At the same time as the final phase of Liora's trial, the battlefield before Sanctora's fortress was a tapestry of tension and readiness, each soldier standing like a cog in a vast, silent machine.
The vanguard formed tight columns at the forefront, their shields glinting faintly under the overcast sky. Behind them, archers stood poised, crates of arrows stacked neatly between them, with torches flickering ominously atop each crate—ready to ignite fire arrows on command.
Further back, mages gripped their staffs firmly, their eyes closed as they mentally rehearsed spells. Atop the fortress walls, crossbowmen lined up, their weapons aimed steadily toward the horizon, waiting for the first glimpse of the enemy.
Silence reigned; no whispers or idle chatter disturbed the grim anticipation. It wasn't discipline alone that kept them quiet—it was fear, raw and palpable, though suppressed beneath layers of resolve.
Elowen, her voodoo doll bouncing lightly against her hip, turned to the general beside her. "when the orcs come," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the stillness, "it'll be horrifying. The ground will shake, and the dust they kick up will double the terror. You need to give a warcry—a good one. Something to snap our soldiers out of their dread. Add a 'clarity' spell from the mages afterward, and they'll perform at their peak."
She smirked faintly, adding dryly, "I'm leaving the speech to you since I'm not exactly known for motivational talks."
The general nodded solemnly, his jaw set. "understood, ma'am." Not long after, Elowen's warning prove chillingly accurate. A thunderous rumble echoed across the plains as the orc horde came into view—a monstrous tide stretching far beyond what anyone had imagined.
Their numbers dwarfed Sanctora's forces by at least tenfold, and their march shook the earth itself, sending clouds of dust billowing ahead of them like heralds of doom.
The sight was enough to make even seasoned soldiers falter. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale beneath their helmets. Some gripped their weapons tighter, while others muttered prayers under their breath.
Despite the overwhelming odds, there was no retreat—only the grim resolve to protect their kingdom at any cost.
But before panic could take root, the general stepped forward, his voice booming with commanding authority. "soldiers of Sanctora!" he roared, his words carrying over the din of distant footsteps.
"what you see on the horizon isn't the march of our enemy! It isn't the march of the orcs—it's the march of our prize, begging to be claimed! so don't falter! Stand your ground and let us claim it—for SANCTORAAAAAAA!" his final cry was met with a deafening roar from the entire army: :FOR SANCTORAAAAAAA!"
Elowen watched the display with an approving smirk, muttering under her breath, "huh… not bad." Without missing a beat, she reached for her voodoo doll, pulling it free from her waist.
With a flick of her wrist, she channeled mana into it, causing the doll to float lazily above her palm, spinning ever so slightly.
Turning to the general, she ordered curtly, "buff the archers and have them take aim." The general didn't hesitate, barking commands immediately.
"MAGES! BUFF THE ARCHERRRRRSSS!" In unison, the mages raised their staffs high, chanting incantations that resonated like harmonious hymns.
Spells crackled through the air—"Clarity", sharpened focus and bolstered spirits; "Bull's Eye", enhanced accuracy, while "Aguante", fortified strength and endurance.
As the effects settled over the ranks, the general shouted again, his voice slicing through the charged atmosphere. "TAKE AIIIIIIMMMMM!" the archers responded instantly, nocking fire-tipped arrows onto their bows, drawing back with practiced precision.
Every eye was locked on the approaching horde, calculating trajectories and targets. When the orcs finaly entered range, Elowen stepped forward, her lips moving silently as she whispered her own spell to the floating voodoo doll.
"Rafflesia Arnoldi's Garden." The doll flared brightly, spinning wildly for a few seconds before stabilizing once more. Out on the battlefield, massive flowers erupted along the orcish lines, releasing dense of clouds of pollen that spread rapidly with every pounding step of the advancing horde.
Within moments, the orcs' momentum slowed dramatically, as if wading through thick mud. Their armor began to corrode, and some of their skin blistered and melted under the toxic pollen's touch. Watching the spectacle unfold, Elowen signaled to the general. "now, general."
The general needed no further prompting. Raising his sword high, he bellowed, "FIREEEEEEE!" in perfect synchronization, the archers loosed their volleys, the trajectory of the arrows painted the sky red, shaped like a rainbow but only consists of bright red color, those fiery arrows streaking toward the already weakened orcs.
When the projectiles struck home, the effect was devastating—a sea of flames erupted, engulfing the front lines of the horde. Orcs screeched in agony, thrashing futilely as the inferno consumed them.
The sight was both horrifying and mesmerizing, but the general quickly broke the momentary awe. "READY THE SECOND VOLLEY!" he shouted, snapping everyone back to action.
Archers swiftly reloaded, taking aim once more. "FIREEEEEEE!" another wave of flaming arrows soared into the chaos, expanding the blaze and chipping away further at the orcish ranks.
By the time the third volley joined the carnage, nearly a quarter of horde lay dead or dying. Yet when the flames subsided and the lingering effects of Elowen's spell dissipated, the surviving orcs resumed their relentless charge, undeterred despite their losses.
