Chapter 100: Sniper

They jolted along on horseback for the entire night. It wasn't until daybreak that the band of orcs finally stopped to rest.

Despite his physical resilience, Shaya had been wounded and bound to the horse; with his blood flow restricted throughout the night of freezing winds, his body had become numb and stiff.

When they finally halted, several orcs hauled Shaya off the horse and dumped him onto the ground. A sharp rock beneath him dug directly into his waist, causing him agonizing pain. Yet, the wily fellow knew his situation all too well—the fate of falling into the hands of orcs would likely be no better than falling into the hands of Hastings.

While Hastings hated him enough to want to punch a hole through him with a lance, falling into the hands of these orcs was a different matter entirely.

Human flesh, rendered into oil. Shaya imagined himself being processed like a slab of pork and hung on a rack to air-dry, and he couldn't help but shiver.

Fortunately, the orcs had no immediate intention of carving him up. Instead, two of them brought over a piece of dried meat to feed him. Looking at the desiccated, moisture-less jerky, which had clearly been stored for an indeterminate amount of time, Shaya caught a pungent, fishy stench the moment it drew near. His heart trembled, and he shook his head violently.

Heaven only knew what this was. Given the orcs' style of operation, it might well have been carved from the thigh of some adventurer who had died at their hands. How could Shaya ever bring himself to eat it?

The two orcs grew impatient, barking out "orc-speak" in rough, guttural tones. One of them kicked Shaya twice, then clamped his hand firmly on Shaya’s chin, forcing his jaw open to shove the meat inside. Another orc produced a waterskin and poured a few gulps down his throat. Shaya choked and coughed, his throat forced open, and the hunk of jerky slid down his gullet.

Shaya’s scalp prickled; he wanted to retch but couldn't. The orcs simply clapped their hands, cursed, and walked away.

After a short rest, the orc chieftain woke up and was escorted to Shaya by two subordinates.

The orcs stood respectfully to the side. One of them stepped forward and shoved Shaya onto the ground, face down. Having no ability to resist, Shaya simply gave up struggling, though he cursed the chieftain’s ancestors eighteen generations back in the privacy of his mind.

The chieftain’s complexion was visibly poor. Generally, orc skin was a light green, but at this moment, the chieftain’s face was the color of an overripe cucumber, with a faint, murky black haze swirling beneath the green.

The chieftain stood before Shaya, his face twisted with anger: "Orcs... orcs... wife... where...?"

Shaya chuckled. The chieftain immediately slapped him across the face. Shaya spat out a glob of bloody saliva and shook his head: "No... freedom... wife... give you."

The chieftain narrowed his mung-bean-like eyes and stared at Shaya for a while before letting out a fierce snort and making a gesture.

Two orcs stepped forward, drawing their knives to cut the ox-tendon bindings on Shaya's hands and feet, but the chieftain suddenly shouted, stopping them.

The chieftain squinted, sensing something amiss. He couldn't explain the feeling, but he knew for certain that the man before him could not be released easily. Once free, he would likely cause massive trouble.

"Wife... give me... freedom... give you," the chieftain growled, suppressing his rage.

Shaya thought to himself, *Orcs are famous across the continent for their treachery. If I tell you now, you'll likely run me through with a blade immediately.* He shook his head firmly.

The chieftain bellowed at Shaya, both furious and anxious. The surrounding orcs swarmed in, punching and kicking him for a while. Shaya, being thick-skinned and sturdy, endured the beating; though his entire body ached, he held his ground, shaking his head and refusing to speak.

The chieftain was at his wit's end. Several times he picked up his iron club to strike, but he hesitated, unwilling to give up his leverage. After much indecision, he finally lowered the club and waved his hand in frustration.

The orcs rebound Shaya to the horse and continued their journey.

By midday, the sun was directly overhead. As they trekked across the wilderness, Shaya recognized the path as the Red Wasteland leading to the Wildfire Plains. Thinking back to the last time he passed through here, he had his poor sidekick to bully, but this time, he was the one being bullied. He couldn't help but sigh.

