tuskers behind, but having absolutely no choice.

At least his enemy’s artillery had been reduced to a final concrete bulwark of 30 or so cannons still doing their damnedest to tear down the exquisitely beautiful but far too fragile wall of marble, silver, and failing magics.

“Slurpy! You know what to do!”

His abomination squealed its reply, so loud even Eric winced, though not slowing his pace for a second as he raced across the battlefield in a sporadic zigzag pattern that was still faster than any eagle ever to grace the sky, smirking at the sporadic gunfire that he doubted would even bruise his flesh at this distance.

But with snipers that could take him out with a single shot, he sure as hell wasn’t staying still or smoothing out his pace to find out.

“Kill him! Get that bastard! Kill him!” Roared what Eric could only guess was the long-since obliterated general’s second, coming from the earthwork-reinforced siege camp Eric was rapidly approaching, flashing a manic grin as both roaring orc chieftain and forcefield warded shaman shrieked their challenges back at Eric from the top of the fortified walls Eric’s tuskers couldn’t quite reach.

Eric smirked, answering their challenge with whirling sling, the shaman’s expression absolutely precious when his chest was struck not by a 1 ounce bullet but by a 17 pound cannon ball, rupturing his wards in the blink of an eye. The wards had provided some protection, arguably, as the ball didn’t blast right through the curse-wielder’s unarmored chest. It merely shattered every rib and bruised the bastard’s heart so badly that he immediately collapsed in cardiac arrest, eyes rolling up as all the power and potency of his soul became Eric’s own, a stunned-looking chieftain dying less than two seconds later, his chest punched completely through, despite the decent quality steel chestplate he had worn.

You have successfully slain Level 31 Orc Shaman with Soul-Bound weapon. Full Experience Earned!

You have successfully slain Level 29 Orc chieftain with Soul-Bound weapon. Full Experience Earned!

Eric wasted no more time collecting their corpses collapsing to the ground below as he and his tuskers smashed though the wooden gate exploding like kindling before them as they proceeded to tear through every tent, bunker, and command post they could find, sparing only a hundred grey blinking dots which proved to be collard slaves and fifty or so women gazing up at him with terror, shock, desperate hope, or in a drugged stupor with vapid smiles on their faces, and if only he couldn’t sense how many just wished to die.

Only now could he take stock and focus, surrounded on all sides by thick earthen walls. His pounding heart finally eased from death’s laughing caress, the horrific feel of an assassin’s killing strike having already pierced his flesh, nearly killing him just days ago.

For long moments, he just leaned back against the wall, his sheltered tuskers snorting protectively, ignoring the increasing number of collard humans gazing his way, as he did his best to swallow his fear and plan his next move.

He needed a way to spot the snipers whose deadly guns had kept his sister pinned for days, weeks, for far too long. And now himself as well.

Cursing softly under his breath, he closed his eyes, stomach dropping as he spotted the bulk of the army rapidly approaching the ruptured wall.

The abrupt cessation of cannon fire, and the pleased hiss of this abomination were scant comfort.

His enemies were just a quarter mile away from his sister’s final bastion.

If he was going to act, it had to be now.

“Fuck!” He hissed, glaring at the fifty or so fallen orcs all around. The human survivors, far too alert to the mercurial temperaments of soldiers and madmen than anyone should have to be, had already vanished from sight.

Only then did Eric crack a smile, seeing the faintest of silver linings, appreciating that this tiny battlefield was one all his enemies had, effectively, fled from, quickly saying the words he needed to say, and granting his mounts the spotters they needed to reveal secrets too long kept on this battlefield.

“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!”