Battleforged
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Chapter 199 - Predator Stalks His Prey
🕑 Added 2022-10-18 04:00:02 +0000 UTCRegardless of whether or not his newly forged orc revenants loved or hated their forced resurrections, a single furious squeeze of Eric’s clenched fist and sigils blazing fiercely in multiple foreheads forced the shrieking creatures to their knees.
He couldn’t help but savor absolute dominion over his foes that almost made up for the dread he felt, sensing ever greater corrosion to his peripherals. Before choking out a bitter laugh, just knowing that his enemies had once again outmaneuvered him, and perhaps countless other wildcards so like him, on countless worlds without number. Such that would-be upstarts like him were forced to destroy either their cultivation bases or their potential as Classers, and preferably both.
Countless pitfalls carefully placed such that the powers-that-be could claim that absolutely everyone had a fair shot, while at the same time knowing that absolutely no one without a powerful clan’s resources and backdoor hacks would have any chance of evolving into anything save the most mundane of anomalies, and probably hopelessly flawed at that, easy enough to get rid of if they interfered with the powers eager to claim all of a newly integrated worlds resources for themselves.
Forced into a war the instant he left a realm he was forced to abandon the moment it became an actual world, with a fully saturated upper core and absolutely no access to anything but a class specifically designed to allow the least talented to level up, and no more than that, every level he was then forced to take an eternal loss to what might otherwise be a powerful foundation.
It was a bitter truth he had no choice to accept, at least channeling the excess experience into fresh weapons to destroy his foes, refusing to give up hope of actually being able to use his 100% core saturation for an actual decent class evolution.
It was the divine spirit fruit that had transformed his meridian gates into absolute furnaces of Qi that gave him hope, however, keeping his primary meridian channels free of anything save pristine flame. No matter how deep he was forced to delve along a necromantic path to give some outlet to the massive up-swell of potency threatening to destroy him once more. He could only pray that the tiny pristine furnaces blazing away in each of his nodes would be enough to heal the rapidly corrosion of his peripherals that, for now, he had no choice but to suffer.
Bitter musings he only dared waste a handful of seconds brooding upon as his rapidly darting eyes scanned for the glow of hostiles, his quickly darting hands summoning forth the black powder pistol now in his ES Space along with its former owner, as well as a prize that truly put a smile on Eric’s face.
His bleak mood abruptly turned fiercely bright as his thoughts turned from cultivation setbacks to the possibility of actually claiming this territory, even if he had to take on multiple mid-level classers, and another cannon that had made too short work of not one but two of his boar revenants, to do it.
You have found Mick Swinley’s Storage Space! Contents include 36 Premade cartridges! (30 Grapeshot, 6 Cannon ball). Cannoneer class perks will allow for the evolution of rapid fire delivery and masterful manipulation of your weapon, in addition to an ever-growing fraction of experience for every foe you slay! With enough perks and skill ranks, you can use your long bore cannon almost as efficiently as a modern (pre-system) battleship could fire their Mark 7s!
Eric’s eyes lit up with excitement. It was all he could do not to howl with glee. As much as he despised the human who had sold out his own kind to work with slavers and butchers, he admired the man’s machinery skills if nothing else, the man having converted his blackpowder cannon into a long gun capable of using carefully prepared cartridges comprised of projectile and propellant in a copper casing, and Eric supposed that the vital primar was a class related skill.
A propellant he could effectively replicate with just a bit of cloth and a single piece of shot, stone, even a penny he would keep at an absurd 2000 degrees, surrounded by a blood coated rag set to exactly match the chilly nighttime breeze. Both components would be soul-linked, even if the actual cartridge was not. From there, all he had to do was will a freshly prepared charge in his ES space into the long barrel cannon that also found a new home in his storage space. From there he’d reclaim his soul-bound blood-soaked rag with his clenched will, and the superheated penny would ignite the charge and send roaring death at all his foes.
And thanks to actually having 36 cartridges made by a 22nd level expert, he now knew exactly the size, shape, and powder density of the perfect charge, for both grapeshot and cannon ball, that could be fired from a 24-pounder long gun.
