Ashen Dragon

"Boom!"

Another explosion shattered the night; in an instant, gunpowder smoke filled the air, flames erupted, shrapnel flew, and a mist of blood hung in the sky.

Dozens of orcs were blown into mangled heaps of flesh, dismembered limbs flung far and wide. Even charred skulls rolled onto the ground, spinning several times before coming to a stop.

But the surviving orcs remained utterly unshaken, not even bothering to glance at the carnage. Instead, they eagerly picked up the scalding shrapnel scattered across the ground—for this scene had played out continuously for days.

It was now the third day of the orc assault on Aivendel.

The Ashen Empire's artillery fire roared ceaselessly, with bipedal wyverns shrieking through the skies, raining bombs down like a torrent.

During this time, the orcs launched hundreds of massive offensives, at one point nearly breaching the Ashen Empire's trenches, only to be driven back by overwhelming artillery fire. Every day, tens of thousands of orcs perished within this gunpowder-saturated "meat grinder."

In just these brief three days, the barren plain had been blasted three feet lower, hillocks leveled flat, and the ground littered with the charred corpses of orcs.

Yet Mo Ke's peculiar methods weren't without effect; during this time, the surviving orcs became even stronger.

"Waaaagh!"

A giant mountain roared in fury, charging toward the Ashen Empire's frontlines amidst a storm of descending shells.

In its hands was an enormous warhammer, forged from broken shrapnel and firing mechanisms, with flames spewing fiercely from the handle.

Meanwhile, the giant mountain scavenged pieces across the battlefield, cobbling together a rugged, crude armor for itself.

"Brethren, charge with me! Their attacks only make us stronger!"

The giant mountain raised its warhammer high, standing atop a mound of corpses, its shrapnel-made visor pulled back, unleashing a thunderous roar.

"Waaagh!"

"Giant Mountain! Savage Giant Mountain!"

Cheered on by the orcs, the force field emanating from the giant mountain grew increasingly intense, almost tangible, disassembling incoming artillery shells mid-air into scraps of iron.

The orc technology seemed laughably primitive and bizarre to the Empire—stone and beast bone formed the core of their weapons, fit only for primitive tribes.

Yet the weapons crafted by the green-skin orcs defied all rational logic, perplexing Imperial researchers.

According to the Empire's researchers, amidst intense war and death, orcs manifest an extraordinarily idealistic power, with their belief enough to distort objective reality—similar to magicians.

As long as orcs believed it was usable in battle, it functioned perfectly.

Even a seemingly insignificant scrap of metal could transform into a lethal weapon incomprehensible to other races. Twisted by this reality-warping power, these cobbled-together creations could exhibit brute, unrestrained might.

In a sense, every green-skin orc was a potential "warlock," capable of bending reality with the will of war.

They possessed a unique breed of "technology," though most of their war machines were crudely fashioned from scavenged battlefield debris.

"Is it that orc?"

"Yes, the order comes directly from General Delor. We must kill it at any cost—even if it means wasting our ammunition."

"Understood."

The Legion Commander, Big Headed Ogre, tossed aside his radio, spitting on the ground as he cursed, "Damn it! These brainless green-skins are like cockroaches—kill one, ten more take its place."

He moved to the forward trenches, grabbing a telescope and squinting as he surveyed the scene. Then he bellowed, "See that massive green-skinned bastard wearing shrapnel on the hill? Blast it to hell for me—spare no effort! Send it to Gush!"

"Yes, Commander!"

Soon, the Imperial Artillery Corps adjusted angles and calculated parameters with precision, skillfully aiming at the giant mountain to deliver a concentrated bombardment.

"Fire!"

"Boom!—"

Under the Ogre Commander's order, dozens of heavy cannons roared in synchronized fury, unleashing shells with explosive speed.

Shells streaked through the sky, densely packed and swift, seeming to have eyes as they homed in on the orc hordes' direction.

"Huff, huff..."

The giant mountain lifted its gaze, clutching its warhammer tightly, its breathing quickening. But the expression on its rugged face grew only more frenetic, more ecstatic.

The orc licked its exposed tusks and suddenly let out a bark of laughter: "They're all aiming for me—they want me dead, hahaha!

Good, good!

I'd like to see if you've got anything better than these exploding shells! If you really kill me, I'll count that as your skill!"

Facing the rain of descending shells, the giant mountain stood fearless, raising its warhammer high as it leaped into the air, flames bursting from beneath its armor.

"Waaaagh!"

"Boom!"

"Boom! Boom!"

A succession of deafening explosions echoed across the battlefield. Disrupted by the force field, many shells detonated mid-air, bursting into fragments, or simply became duds.

The orc hurled its warhammer—crafted from artillery remnants—with all its might, and from its jagged, misaligned seams came a burst of radiant flame, neither scientific nor magical, propelling it with tremendous force.