Chương 127: Wrath Was Waiting Inside the Core

Sieghart descended through the drifting steam and landed several meters from the frozen Orc King, nearly collapsing when his injured leg accepted his weight. His ribs protested every breath, blood still coated his tongue, and First Aid remained busy repairing damage that his body had no business surviving. Still, seeing the enormous monster trapped inside layered ice allowed Sieghart to release a breath he had been holding since the last exchange.

He had not killed the Orc King, but for the first time since their battle began, he possessed distance, time, and an opponent incapable of attacking immediately. That counted as progress, although the frozen prison began shuddering almost immediately, reminding Sieghart that his advantage would probably last only several seconds. Crimson light pulsed behind the cloudy ice, and thin streams of water already ran down its surface as the rage-generated heat spread outward.

Several cracks appeared around the King's shoulders, widened across his chest, and vanished beneath fresh steam rising from the imprisoned body. Sieghart watched another fracture crawl toward the monster's head, then released a tired sigh while forcing his trembling legs to remain beneath him.

"What a troublesome beast." He had seconds rather than minutes. Another elaborate combination would take too long, while ordinary attacks would become useless once the King recovered his weapon and momentum. Fortunately, Sieghart had already learned what happened when overwhelming durability encountered concentrated penetration delivered before the target could properly protect itself.

He raised both hands and began creating Mana Swords around himself, placing each translucent weapon at a different height and angle. One appeared beside his shoulder, another hovered near his waist, and several more formed above him until pale blades surrounded the clearing. Creating them was easy. Preparing every sword properly was not, especially while pain interrupted his concentration whenever he inhaled too deeply.

Sieghart touched the nearest blade and fed Wind Magic through its structure, carefully changing the enchantment from a simple cutting edge into controlled rotational force. A thin layer of green mana wrapped around the sword. The weapon began turning slowly along its length, producing a rising hum as the rotation stabilized. Sieghart repeated the process with another blade, then another, moving between them while First Aid continued knitting damaged tissue beneath his clothes.

Soon, every Mana Sword rotated in place, their green outlines cutting thin spirals through the steam as though dozens of drills waited for permission to launch. A single enormous Mana Sword might have possessed greater direct power. The oversized weapon had already shattered the unfinished guardian's skull and destroyed several vertebrae. The Orc King was stronger, but his body was less troublesome than a skeleton controlled directly by a corrupted core after its muscles stopped functioning.

One perfect strike was unnecessary. Sieghart only needed enough swords to pierce from every direction, overwhelm reinforcement, and keep the monster from protecting every vulnerable point. He spread the weapons around the frozen prison, using Telekinesis and direct construct control to position several behind the King while others hovered above both shoulders. The ice shook harder as a massive arm shifted beneath the surface, widening several cracks explosively while the Orc King flexed against the frozen layers.

Sieghart stepped backward, raised one trembling hand, and aligned every rotating sword toward the enormous red silhouette trapped inside the ice. The entire prison suddenly exploded, throwing jagged chunks across the clearing while steam burst outward and concealed the Orc King inside frozen debris and crimson light. Sieghart released the swords before the monster could take its first step, trusting their prepared angles to converge through the obscuring cloud.

They crossed the clearing from every direction, accelerated by Wind Magic and spinning fast enough that their edges blurred into green circles. The Orc King raised one arm across his face while reaching toward his buried weapon, but the first Mana Sword struck his shoulder before his fingers closed. The rotating point bit through crimson skin, chewed past reinforced muscle, and buried itself deeply enough to stop only after nearly half the blade disappeared. Another struck his thigh.

Two entered his back, one pierced beneath his ribs, and several more hammered against the armor covering his chest. Some shattered against thick plates. Others glanced away or broke upon striking bone, but enough found exposed flesh to turn the King's roar into a broken gasp. The enormous warrior tried stepping forward. The sword embedded through his thigh twisted deeper, while another passed through his calf and anchored the leg against frozen earth.