Long moments Eric spent in a glorious daze, unable to believe his luck.
And it was only the sudden flare of Danger Sense that kept him from completely loosing his head.
SHIT!
He didn’t think, he leaped for his life, alarms blaring in his head as he sensed a subtle cannon’s turns, a cannon wielded by actual classers, not grunts left to die in the field! Why had he been so arrogant as to assume the shaman pinging him with his spells meant that there weren’t Classers working with the shaman as well? Not just one, but a whole fucking keep full of Gunnery Classers! And yes, they had been aware of him, clearly had class perks related to nighttime firing, and were only seconds away from blasting him completely off the ramparts as he wasted precious seconds laughing with glee like a fool treating his fortune like a game, not like the spinning coin it perpetually was, where glory or death was forever a single mistake away.
And just when he thought he had gotten away clean, a sling stone shot at incredible speeds cracked against his skull.
You have been struck by Sling Stone!
Sling stone perks transcend standard trajectory limits!
Elite Tier Mithril Helm reduces damage by 3 Tiers!
Fatal Wound reduced to Medium Wound!
Damage further reduced by 24 Physical Damage Resistance!
Player Perks in effect.
You have failed to save versus stunning blow!
You have tumbled off the parapet.
Effective Finesse is Zero!
Time seemed to stretch horribly as Eric’s desperate leap turned to a dazed tumble as the air rang with a CRACK! that near blinded him. Or perhaps it was just the mithril helm ringing against his skull.
Either way he could hardly feel his limbs, only sensed himself tumbling through space, desperate to curl himself in a ball, preparing for impact 30 feet below. But his limbs were strangely useless for the seconds needed to prevent his body from smacking like a wet fish against the ground.
And then the roar of cannon fire was followed by the searing agony of his foot being completely blown off his leg.
“I got him! I got that motherfucker!” Hooted a jocular and all too human voice wobbling in and out of the void as Eric forced a wheezing breath into his lungs, finding himself slammed into the ground, ribs bruised as much from wearing over 500 pounds of armor as anything else, cultivation mail protecting his groin and torso alone, his legs protected only by his Wind align spirit beast hides and soul-linked scale mail, which didn’t do anything for the stump of his fot spurting blood he found himself staring at in a daze.
A part of his mind screamed at him to get up, to get the fuck out of there, most of him feeling too dazed to even move.
“Fuck you, Nick! The kill is mine! I’m the asshole with the cannon,” snorted another older voice, earning a dark chuckle.
“You sure about that? You know how good I am with this sling. Hits as hard as a fucking bullet, harder, and I get a shit-ton more experience than you do with each of my kills.”
“Sure, kid,” sniped the other. “But I’m blasting a good dozen of those elven motherfuckers, the minute they expose themselves, whereas you’re just taking pot shots at one or two.”
“Ha! As if you did anything more than scare them off! You peppered the land good, scaring off their cavalry, but you never hit shit, save those three elven bitches, which was a total waste, if you ask me.”
The older man sighed. “You’re right, kid.” He then chuckled evilly. “I should have let them live. Can’t imagine how sweet elven pussy would have been. But hey, did you see those sweet sixteens the chieftan claimed? Can’t wait til we get our turn!”
“Hell yeah. They’ll be begging for us to claim them as our girlfriends once the chieftain is done with them.”
“Damn right, kid,” said the older killer with a chuckle. “Even the most high and mighty bitches will be begging for us to claim them after a single night ripped open by those fucking pigs.”
“Our employers,” Nick corrected. “Let’s not piss off the boss man. Not before he lets us get a taste, at least.”
The pair shared a chuckle at this, before the older man hissed and cursed. “Fuck!”
“What’s up, old man?”
“I didn’t get any experience for the kill!”
Nick snorted. “You serious? I knew you were shooting at air! I got… shit, you’re right. That fucker isn’t dead!”
“Well, get the fuck down there and finish him off!”
But a groaning Eric was already fleeing as fast as he could, not stumbling on one foot but on the back of the largest of the five revenant tuskers who had immediately galloped back around to come to his aid. A groaning Eric then did all he could to summon a strip of rawhide from his undead bulwark, tying it tight with a painful grimace before realizing to his horror, that the stump wasn’t bleeding at all.
