Chapter 809: Too Damn Strong

Kaelrath stared at the ceiling for several moments in silence. He neither moved nor spoke, yet his expression revealed the storm raging inside him.

"My Lord, are you alright? Should I fetch a healer?" The guard’s voice wavered, concern creeping in as the silence stretched. Panic began to take root.

"Since you’ve reported everything, you may leave. I want peace and quiet," Kaelrath finally said, his voice low but edged with anger.

"As you wish, My Lord." The guard bowed his head and quickly left, returning to his post outside the temple.

The moment Kaelrath heard him leave, his expression twisted into fury. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails pierced his palms, drawing blood. His teeth ground together, his face flushing red as his rage mounted.

When it finally boiled over, he roared with all the strength in his lungs. "THAT UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!! I’LL TURN HIS BONES INTO SOUP IF I EVER LAY EYES ON HIM AGAIN!"

"After all I’ve done for him... now he dares abandon our friendship? That cunning snake!" Kaelrath kicked a nearby table, sending it smashing into the wall where it shattered.

"Agh!!" A sharp stab of pain shot through his groin from the sudden movement, and he felt the warm trickle of fresh blood.

"Damn it! That wretched woman! She humiliated me in public and spread the tale across the continent! I’ll repay her tenfold!" he spat through clenched teeth, groaning as he pulled off his pants and pressed a soft cloth against the wound.

He dug into his magic pouch, retrieved a healing potion, and drained it in one go—spilling a few drops in his haste.

A pale green glow spread over his injury, easing the pain and halting the bleeding.

Slowly, Kaelrath sank onto the sofa, spreading his legs to avoid further injury. But his fury did not fade. If anything, it burned hotter, aimed squarely at Mireya for the condition she had left him in.

—

"Leader! That bastard Kaelrath was defeated in battle—humiliated by the Queen of the Elves!"

An enormous ogre burst into the leader’s hut, clutching a flyer in his massive hand, his face lit with excitement.

"What?! Are you certain this is true?" The leader shot him a wide-eyed stare, disbelief etched on his features.

"It’s a hundred percent true, Leader. Look for yourself!" The young ogre stepped forward and handed over the flyer, the Ogre Lord sitting on his throne of bones from powerful magical beasts.

The Ogre Lord—Malgar the Brutal—was the one who refused to bow before the Dragon Blood Tribe. Towering above even the largest of his kin, his sheer bulk was unmatched, and a jagged scar ran from his forehead to his jaw.

The flyer looked absurdly small in his massive hands. He squinted, reading the tiny letters with deliberate care. When he finished, a booming laugh erupted from his chest.

"Ahahaha!! This is priceless! That arrogant fool actually lost to a woman—and lost his ’family jewel’ on top of it!" Malgar roared with laughter, clutching his belly. He hadn’t felt such joy in years.

"And it gets better—his proud commander lost all his limbs to the Queen’s shadow, Sylvia. Incredible... and also disgusting." He tossed the flyer aside, still shaking with laughter.

’This is the perfect chance to strike back at the Dragon Blood Tribe,’ he thought, his mirth fading into a calculating stare.

His eyes glimmered green for a fleeting instant. ’The only obstacle is their ancestor... that ancient monster who’s lived for over three thousand years.’

’But if we can take him down, the Dragon Blood Tribe will crumble. They’ll live in the shadow of this defeat forever.’

And with the elves now openly their enemy, there was a real chance to form an alliance. Both sides stood to gain—together, they could erase the Dragon Blood Tribe from the map.

"It’s time to prepare for war," Malgar muttered, a sharp grin spreading across his face. He looked at the young ogre. "Tell the generals to ready themselves. Soon, we strike the Dragon Blood Tribe."

"As you command, Lord Malgar!" The young ogre grinned wide and bolted from the hut to deliver the orders.

"Agahaha! Finally, war!"

"Let’s spar! We need to be ready!"

"Agreed! This time, we crush the Dragon Blood Tribe!"

Excitement rippled through the ogre camp. The thought of finally destroying their long-time rivals sent blood rushing hot through their veins.

"You loudmouthed idiots should be training, not barking empty words!"