Elowen wasted no time issuing fresh orders. "switch to normal arrows now," she instructed the general. "focus on precision targeting—we can't afford to waste shots. Meanwhile, I'll summon reinforcements to hold them off."
The general relayed the command without hesitation. "ARCHERS, READY NORMAL ARROWS! WE'RE MOVING TO THE NEXT PHASE!" the soldiers responded in unison, their voices steady and determined.
"AYE, SIR!" despite the gravity of the situation, Elowen couldn't resist a wry comment as she prepared her next move. "let's hope these archers could back up their reputation, unless they want to be a laughing stock of the lost human kingdoms."
Her remark earned a few nervous chuckles from nearby soldiers, though their faces remained tense. As the battle raged on, the humans clung desperately to the fragile edge of survival, knowing full well that victory—or defeat—was far from certain.
The orc horde, though reduced by a quarter, marched forward with relentless ferocity, trampling over their fallen comrades without hesitation or remorse.
As the human forces braced for another assault, Elowen began muttering a lengthy incantation, her voice low and strained compared to her earlier spells. The general watched her anxiously, shifting uneasily as he wondered if she'd complete the spell in time.
After what felt like an eternity—though it was only a couple of minutes—Elowen shouted the final words: "Tree Bark Legion!" her body swayed slightly afterward, exhaustion evident in her stance.
On the horizon, nearly 100 meters ahead of the advancing orcs, something unprecedented emerged from the earth—beings that no citizen of Sanctora, soldier or civilian, had ever seen before.
Trees shaped into humanoid forms, each as tall as a man, sprouted from the ground in rapid succession. Armed with wooden clubs and sticks bristling with sharp, jagged branches, they multiplied until their numbers far surpassed those of the human army.
When these tree-like warriors clashed with the orcish tide, the momentum of the horde faltered once more. Each strike landed without mercy; even seemingly minor wounds caused the orc to shriek in agony, as the weapons were laced with poison that seeped into their bodies with every blow.
Elowen still catching her breath, turned to the general with urgency. "what are you waiting for, general?" she panted, her voice tight but resolute. Concern flickered across his face as he asked, "are you alright, mage?"
She waved him off weakly, straightening herself with visible effort. "don't mind me—just proceed with the plan."
Nodding firmly, the general raised his sword high and bellowed, "FIREEEE! Reload, and keep firing!" another volley of arrows soared through the air, striking down more orcs amidst the chaos.
Despite her insistence, the general couldn't ignore Elowen's condition. He approached her cautiously, offering support. "are you alright, ma'am? He pressed again, his tone heavy with concern.
Still breathing heavily, Elowen replied, "I'm fine… this spell consumed far more mana than I expected. I've never cast my ultimate this early in a battle, in this huge scale too—it's taxing."
Yet even as she spoke, her gaze remained fixed on the battlefield, unwilling to let the moment slip away. The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos and carnage, the air thick with the sounds of splintering wood, clashing steel, and dying screams.
The tree army fought with mechanical ferocity, their clubs smashing into orcish flesh while volleys of arrows rained down from above, each strike carving deeper into the horde.
It was brutally effective—orc after orc fell, their numbers dwindling to half of what they had been at the start. Yet, even as the tide seemed to turn in favor of Sanctora's forces, the sheer size of the orc army could not be underestimated.
Slowly but surely, the orcs began to gain momentum, turning the fight into a grim exchange: two or three orcs for every tree warrior lost. Though the wooden soldiers felt no pain, the brutal reality remained—they were rendered useless when limbs were torn apart by relentless clubs.
As the balance tipped back toward the orcs, their war cries erupted across the field, guttural roars punctuated by fists pounding chests like enraged gorillas claiming dominance.
Elowen, watching intently, leaned toward the general. "be ready, general. They'll coming for us soon. Start buffing the vanguard."
Without hesitation, the general raised his sword high. "BUFF THE VANGUAAAAAARRRDD!" the mages responded in unison, their staffs glowing as chants filled the air—"Clarity", "Aguante", and finally, "Avant Garde", enhancing physical strength and defense prowess.
Elowen turned her sharp gaze back to the general, her voice cutting through the tension. "when their march reaches 100 meters from us, charge with the vanguard. Moving forward will reduce casualties compared to holding our ground here."
The general nodded firmly. "understood, ma'am." Then, with a hint of skepticism, he added, "and you, ma'am? Are you charging with us?"
Elowen smirked, raising an eyebrow. "of course not. Have you seen a trace of brutality in me? I'll stay behind, supporting you all with mid-range attacks."
The general processed this awkwardly, muttering under his breath, "okay, ma'am… understood." Elowen continued unperturbed, issuing further orders.
"tell the archers on the wall and at the rear to ready their crossbows. And have the mages follow the vanguard slowly—they'll need healing support once the melee begins."
The general acknowledged her commands, his mind briefly wandering as he watched her pull a vial from her pocket. Its liquid shimmered a faint sky blue, and without pause, she drained it completely.
Her posture straightened almost instantly, fatigue melting away as renewed energy coursed through her. The general blinked in disbelief. Mana potion? She drank it like ale! Such potions were rare and exorbitantly expensive, typically sipped sparingly by mages. Who exactly was this woman?