For a nauseating moment he stared at the contrast between bloodless stump and the grassland whipping by his racing undead steed, both sick and terrified, before he was struck by yet another excruciating surge of pain, and a blaring message that made him immediately reign in his mount.
“No! We are not retreating! We are not surrendering the field!” He hissed, eyes wild with exhaustion, fury, and pain, the agony in his foot only growing worse as he shook it away, drinking deep of his water flask before turning his mounts around, glaring at the now distant keep.
His fist clenched one of the many javelins he had torn free of his foes. Foes he could see even now scattered about the thick grasslands, some still roaring and half-heartedly chasing the remaining Tuskers… now down to three as expert cannon fire took out yet another, Eric castigating himself once more for being the fool that had allowed so many of his rapidly moving revenants to fall when the first headshot should have made it clear he was facing nothing but deadly aces here.
A quick mental summons had the remaining three stick solely to maneuvering around the one keep side he knew for a fact was absolutely clear of cannons or any troops at all, for that matter.
Of course, that was the moment that the massive nine foot chieftan emerged from the keep with a roar, gripping a massive poleaxe in his hands, accompanied by a glaring shaman surrounded by blood-wards pulsating in a beat Eric now understood perfectly, roaring for his men to come to him at once.
“All assemble! The time to purge our land of the false Contender is now!”
Eric couldn’t quite hold back his contemptuous smile, noting the chieftan only emerged when his human lackeys had winged their prey.
And it appeared that at least half of the orcs were equally cynical, countless clusters of musketeers staying well away from field and boars alike, red dots that, according to his interface were instead ascending to the battlements to take far safer potshots at range.
And for all that he had been injured and forced to abandon the keep for the moment, Eric felt a faint surge of hope as the chieftan did exactly what he hoped he would.
By chasing after Eric, he allowed Eric to control the pace of the battle, and when and where it would take place.
Allowing Eric to position the West battlement wall between himself and however many artillery classers there were. Best of all, the searing agony that was his foot didn’t hinder him at all when he practiced summoning and casting his javelin from the back of his mount.
Unsurprisingly, between pain, injury, slowly abating dizziness, and attempting to throw weapons from boar-back for the very first time, his first cast missed. As did his second, even his third.
But the fourth did not, the night punctuated by surprised screams as javelins pierced the midnight air, Eric not hesitating to soul-bind the strongest three he had claimed from his enemies that night with excess potency overflowing once more.
Because as incredibly useful as blazing hot pilum were, a trio that blended perfectly in midnight’s inky gloom, before plunging into mailed shirts or the open-faced helms of his clueless enemies was absolutely priceless.
And Eric kept careful note via his Conquest Interface Map exactly where all the bodies had fallen. So while the chieftan and his henchmen were distracted and led on a merry goose chase by Eric and his greater revenants, he still managed to squeeze in a few desperate moments with his fallen prey, forging conscripts of a far darker sort, their eyes all flaring with monstrous hate, eager to slay any and all of their kind for the desperate hope of salvation Eric promised.
You have critically struck orc Conscript with pilum!
Conscript has perished. Experience Earned!
You have raised one additional orc Revenant.
Forced binding has been made conditional!
Release promised after killing 2 or more of its kind!
It was chilling, he thought, how predatory and aware those fresh revenants looked, desperate beyond sanity to kill in Eric’s name. Their only hope to be granted the oblivion they yearned for above all else.
Fresh abominations on the field, and a delightful new distraction. Eric felt his lips curling up in a fierce grin.
His enemies had already managed several near fatal strikes against him from attack vectors he hadn’t expect.
He was more than happy to return the favor.
Congratulations! Your foot has fully healed!
You have successfully leaped off your mount. You are now embracing Stealth on a cloudy night in waist-high grass.
+10 to all Stealth skill checks!
Eric allowed all worries, anxieties to flow away as the cacophony of his inner mind was replaced by the grace of a predator’s silence.