His weapon hand reached the handle despite the injuries, forcing Sieghart to clench his fingers and accelerate every surviving Mana Sword simultaneously. The blade inside the King's shoulder drilled through the joint. Those buried in his back advanced between ribs, while the weapon beneath his chest pushed toward something softer. The Orc King roared again, yet the sound weakened when another sword entered through his side and continued toward the center of his torso.

Dark-red Aura erupted from his body and shattered two Mana Swords, but the remaining constructs stayed embedded and continued grinding forward. Sieghart forced more mana into them. Infinite Mana replaced every fragment lost to resistance, preserving their edges while rotation widened the wounds around them. The King lifted his weapon several centimeters before another Mana Sword pierced his forearm, destroyed his grip, and forced his thick fingers to open.

The massive cleaver-hammer struck the ground with enough weight to shake broken ice around Sieghart's boots and deepen cracks already spreading through the frozen earth. The Orc King remained standing for several seconds longer, held upright by stubborn muscles, corrupted reinforcement, and several blades passing completely through his body. Sieghart drove the swords deeper, refusing to trust an enemy who had already ignored burns, poison, impalement, freezing, and injuries that should have ended anything living.

One blade tore through a lung. Another pierced the heart from behind, while two crossed through the abdomen and destroyed whatever organs remained between them. The crimson glow flickered across the King's skin, then weakened as his knees folded and his enormous weapon remained abandoned beside him. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

His body leaned forward, caught briefly upon the embedded swords, then went limp as the remaining rage vanished from his dark-red eyes. Sieghart dismissed several constructs before the corpse fell, allowing the massive body to crash onto the frozen ground without dragging every sword beneath it. Silence followed the impact, and neither another roar nor another pulse of corrupted Aura answered while Sieghart watched the body for movement.

He waited several breaths before allowing himself to believe that the Orc King had finally stopped moving and would not invent another unpleasant surprise. Black Magic has reached Level 18. The notification almost disappeared behind exhaustion. Sieghart acknowledged it without celebration because distant shouts were already approaching through the ruined camp. He needed the core before hundreds of orcs arrived and forced him to explain why their king had become a magical pincushion.

Sieghart used Wind Blades to open the damaged chest farther, then reached through the heat and blood with Telekinesis instead of using his hands. The core resisted his pull far more strongly than those inside ordinary warriors, as though corrupted channels still connected it throughout the enormous corpse. Sieghart tightened his control until those invisible connections tore, allowing the dark-red sphere to rip free and float above the opened chest.

The core was nearly the size of his head, covered with black veins and radiating enough heat to distort the cold air surrounding it. Even separated from the body, the core pulsed with fury. Every beat sent pressure through Sieghart's Telekinesis and made nearby fragments of ice tremble. Every warning he had received suggested destroying it immediately, particularly after the last corrupted core had placed Zombification inside his mind.

Instead, Sieghart placed one hand against the burning surface and opened the same internal connection he used when absorbing every other core. Energy flooded into him with enough force to lock his fingers against the crystal and make every damaged muscle throughout his body tighten. The massive core collapsed layer by layer, becoming crimson dust while heat, strength, experience, and something far less controlled entered Sieghart's body. You reached level 14. You received 10 free points.

The first notification was followed immediately by another, its appearance accompanied by a pressure inside Sieghart's chest that felt nothing like ordinary magical growth. Sin Magic has been unlocked. Sieghart's breathing stopped briefly as he read the name, wondering whether the System had abandoned even the smallest attempt at making this discovery appear harmless. Sin Magic Branch discovered: Wrath.

The final notification appeared while the remaining core dust slipped between Sieghart's fingers and scattered across the blood-covered ice beneath his boots. New Spell acquired: Fury — Level 1. Applies Rage to a target, increasing physical parameters according to spell level while intensifying aggression, pain tolerance, confidence, and violent impulses. + 2 Strength per level.

Sieghart barely finished reading before the Orc King's fury reached him, igniting behind his ribs with the sudden intensity of swallowed fire. It spread through his chest, climbed his throat, entered his skull, and transformed every injury into something sharper and far more personal than pain. His broken breathing no longer felt frightening. It felt insulting, as though his own body had betrayed him by allowing the Orc King to damage it.

