Chương 100: 99. Commander's resolve

Commander Evans felt all sorts of mana clashing through the air. Death, blood, fire, light, lightning, water, air—each of them made the air tremble, and every time two aspects clashed, an explosion rang out, shaking the entire chamber. And through it all, he kept thinking one thing. No matter what, they were going to win. They had to. He would not die here in some dungeon chamber, surrounded by corpses and filth. He would go back to his estate. Back to stone walls and clean air.

Back to something that didn't stink of undead and rot. He repeated it in his mind like a mantra. But with every passing minute, the hope felt thinner. No matter how many undead they cut down, more kept pouring in from the cavern tunnels. It was as if the necromancer had killed an entire kingdom to fill the dungeon. Every fallen corpse was replaced by another. And he kept hearing every single scream that came from the mouths of his soldiers.

Even through the roaring of spells and the clash of weapons, his ears caught them. The short, cut-off cries of soldiers crushed under a tide of undead and the longer, ragged ones when their necks caught a blade. Worst of all, a few of his men had risen again as undead. The abundance of death mana in the air was responsible for this. They were given another twisted, brainless life, and as soon as they picked themselves up, they attacked their own former comrades.

With the battle raging, there was no time to burn their bodies. In the end, Evans had expected that part and warned the others. Everyone knew what they were walking into. But he hadn't imagined it would feel like this. He stood near the center of the battlefield, where the fighting was the worst. In front of him, nearly a dozen massive orcish undead swung their hammers and maces in wide, devastating arcs. Each weapon was large enough to crush a man in full armor. Their foul blood magic was on full display.

Every wound they suffered only seemed to enrage them and made them stronger. Dark red energy pulsed beneath their decayed skin, knitting torn muscle and sealing cracked bone. The more damage they took, the stronger their strikes became. They had appeared three hours ago, probably being kept as the necromancer's trump card. And in that time, they had managed to bring down three of the brutes. Only three. Primarily because of the orcish regeneration that somehow persisted even in undeath.

And secondly because every time they came close to finishing one off, a necrotic spell from the necromancer would hinder them, giving the orcs time to regenerate. Commander Evans frowned just thinking about it and moved his eyes to give another look at the necromancer, only to feel an attack coming for him. He jumped back just in time. A hammer crashed down where he had been standing, stone shattering under its weight. He rolled sideways and came up on one knee, slashing at the exposed thigh of the undead orc.

His blade bit deep, but the creature only roared louder, red veins glowing brighter beneath its rotten skin. Before it could follow up with another attack, Evans took another dozen steps back and lifted his eyes. Far behind the orcs, standing calmly amidst the chaos, was the necromancer. The man barely moved. His dark robes fluttered lightly in the turbulent air. Death mana swirled around him like a cloak of mist.

From time to time, he raised his staff and unleashed another wave of necrotic spells, all sorts of projectiles moving through the air, aimed to take down the Crown's Hand. The man looked wrong in every sense, like a ghost clinging to flesh. And beneath the sleeve of his robe, Evans had seen it. Orcish tattoos. They were made of green ink stitched over his arm, and he had recognised them in an instant. With the orcish undead, it explained far too much.

It also confirmed several of the suspicions he had about the necromancer, but none of it mattered if they didn't survive this. As he steadied his breath, two of the orcish undead suddenly charged straight toward him. One wielded a hammer large enough to crush a carriage wheel. The other dragged a spiked mace across the stone, sparks trailing in its wake. Their empty eyes were locked on him. Evans immediately understood what was going on. The necromancer wanted his head.

If the commander fell, morale would shatter and the line would break. He was getting impatient for victory. Seeing them coming, Evans didn't back away. He had held back for the past hour, conserving mana, fighting defensively and letting the other captains rotate in and out, playing the role of support. But as the two brutes closed in, he decided that restraint had gone on long enough. Mana flooded through his veins before taking over his entire body and then moving even beyond it.

His eyes shifted faintly red as the air around him thickened. A massive spectral bull began to form above him, its shape carved from dense crimson mana. [Crimson Sovereign Bull Manifestation.] His family's prized mana technique. Something every noble house in the kingdom coveted and could never replicate. The orcs reached him and swung at the same time. Hammer and mace came crashing down. But he didn't move. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road.

Please report it. The spectral bull stepped forward instead. The weapons struck its massive horns and shoulders. The impact rang like metal striking iron, shockwaves rippling outward, but the construct held firm. Then Evans growled and swung his greatsword. The bull mirrored him. A crimson horn of condensed mana shot forward with his blade, piercing cleanly through the neck of the hammer-wielding orc. The force lifted the brute off its feet and sent it sprawling backward across the stone.

It slid straight toward Verella, who saw it coming and immediately jumped on top of it. Her blade flashed once with mana, then she drove it clean through the orc's eyes before it could rise again. Evans didn't give Verella more than a single glance. She had already pulled her blade free from the orc's ruined face, blood and dark ichor splattering across the stone. His eyes were locked right in front of him on the mace-wielding orc. It let out a guttural roar, as if enraged by the death of its brethren.

