Chapter 573: Slaughter in the Valley

Chapter 573: Slaughter in the Valley

As the only passage to Avenderdan, the Road of Glory was exceedingly narrow, allowing only five or six orcs to pass side by side.

There were no railings on either side, and the steep cliffs were riddled with dwarf-dug tunnels and meticulously placed traps.

One misstep, and an orc would fall into the abyss under the gaze of dwarven deities. Rumor had it that a "River of Bones," made of hundreds of thousands of skeletons, had formed beneath the Road of Glory.

The orcs panted heavily, eyes bloodshot, shouting chaotic and frenzied war cries.

"Hahaha! Avenderdan is just ahead!"

"Once we’ve taken it, I’ll smash these dwarven statues to pieces!"

"Just like Father Gruumsh said—those who fear death must be pierced by spears!"

Clearly, they were blinded by bloodlust, unfazed by death.

The orcs charged forward with bone spears and scimitars, flooding into the trap-laden grounds prepared by dwarven craftsmen.

"They’re here!"

"Kill these orc mongrels! Let their blood soak the Road of Glory!"

With furious roars, dwarf warriors appeared in the cliffside tunnels.

Some drew bows, others loaded hand crossbows, firing flaming arrows at the orcs below.

"Thwip—"

"Thwip-thwip—"

A dense volley of fiery arrows cut through the air, crisscrossing the cliffs like a burning net.

Screaming orcs were ignited, their bodies aflame. Rolling in pain, they fell off the stone path.

Their screams echoed until—"thud"—fresh corpses landed in the River of Bones.

One orc officer, struck in the shoulder, burst into flames as dwarven powder ignited the wound, releasing a charred stench.

A nearby orc aide gasped and rushed to help: "Lord Monk!"

"Forget me. Just a little dwarven trick. Keep charging!"

The orc named Monk ripped out the arrow, snuffing the flames with his palm.

"But these weaklings..."

Monk, his lone eye bloodshot, glared at the dwarves in the tunnels—he too had only one eye!

Veins bulging, he hurled his twin-bladed axe with burning fury.

The spinning blade tore through the air, too fast for the dwarf to dodge.

His armor shattered; his stocky frame was slammed into the cliff face, lifeless.

"You dare mock a fearless warrior of Gruumsh?!"

Roaring, Monk’s immense strength launched him across the chasm, toward the tunnel dozens of meters away.

Looking up at the airborne orc, the dwarves were startled—but not afraid.

"He’s coming!"

"Hold the line! Push this Gruumsh mongrel into the abyss!"

"Let him join his orc brothers in the River of Bones!"

Dropping bows and crossbows, the dwarves raised shields to intercept him.

"Boom—"

Monk crashed down, shattering oak shields and knocking dwarves unconscious.

"Weaklings! I’ll crush you all! The orcs will rule Avenderdan!"

He pounded a dwarf’s skull with his fist, exploding it like a watermelon.

"By Moradin!"

"Beth’s dead just like that?! What is this thing?!"

Horrified by their comrade’s brutal death, the dwarves hesitated, retreating with their shields.

"Tremble! Shiver! This is Father Gruumsh’s power!"

Monk grabbed a dwarf by the hair and hurled him into the abyss.

"In Moradin’s name, avenge our kin!"

"Brothers, charge! Send this orc bastard to his god!"

Roaring in rage, the dwarves swarmed him, hammers swinging to pulp the orc.

But Monk wasn’t just strong—he was swift. He leapt, yanked his axe from the wall, and flung off a corpse still impaled.

Blood-drenched axe in hand, he slashed through dwarves—flesh flying, armor cracking, screams echoing.

"Orc mongrel! Die for my fallen brother!"

A dwarf charged from behind, spear in hand, eyes burning.

Monk didn’t even look back. One swing split the dwarf’s skull cleanly.

Soon, only Monk stood atop the cliff platform, surrounded by bloodied dwarf corpses.

Raising his axe, he licked warm blood from his face and roared:

"Those who fear death will burn forever!

The brave will live forever in Father Gruumsh’s realm!"

Monk the Limb-Splitter, warrior of the Redfang Tribe and brother of chieftain Batu, was a fearsome "Eye of Gruumsh."

The Eye of Gruumsh were fanatics—only the strongest warriors earned this title.

To become one, a warrior had to gouge out his own right eye in a ritual.

If he screamed, Gruumsh’s favor was lost—and he became a cripple.

But if he endured in silence, he gained demonic vision and savage might—seeing the unseen.

Monk had done just that—and his clan revered him for it.

Just earlier, he could’ve dodged that arrow—but chose not to.

He missed the feeling of pain. It thrilled him.