Sieghart looked at the corpse and suddenly wanted to continue attacking until nothing remained capable of resembling the creature that had nearly killed him. The King was already dead, yet stopping felt wrong. The wounds were not deep enough, the punishment was incomplete, and death seemed far too merciful. He wanted to summon more Mana Swords and grind the corpse apart until nothing remained large enough for another orc to recognize.

That desire became only the beginning as the surrounding warriors turned into targets before Sieghart even saw them approaching through the damaged camp. Their footsteps, shouts, breathing, and filthy smell felt like personal offenses demanding immediate violence rather than distant signs of enemies reorganizing. He imagined filling the camp with fire until every tent, warrior, animal, and supply wagon became ash beneath a sky bright enough to wake the region. The idea did not feel reckless or disproportionate.

Beneath Wrath's influence, it felt honest, efficient, and overdue after everything the orcs had done. Years of restrained anger surfaced together, no longer separated by time, context, or importance, making every humiliation as immediate as the kick that nearly broke him. He remembered his parents sending him away, the examiner dismissing him, the false wanted poster, the burning farm, and every accusation he had swallowed.

Most painfully, he remembered his grandparents dying while he remained too weak, too distant, and too ignorant to save either of them. Mira withholding knowledge because she decided what he should understand suddenly felt identical to deliberate manipulation, while Ronan's intrusions became violations demanding punishment. Even Sieghart's own failures became enemies, including the missed core beneath Bellhaven, the uncontrolled Necromancy, and every weakness his young body still carried.

Every moment when someone stronger forced him to retreat resurfaced together, demanding that he answer past helplessness with enough violence to erase future resistance. Wrath gathered those memories and removed every distinction between annoyance, grief, betrayal, and murder until all of them demanded destruction as the only acceptable answer. The cause deserved destruction, anyone protecting it deserved the same, and anyone standing nearby became guilty simply for obstructing the path toward revenge.

The spell's knowledge promised strength in exchange for surrendering hesitation. Rage would increase physical parameters, suppress pain, accelerate action, and make doubt feel unnecessary. For one dangerous moment, Sieghart understood why the Orc King had smiled while burning, because pain became fuel and fear transformed instantly into anger. Even exhaustion seemed like an insult his body could overcome by hating weakness strongly enough, rather than a warning that he desperately needed recovery.

Fire gathered around Sieghart's right hand without conscious instruction. Wind screamed around the left, and the ice beneath his boots cracked as earth shifted below. Phantom Image flickered violently, briefly revealing crimson hair and green eyes beneath the older disguise before rebuilding itself around his trembling body. Sieghart clenched both hands until his nails cut his palms, but the tiny pain only fed the fury and made destruction feel more necessary.

Somewhere nearby, an orc shouted that the King had fallen, and Sieghart turned toward the sound with a smile that felt disturbingly natural. The desire to attack felt completely reasonable, which frightened him more than any obvious foreign voice or unnatural command could have managed. Zombification had pushed one impossible longing into his thoughts, but Wrath used emotions that already belonged to him and removed every boundary around them.

Sieghart genuinely hated the people who murdered his grandparents, resented his parents, and despised being controlled, underestimated, cornered, or forced to depend upon mercy. Sin Magic did not invent those feelings. It simply whispered that restraint had always been cowardice and forgiveness was another word used by weaker people. The rage promised that every problem became simpler once enough strength was applied, while anyone objecting merely deserved to become part of the solution.

Sieghart's breathing deepened as approaching footsteps multiplied around the clearing, bringing dozens of corrupted cores filled with more power he could absorb. For one terrible instant, collecting them all felt like destiny rather than temptation, and the thought filled him with eager, almost joyful anticipation. His System had given him a game whose rules rewarded battle, growth, cooperation, and corruption, but Wrath wanted only the rewards earned through blood.

It wanted Sieghart to stop questioning who had designed those rules, surrender every remaining hesitation, and begin collecting everything the battlefield could offer.