# Chapter 21: The Wind Sweeping Through the Past and War
In the early summer under the bright sun, at the break of dawn.
At the end of the horizon of the Northwestern Great Plains, a faint light slowly rose amidst the surrounding stars, then released infinite radiance and heat, illuminating the world. Simultaneously, this light brought forth a flash across the land.
It was not the radiance of magic, nor the flame of battle qi, but a peculiar refraction.
It was the light reflected by armor.
On the seemingly boundless land of the great plains, the earth trembled as five massive armies slowly advanced. They wore five different styles of armor, carried five different banners with distinct emblems, and marched in five different formations, yet all headed in the same direction.
That was where the sun rose—the land where all blades would cross.
That was the location of the Orc Royal Court.
As a nomadic people, the orcs had learned advanced knowledge from humans. Over the past five hundred years, they had abandoned stone arrows, bone spears, and wooden shields. They mined the exposed iron ore on the plains, forged weapons and armor, built towns and fortresses across plains and valleys, cultivated farmland, and herded beasts. Had they not done so, they could never have withstood humanity's ever-strengthening power, let alone continue their annual raids on the borderlands, plundering populations and resources.
The Orc Royal Court was a massive fortress city standing atop the Tatars Highlands, the spine of the plains. Its terrain was elevated, its walls made of gray stone with considerable magic resistance. It was the orcs' capital and holy land, the residence of the orc imperial clan, a city blessed by the Orc and War God.
But now, this blessed city was wrapped in corpses and blood. Human red blood and orc green blood mixed together, dried, forming indistinguishable black scabs. These black stains soaked the gray walls. Even the most heartless person, upon seeing this sight, would be shaken by the tragic scene.
The Orc Royal Court had been besieged by the Empire's army for over a month. Both sides had faced off for a long time, engaging in several brutal siege and defense battles. But due to the walls being too hard and the defenses too solid, even the Empire—which had crushed all orc armies and remained undefeated until now—had suffered setbacks here.
From the Thomas Grand Canyon Campaign that began last autumn to the current Tatars Highlands Campaign, the orcs' effective strength had been completely annihilated. The towns, villages, farmlands, and all traces of civilization developed over five hundred years had been burned to nothing by the great fires set by humans. Now, only this isolated besieged city remained, awaiting its inevitable fall.
And at that moment.
At the other end of the horizon, a flash of light appeared.
Armor reflected radiance like a sunlit, rippling lake. Five new armies had arrived, ready to unleash humanity's fury.
"This is…"
A certain siege commander noticed this. Exhausted, he raised his telescope and looked into the distance, then couldn't help but exclaim in shock: "These five banners…"
"Have they come too?!"
Black Raven, Red Mist, White Horse, Firmament, and Golden Radiance.
Having returned from suppressing the Black Tide Rebellion within the Empire, five armies directly under the Emperor had arrived at the final battlefield against the orcs.
Amidst the clatter of armor, they orderly exchanged positions with the original siege forces, taking on the role of vanguard. Next, they would take turns going into battle, grinding down all of the orcs' effective strength with human lives until the city was breached and burned to ashes.
Not a single living thing would remain.
On the Orc Royal Court, rows upon rows of shamans adorned with bone ornaments and totems ascended the walls, nearly a thousand in number. They looked down from their height at the human army surrounding them.
It was a massive force numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Even just counting supplies, it was a quantity the entire orc race could not sustain. This sight brought a deathly sorrow to the shamans' eyes. They remained silent, making the scene somewhat somber.
The wind blew through the corpses between the two armies, carrying the smell of blood.
They extended their bony hands, grasping their totems or the spiritual objects housing their souls.
This was a form of magic completely different from human mages—another method of exploring the world, distinct from conventional sorcery. The shamans ignited the flame of their own souls, communicating with the will of all things in the world to obtain their power. Now, totems of various materials began to emit deep auras. Runes surged, elemental forces were gathered, and mysterious light shimmered brightly.
This was the orcs' most elite high-rank shaman corps, including all the great shamans belonging to the War God Church. Their ancestors had once accompanied the orcs' first Great Khan in crushing all races on the plains, annihilating the Centaur Clan's first legion.
The surging wild wind of the great plains blew past, scattering the clouds and bringing fierce howls across heaven and earth. An old orc stepped forward, covered head to toe in gemstone pendants, appearing less bony than the other shamans. It held a massive bone staff, and its eyes had no pupils or whites—only a ball of blazing white light.
The Orc Great Shaman, the highest priest of the War God, gazed at the enemy before him—the despair-inducing military might of humanity. It knew that the withering and end of the proud children of the grassland and war was approaching, an unavoidable inevitability.
Rows of priests stepped forward together with it, standing side by side, forming a long black line along the wall.
A silent and sorrowful battle line.
The armies were changing positions. This was the last chance. Even if meaningless, they had to kill at least one more human.
That was the only thought in every orc's mind.
Orcs were the favored children of war. Within their bodies burned the power of slaughter and destruction. The children of war would never surrender, never give up resistance. Even after being besieged for so long, they would still take the initiative to strike.
Silently looking at the surrounding shamans and priests—all his juniors, his students—the Great Shaman's gaze did not waver. He raised his bone staff. Embedded at its very top, the skull of the last bloodline of the Centaur Clan's royal family glowed with a bloody light in the wind.
The orcs' path of conquest would never stop. Either they exterminated other races, or other races exterminated them. It was the simplest thing to understand.
"Blood sacrifice to the ancestors." His dry, low voice echoed across the wall.
"Souls return to the earth." Voices equally dry from hunger echoed in unison.
Countless totems, in that instant, bloomed with the most dazzling, piercing light. One after another, deep and powerful auras were released. Forces from ancient times, from heaven and earth, from all things in the world, were unleashed.
The great hurricane that destroyed an entire city one hundred and twenty-nine years ago.
The great earthquake that annihilated an entire legion three hundred and fifty-one years ago.
The sky-falling star seven hundred and seventy-four years ago that nearly wiped out the orcs and struck the Tatars Highlands, the spine of the plains.
All the power of disasters was recreated, their concepts extracted, condensed into pitch-black beams of light. Countless beams streaked across the sky and firmament, forming long parabolic arcs, leaving trails of afterimages in the vision. This flowing light contained the power to destroy everything, shooting straight toward the human army.
Shamans were those who called upon the power of the past and the world. They could channel the spirits of heaven and earth to recreate all phenomena that had ever appeared in this world.
And this was the final counterattack. (To be continued.)