A tall, muscle-bound female ogre stepped forward, her cold gaze sweeping over them with disdain.

"Your shouts mean nothing without the strength to back them up."

She wore tight leather armor that barely concealed her seductive physique. Her chest was full—almost the size of melons—and her hips were wide and strong, the very image of an ogre warrior’s build.

Her long, flowing black hair framed a face that was strikingly beautiful, even with the jagged scar running across it and the deep cut marking her lower lip. A massive sword rested across her back, completing her imposing figure.

"G-General Vrasha?! W-When did you arrive?!" The other generals froze in place, startled. None of them had sensed her presence until she spoke.

"Just now," Vrasha replied coolly, her tone calm and steady. "And I happened to hear your shouting. A truly pathetic sight, if you ask me."

"And that’s why you still can’t find a partner..." one of the generals muttered under his breath. His voice was barely audible—at least, to anyone else.

But Vrasha heard it. Her lips twitched in barely-contained fury, and her aura flared. Her cold stare locked onto the offender.

"What did you just say, Urthok?!" Her voice was like a blade, and the crushing weight of her presence pressed him down.

Urthok’s face went pale, sweat pouring from his forehead. He could feel her killing intent, sharp enough to pierce his skin.

’He’s dead for sure...’ the others thought, swallowing hard as they watched the scene unfold.

"I-It was nothing, Vrasha! I was just talking nonsense. Don’t take it seriously—I swear, I didn’t mean it!" Urthok stammered, stumbling back in panic.

"Hmph. Don’t bother explaining." Vrasha scoffed and pointed toward the arena. "Let’s settle this. You and me—one on one. Or are you going to be a coward?"

Urthok exhaled in defeat. He knew there was no escaping this. Vrasha would beat him until he couldn’t stand.

"Fine," he grumbled, stepping into the arena. "But go easy on me. I haven’t recovered from the last time you broke half my bones. Have some mercy."

"Don’t give me that nonsense," Vrasha said coldly, gripping her massive sword with both hands. An evil grin spread across her face. "You should’ve thought about mercy before running your mouth."

A moment later, the battle began. Steel rang against steel as their swords clashed, sending shockwaves through the arena. Sparks flew with every strike, the air filled with the deafening rhythm of battle.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

In the blink of an eye, they had exchanged hundreds of blows, the force of their strikes turning every head toward their fight.

"Give up, Urthok! You can never win against me—you’re weak and pathetic!" Vrasha taunted with a wide grin, swinging her massive sword in a relentless flurry.

"Damn it! You’re just too strong, Vrasha!" Urthok growled through gritted teeth, struggling to block her deadly strikes.

Every swing from Vrasha sent him staggering backward several meters. She pressed forward without mercy, refusing to give him a moment to breathe.

"You’re damn right I’m strong! Because I train harder and don’t waste my time like you fools do!" Vrasha laughed, bringing her blade down in a devastating strike.

The blow came so suddenly that Urthok barely managed to raise his sword in defense.

"Damn it!" he shouted, bracing himself with his feet planted firmly on the ground.

But the force behind her strike was overwhelming. His guard shattered, and he was sent flying clear out of the arena.

"This is my win..." Vrasha said proudly, raising her sword before turning and walking away.

Half the arena lay in ruins from their duel, the ground cracked and debris scattered everywhere. It wouldn’t be usable again until someone repaired it.

The watching ogres sighed. This had become routine. Every time Vrasha fought someone, the arena suffered.

"How many times is this? Thirty-six? You’ve lost to her again?" an ogre asked, stepping forward to offer Urthok a hand.

"It’s the thirty-eighth time..." Urthok groaned, accepting the help. His body was battered, covered in fresh wounds. "That woman is monstrously strong! No one in the tribe can beat her..."

The other ogre chuckled. "That’s why she’s still single. At this rate, she’ll never find a man who can match her in battle."

"You’re damn right about that, Krogar," Urthok said with a weary smile. "She refuses to take a man weaker than her—that’s the problem. I’ve already given up on chasing her. She’ll never change."

With that, he limped out of the arena, heading back to his hut.