There was no worrying about his sister’s fate, the Sylvan Alliance’s increasingly precarious position, or the goblin’s attempts to enslave the citizens of every city or trade town they could find in debt traps. All that mattered, all that existed, was the exquisite grace of his silent loping stride, the sharp nighttime air redolent with the scents of forest, flowers and blood, and the countless mewling beasts of prey he would happily claim as his own.
The chieftain continued to bellow.
The shaman grew increasingly frustrated when his own crimson arts effortlessly latched on to deliberately slow tuskers… but slipped right off the Blood Wards Eric had painted across his armor.
And the troops? Scores of exhausted and grumbling musketeers and a full dozen classers?
The began to fall, one by one.
At first There were looks of confusion, then alarm, then roars in the night when flawlessly cast pilum plunged effortlessly through the backs and necks of his prey.
Yet the frustrated roars of Berserkers and most especially Javelineers quickly became desperate struggles to hold their line when the trio of tuskers not leading Shaman and Chieftain along a merry goosechase would choose that very moment to charge into horde of orcs, before veering off at the last second, picking off just one or two, and racing away far too quickly for the chieftain glowing with a classer’s feats to ever land a telling blow.
Only to turn around, eyes widening with alarm, finding yet another handful of his musketeers collapsing to the ground.
“The bastard’s playing with us!” The chieftain roared, glaring the shamans’ way.
“You said he was crippled. Riding that damned beast forever a hundred yards ahead of us. How can he be striking us from the shadows if he is crippled?”
The older orc, covered in ritualistic tattoos and the skins of his prey lowered his head, cursing and spitting on the ground, the air stinking with the scents of sulfur and brimstone. “I know now, Lord Votig, but my rituals have never failed you before! Bright as blood, he rides, slumped over on that damned boar. You need but strike it down, and this night’s ordeal will finally be at an end!”
The chieftan sighed and shook his massive head, glaring into the distance as powerful three fingered hands tightly squeezed the shaft of his halberd. He frowned, shook his head, and glared back at the keep.
“No. We’ve already lost too many men, chasing him like fools in the dark!”
He turned to his soldiers, the closest standing at attention, the others looking anxiously in all directions save at the chieftain’s glaring face.
“You cowards are weak, slovenly fucks! You’re the reason why that bastards been able to snap at our flanks. Dengo, you lead the men back to the keep! We light all torches and keep a watch from the battlements. We’ll take out this bastard at first light!
“The massive orc near the size of the chieftain slammed fist to breastplate. “It will be as you say, my ch—“
The berserker’s eyes widened in confused surprise as he stumbled to his knees.
Chieftan Tovrig’s eyes widened with alarm. “Dengo, what the fuck’s wrong with you!?”
Dengo opened his mouth to reply, but only blood poured from his orifice as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in death.
Tovrig’s eyes bulged with panic, voice heightening to a panicked pitch. “Shaman! Put up a ward now!”
Yet there was no response, save for the looks of stupefaction over forty orcs were giving him, before first one then a full dozen broke off for the keep in a panicked sprint as the shaman collapsed with a surprised look on his face. As if unable to comprehend how a white-hot javelin had managed to pierce both his shield and abdomen.
“Fire Essence!” was the whisper only a single soul made out from the dying orc, everyone else seeing nothing but their blood mage spitting out nothing but fire as his abdomen extended horribly before bursting in steaming flesh and scalding blood perfectly visible to the handful of orcs dutifully holding torches.
The last monstrous straw that caused all the surviving orcs to turn and race for the keep, just as fast as they could, the chieftain himself leading the way.
And the patient predator who had been patiently stalking them all forbore to follow.
Not until he had relieved the awful pressure saturating his experience bar once more, flashing a fierce smile as hands hidden in midnight’s gloom caressed the tusked countenances of first a handful, then dozens of fallen orcs lurched back to their feat once more.
Eyes growing with a fiery eldritch light, desperate for nothing more than to earn their way back to oblivion before the caustic rays of morning caressed their flesh once more.
Congratulations! You have saved versus internal rupture!
You have raised an additional 27 revenants!
Forced binding has been made conditional!
Release has been promised to each of the dead after killing two or more of your still living foes!
Meridian strain has been minimized!