Dark blood pulsed violently beneath its skin, gathering along its arm and flowing into the mace it wielded. The veins along its forearm swelled grotesquely as it instinctively used its blood magic. Then it swung, and the air shrieked under the force of it. But Evans stepped forward instead of retreating. The spectral bull moved with him. It lowered its massive head and charged. The crimson construct slammed into the orc before it could complete the arc of its swing.

The impact crushed through bone and muscle, forcing the undead brute onto its knees. The stone immediately cracked beneath its weight. Evans made full use of the opportunity. He raised his greatsword and brought it down in a brutal vertical strike. The blade plunged straight into the creature's skull. At the same time, the bull's horns mirrored the motion—two massive crimson spikes driving through the orc's head from above, splitting it cleanly down the middle.

Flesh parted to either side and blood splattered on his armour. The red glow inside the corpse flickered, then went dark. The body collapsed. Evans stood over it for half a breath before spitting onto its ruined face. And the very next second, a familiar hollow sensation tugged at him and he frowned. He had used roughly fifteen percent of his mana just on these exchanges alone. His family's technique was as mana-intensive as it was devastating.

It could never be sustained for long, no matter how vast he cultivated his mana reserves. But there was no alternative. At least the effect was immediate. The soldiers in the back who saw what he did immediately got a boost in morale and started pushing back against the undead harder. Even the captains and Crown's Hand members nearby faced the orcs with greater momentum.

Across the chamber, Selene caught his eye and gave the faintest nod even as she danced between two towering orcs, blades flashing with golden light as she baited and redirected their attacks. Morale was getting better, but Evans didn't know how long it would last. Even if they killed every orc in the chamber, he had a feeling there would be other surprises waiting for them. This was clearly a war of attrition designed to grind them down, and if he wanted to win, he needed to cut the head off the snake.

His gaze lifted again to look at the necromancer just as he threw out an orb of death mana toward the formation of three of his captains, detonating it and sending them scrambling back. As he watched him create more such orbs, Evans didn't wait any longer. He surged forward. Mana flared around him as the Crimson Sovereign Bull followed close overhead, its massive form charging with thunderous weight. Each step Evans took cracked the stone beneath his boots. The necromancer soon noticed him.

His pale, sunken eyes lifted and looked straight at him. A thin, twisted smile tugged at his lips as if he were seeing prey walking toward him, and in that moment, Evans felt the urge to break his teeth with his fist. The next second, he raised his staff. Three dense orbs of death mana formed instantly and shot forward like comets. Evans didn't slow. Instead of dodging, he pushed more mana into the [Crimson Sovereign Bull Manifestation]. The spectral beast lowered its massive head and charged.

The orbs struck the bull head-on. They detonated in violent bursts of necrotic energy, black and green flames ripping outward. The chamber trembled, and even a few captains and squad leaders staggered from the shockwaves. But the explosions never touched Evans. The bull absorbed it all. Crimson horns split through the death mana, shredding it apart. The construct roared, and the sound reverberated through the battlefield like a challenge. The necromancer's expression tightened slightly. More projectiles followed.

Not just orbs—shards of condensed bone, jagged spears of black mana, and streaks of corrupt lightning. Each one slammed into the charging bull. Each one shattered against it. Evans felt the drain on his reserves, but he didn't hesitate. The distance between them was shrinking rapidly. He was already halfway and— He suddenly sensed movement to his left and felt an orc charging at him. It came from his blind spot, barreling through the melee with reckless momentum.

Its hammer was already swinging toward his exposed side. Evans twisted just enough to bring his blade up, but the strike never landed. Verella appeared out of nowhere. She leapt onto the orc's back in one fluid motion, boots digging into decayed muscle. Her sword plunged straight into its eyes. The orc shrieked, flailing violently as its massive hands tried to grab her. Verella kicked off its back before it could catch her and landed beside Evans without breaking stride.

Behind them, the blinded orc staggered uselessly into the chaos. Neither of them spared it another glance. They kept running. Verella turned her head slightly toward him, her eyes glowing with mana.

"How confident are you?" Evans didn't look at her. His eyes never left the necromancer.

"Not much," he grunted.

"He's clearly at a higher level than us. He also has the orcish tattoos and that staff. We haven't seen much of what it can do, so it could go anywhere." Another orb streaked toward them, and the bull smashed through it again.

"But he's still a necromancer," Evans continued.

"They're always physically weak." Verella snorted lightly.

"This one doesn't look like it." Evans didn't argue, knowing she was right. The orcish tattoos were more famous for reinforcing strength than mana. And any mage above a certain level knew how to strengthen their body to take blows that would rip apart a common man in seconds.

"Then we hold his attention as long as we can," Evans said finally. Verella caught the implication immediately.

"You think they're close to the core?" she asked.

"The dungeon is massive."

"I don't know," he replied.

"But I sure as hell hope so." His jaw tightened.

"If they reach it… we'll know." He raised his sword and pointed it directly at the necromancer.

"And we'll bury this bastard in this cursed place." Ahead, the necromancer raised his staff again. Death mana thickened around him like a storm gathering form. The spectral bull roared and charged the final stretch. As Evans closed the remaining distance, there was only one clear thought in his mind. Either Edran's warband would succeed, or he would stake everything on one final strike to cleave the necromancer's neck.

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