Chapter 85: Time Skip

Night had fallen. A group of orcs had set up camp along the riverbank—a crude village carved into the ruins between the dead city and the edge of Orc Forest. Makeshift tents. Wooden shacks. Open fires crackling under slabs of roasting meat. It was a temporary outpost for warbands pushing toward the city.

Some orcs tossed nets into the water, fishing under the moonlight. Others stood watch atop the rooftops, crossbows loaded and eyes sharp. Grease and blood dripped from the skewers above the flames, hissing as it hit the coals.

At the center of the encampment sat an Orc Captain—massive, scarred, broad-shouldered, his skin painted in battles past. He lounged on a rough stone throne, gnawing on the raw leg of a boar. Blood streamed down his tusks, pooling at his feet.

Two human corpses lay before him. Bodies riddled with arrows. Armor cracked. Killed like dogs. They’d dared to explore the Wild Zone… in search of the mechanisms.

Another orc approached, heavy steps muffled by damp earth. He wore a dark robe and carried a staff woven from bone and sinew. A second Captain. A spellcaster.

High above, an orc sentry scanned the perimeter. His crossbow was steady, eyes locked on the forest. The moon drifted between thick clouds. Torchlight flickered, throwing dancing shadows over the village walls.

He heard it, leaves rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. He raised his weapon, eyes sharp, every sense on edge. Then something emerged from the dark: an apple. It rolled to the edge of the camp. Then another. And another.

He frowned, confused, lifting his crossbow again, too late.

A shape moved behind him. One arm wrapped around his torso. Another drove a black blade clean through his throat. Blood arced through the air. He dropped to his knees without a sound, one hand clawing desperately for the alarm bell on his belt, but it wasn’t there. Eyes wide, he turned.

A silhouette waited in the dark. Motionless. Eyes faintly lit by torchlight, cold, detached, unblinking. Then nothing.

Another orc, stationed below, caught a flicker of movement, just a blur crossing the rooftops. A heartbeat later, one of his own collapsed beside him, choking, hands pressed to his neck, drowning in blood. But before he died, his hand brushed the bell.

The chime rang out.

The camp erupted into motion. Orcs jumped to their feet, knocking over bowls, bones, weapons. Shouts rang out as steel was drawn. Boots slammed against the ground. Leaders barked commands, soldiers scrambled to form lines, but it was chaos.

And then he appeared.

Standing alone atop the tallest rooftop, backlit by the fractured moonlight. His face was cloaked in shadow. Human, clearly. But something about him was wrong. Every orc who saw him felt it. A sudden weight in the chest. A cold sweat across their backs. Something primal recoiled.

They scanned the rooftops again. No guards remained. All the sentries were gone.

“FILTHY HUMAN!!” the axe-wielding Orc Captain roared. “It was you! You’ve been the one attacking us night after night!”

Beside him, the mage smiled. “The General wants your head. I personally… can’t wait to deliver it.”

“KILL HIM!!” the Captain bellowed.

Archers took their positions. Bowstrings snapped. Arrows streaked through the sky. The mage captain slammed his staff to the earth, activating a command spell. Blades, spears, and axes lifted into the air, suspended in a spinning storm of magic. Then released. Dozens flew toward the rooftop in a single, lethal burst.

But the human was already in motion.

He leapt from the rooftop and sprinted forward, directly into the barrage. Arrows rained down, some glowing with enchantments. He didn’t slow. Twin kukris flashed with each movement, every strike deflected, every dodge executed with effortless grace. He weaved between death like smoke through fire, cutting projectiles from the air as if the chaos were choreographed.

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And then, he vanished.

A black streak crossed the field. He reappeared at ground level, slicing through two orc warriors before they even saw him coming. His blades moved like liquid, carving a clean arc of steel through their throats. Blood sprayed.

More came. He didn’t hesitate. He was inside the rhythm now.

Cut. Step. Twist. Kill.

The mage struck his staff down again. The ground erupted, stone spikes lancing upward, threatening to impale him. A second captain charged from behind, too fast to intercept.

The blow hit Luke hard. His body was launched across the clearing. He skidded, rolled, but landed on his feet. He exhaled once.

The shadows answered.

Darkness bled from his skin. His outline rippled, and another figure emerged behind him, a second presence, spectral and precise, following every motion with a breath’s delay.

[Demonic Blade Dance – Active]

[Afterimage Created – Dancing Mimic]

The mimic moved like a ghost in lockstep. Together, they became a blur of blades. They slashed through the enemy ranks, vanishing mid-dash only to reappear behind their victims. Every movement had purpose. Every kill was deliberate. The field became a massacre.

Then the Axe Captain roared. He dragged his weapon across the earth, the ground splitting beneath it. He lifted it high, channeling a sphere of kinetic energy, and hurled it forward with devastating force.

But Luke didn’t stop. He moved toward it.

Toward the next kill.

Luke moved instinctively—dodging, leaping, twisting midair—slashing across the Captain’s back in a single, fluid strike. Blood sprayed behind him as the wound opened. The status effect was immediate.

[Bleed – Status Effect Applied]

The Orc Captain staggered, caught off-guard, but Luke’s focus had already shifted to the mage.

A volley of spears flew his way, telekinetically launched with precision. He deflected them one by one, blades flashing with relentless control as he stepped into each parry. The mage raised a shield—too late. The barrier cracked, then shattered. Spiked stone spheres followed, hurtling toward him. Luke dashed once—twice—dodging with perfect timing as he closed the distance, blades ready.

Then—an arrow struck him from behind. He stumbled, turning just in time to see five archers drawing again, bows glowing with pulsing mana. They released.