Raising his axe again, he leapt into the air, shouting:

"For Father Gruumsh! For orcish glory! Crush the dwarves!"

Inspired, the orcs surged forward, heedless of death, flooding the Road of Glory.

"For Gruumsh!"

"We conquer the world!"

Dwarves fired flaming arrows and hurled explosive barrels—killing hundreds in an instant.

But the orcs charged on, howling, throwing their lives away to advance.

Orc-trained eagles and vultures swooped down, knocking dwarves from cliffs.

Orcs adapted quickly—hill giants and half-giants raised huge shields, blocking arrow fire.

Under this cover, orc infantry advanced to the end of the Road, nearing the "Orc Tombstone."

Atop the towering wall stood dwarven heavy infantry—long-hammered, iron-armored warriors.

They formed a squat, unmoving iron wall in the orcs’ path.

Undaunted, they stood firm. Leading them was Toru Yalon, who had just been drinking.

Unlike others, he was under 1.5 meters tall, but wielded a five-meter warhammer.

"Brothers! For three thousand years, Avenderdan has never fallen—even when alone."

"In Moradin’s name, hold the Orc Tombstone! Send them to Gruumsh!"

"To Gruumsh with them! Die, orc bastards!"

Like moving fortresses, the dwarves roared and charged into the orc tide.

Orcs climbed ladders set by giants, trying to scale the wall.

Though short, the dwarves were stocky and powerful—crushing dozens with each hammer blow.

Toru, reeking of alcohol, leapt high and spun his massive hammer.

"Boom!"

The half-giant’s skull exploded, his massive body toppling and crushing orcs below.

"Disgusting mongrels! Go to hell!"

Laughing, Toru swept his hammer sideways, smashing a dozen more.

Orcs twisted and flew, teeth and eyeballs flying in all directions.

The tide finally slowed. Hundreds of orcs lay crushed.

Panic broke out. They tried retreating—but jammed with reinforcements.

Dozens fell into the abyss, joining the River of Bones.

"Do not fear death, children! It is the orc warrior’s glory!

Die here and you will live forever in Father Gruumsh’s realm! Die cowardly and you’ll become meat on a banquet table!"

A shaman soared above on a giant eagle, raising a skull-topped staff and chanting an ancient song:

"Blood for wine, skulls for cups, wails for music, fear for food..."

"When corpses cover the land, and the orc empire spans the world, Father Gruumsh shall descend!"

Orc society revered power, survival, fear, and war—ideals rooted in Gruumsh’s worship and taught through cruelty.

Shamans passed down these legends with terror, zeal, and tyranny—instilling unshakable belief.

Dwarves fired arrows at the circling eagles, but magical shields deflected them.

The shaman finished his song, chanting, and the skull’s eye sockets glowed red.

A crimson, single eye appeared in the sky, watching the carnage.

Blood-scented mist swept the valley. Inhaling it, the orcs went berserk.

They lost all reason—unable to speak coherent words.

"Awooo—"

"Kill! Kill the dwarves!"

The orcs launched a mad assault, caring nothing for death—only slaughter.

Time passed in bloody chaos. Orc corpses piled into hills, which new orcs climbed to storm the walls.

"Huff... huff... Damned mongrels! Do they think of nothing but war and mating?!"

Gasping, Toru exhaled boozy breath and swung again, knocking another orc off the wall.

Drenched in enemy blood and his own sweat, he lost count of the bodies crushed.

Maybe three hundred. Maybe five hundred. He’d stopped counting at one hundred.

But there were too many orcs. On the left flank, dwarves were about to break.

Then—Toru heard a voice, low and mad, louder than the battlefield’s chaos. It chilled him.

"Dwarf, your head would make a fine offering to Father!"

He spun—and saw a towering orc with a twin axe, grinning like a hunter.

Worse, the orc was toying with a wide-eyed dwarf’s head. Chuckling, he said, "Let’s hope you’re not as boring as the others."

It was Monk the Limb-Splitter—the mad, powerful Eye of Gruumsh!

Around him were corpses of Toru’s finest warriors—his kin.

The head in Monk’s hand was Toru’s dearest friend: Grando.

Toru froze. His red face went pale.

"Oh? He meant that much to you? Good. Now this’ll be fun."

Monk grinned, veins bulging, and clenched his fingers.

"Pop!"

The head burst like a melon—bone, brain, and gore flying.

Toru’s eyes turned bloodshot. His hammer hand shook. His teeth ground together. "You orc bastard—you’re dead!"

Roaring, he swung down his hammer. Monk met him with his axe, eyes gleaming.

"Clang—!"

Metal clashed with a deafening screech, sending shockwaves through both armies.