His thoughts snapped back to reality as Elowen barked sharply, "be ready."
The last remnants of the tree army crumbled under the relentless assault, and the surviving orcs surged forward with renewed vigor, though their ranks were now only four times larger than Sanctora's forces.
Their march shook the earth, primal and ferocious, yet the human defenders stood resolute. The general stepped forward, his voice booming over the din. "soldiers of Sanctora! Look at them—they're not as vast as before! Grasp your weapons tightly, hold your shields firm—we are going to claim our prize NOW! FOR SANCTORAAAAAA…" his cry ignited a thunderous roar from the troops, their spirits burning brighter than ever.
"FOR SANCTORAAAAAA…" the synchronized shout reverberated like a promise etched in fire. With shields raised and swords gleaming, the vanguard braced themselves, awaiting the signal to charge headlong into the fray.
Behind them, Elowen readied her voodoo doll once more, her lips curling into a determined grin. Victory—or survival—would hinge on the next few moments.
The moment of impact arrived, and the general's voice thundered across the battlefield. "VANGUARD, CHAAAARRRGGGEEE!" his cry was met with a deafening roar from the soldiers, their shouts brimming with bravery and resolve as they surged forward, shields raised and weapons at the ready.
From the side, the clash looked like a collision of two equal forces—both sides radiating fury, determination, and raw power. But viewed from above, the disparity in numbers and strength became painfully clear; the orcs still held a significant advantage.
As the armies closed in on each other, the orcs bared their jagged teeth, roaring ferociously, while the human soldiers gritted theirs, their expression hardened by sheer willpower. It was almost as if they had momentarily forgotten the possibility of death, so consumed were they by the singular goal of survival.
When the two lines finally collided, the sound of orcish clubs smashing against steel shields reverberated like the tolling of temple bells, echoing far beyond the battlefield to the distant square.
Elowen watched in mild surprises, her lips curling into a faint smile. She had anticipated the first line of the vanguard to crumble under the initial assault, buying time for the second line to stabilize the defense.
Yet, she was wrong—the combination of courage, hope, and magical buffs had transformed these soldiers into an unyielding wall that refused to break.
Amidst the chaos, the general's commanding voice cut through the din. "aim for their feet! Don't let go of your shield guard!" the vanguard obeyed without hesitation, maintaining their defensive posture even as the orcs swung wildly, attempting to shatter their formation.
Meanwhile, the crossbow divisions atop the walls and at the rear unleashed volleys of bolts, targeting the exposed gaps between the orcs' clumsy swings. This relentless barrage sowed confusion among the enemy ranks, forcing them to stagger back momentarily.
Elowen joined the fray with characteristic flair, chanting her spell: "Seeds Bullet." A storm of seed-like projectiles erupted from her voodoo doll, pelting the orcs with explosive force. Each impact detonated with a crack akin to firecrackers, peppering the horde with painful wounds.
Though individually small, the sheer number of projectiles turned the attack into a machine-gun-like onslaught, further disorienting the already faltering orcs.
However, the orcs did not retreat into passive submission—they mirrored the brutality of the tree army before them, swinging their clubs recklessly with no regard for defense or strategy.
Human soldiers were sent flying left and right, some crashing to the ground with bone-jarring thuds. Yet those who managed to rise were swiftly healed by the mages, whose coordination spoke volumes about the general's efficient drills despite the limited preparation time.
Every unit moved in perfect harmony, creating a seamless chain of offense and support that kept the human forces intact. Realizing the orcs' reckless exchange of blows would inevitably drain the humans faster due to their numerical disadvantage, the general adjusted his tactics mid-battle.
"FOCUS ON DEFENSE! GUUUAAARRRDD… GUUUAAARRRDD! He bellowed, his orders rippling through the ranks like wildfire. Soldiers relayed the command down the line, transforming it into a unified mantra.
Though the vanguard ceased offensive strikes, the human forces continued to inflict damage, relying heavily on the precision of the crossbowmen and Elowen's ceaseless magical barrages. Orcs fell one after another, their numbers dwindling steadily.
By now, the once-overwhelming horde had been reduced to twice the size of the human army—a monumental achievement given the odds. This turn of events ignited a surge of morale among the defenders.
Confidence soared to unprecedented heights, bolstered by the tangible evidence of progress. Victory no longer seemed like a distant dream—it felt within reach. Soldiers exchanged triumphant glances, their spirits lifted by the belief that the tide had irrevocably shifted in their favor.
Yet unbeknownst to them, the battle teetered precariously on the edge of calamity. For every orc felled, the survivors grew more desperate, their primal instincts driving them to fight with increasing savagery. Beneath the surface of apparent success lurked the potential for disaster—a truth hidden in plain sight but overlooked in the heat of the moment.
The human forces, buoyed by their hard-won gains, failed to notice the subtle shift in the orcs' behavior. Their seemingly random flailing began to take a pattern, almost coordinated.
What started as chaotic desperation slowly morphed into something far more sinister—a strategy born of necessity and bloodlust. And just as the humans dared to dream of victory, the tables prepared to turn once more, threatening to overturn everything they had fought so valiantly to achieve.