The stench from the orc column was overwhelming. Shaya knew these creatures had no habit of bathing, and he had grown accustomed to the smell along the way. The chieftain, however, rode his own horse, frequently galloping up to Shaya to bark threats and bribes, but for the sake of his life, Shaya refused to utter a word. The chieftain’s teeth ground together in fury, yet he remained helpless against Shaya.

Finally, just as the chieftain rode away from Shaya’s side for the third time in a fit of rage, the orcs ahead let out a series of alert cries.

Beside the path, a black horse suddenly emerged from behind a massive boulder, galloping toward them like lightning. Hastings, mounted atop the horse, gripped a spear fashioned from a sharpened tree branch. He charged into the orc column, his spear darting out; two orcs blocking his path instantly had their skulls shattered, their green heads reduced to mush.

The chieftain roared in fury, spurring his horse to meet him, iron club in hand, intent on engaging Hastings.

Hastings merely sneered and hurled the spear with all his might at the chieftain. The chieftain swung his club to parry, but the spear exploded in mid-air with a loud crack. Black flames scattered in every direction, striking two more orcs. With shrill screams, black fire instantly engulfed their bodies. They rolled on the ground, shrieking, until they were reduced to charred remains.

Hastings immediately turned his horse and fled. His black steed was incredibly swift, and the chieftain’s mount was nothing but a nag; there was no way he could catch him.

One ran, the other chased. Hastings skillfully performed a U-turn, circled the chieftain, and looped back to charge into the orc column once more. The black horse slammed into an orc, shattering its chest and leaving it coughing blood, clearly beyond saving.

Without pausing, he galloped away again.

Hastings rode far off and deliberately halted, his long, mocking laughter drifting back. The chieftain roared in frustration, but after weighing their speeds, he finally dared not pursue.

Hastings disappeared into the wilderness. The furious chieftain could only vent his rage by slamming his iron club hard against the ground.

By afternoon, Hastings struck again. This time, he appeared far ahead on the road, holding a longbow he had just fashioned from tree branches. *Twang!* Two orcs were instantly pierced through the chest by sharp wooden shafts. The chieftain charged in a fury, and Hastings fired another arrow, which the chieftain batted away with his club, but Hastings once again retreated.

At nightfall, the orcs stopped to rest. By now, they seemed truly terrified. During the two attacks that day, Hastings had struck once and vanished, killing several of them without them even grazing a hair on his head. Even the chieftain seemed to have forgotten about interrogating Shaya, sitting with his head in his hands, brooding. Finally, Hastings appeared for the third time, his silhouette visible near a patch of woods. Several short, sharpened spears were strapped to his back. He approached the orcs on horseback, deliberately circling them. This time, the chieftain had learned his lesson and did not rashly pursue, instead standing his ground and roaring angrily with his iron club.

Hastings’s mocking laughter came from afar. He galloped, then suddenly grabbed the short spears from his back and hurled them toward the camp.

His movements were lightning-fast. Several short spears flew through the air in an instant, wreathed in black flames, piercing the sky.

The chieftain’s eyes widened. He let out a roar, raising his iron club to knock aside a spear hurtling toward him. However, the immense force contained within the spear sent the chieftain flying from his horse. The nag let out a final, tragic whinny as its legs snapped, and it collapsed to the ground. The chieftain hit the earth, rolled twice, and scrambled up, blood spilling from his mouth. Nearby, several orcs screamed as they were impaled by the incoming spears.

Hastings let out a laugh from the distance and spurred his horse away once more.

At this point, including the chieftain, only three orcs remained alive.

The two surviving orcs cowered beside the chieftain, never daring to step even half a pace away from their leader again. No matter how the chieftain roared, the two orcs knelt on the ground, trembling as they clung to his legs, refusing to move an inch.

With only two subordinates left, the chieftain roared in frustration. Beside him, Shaya, still bound to his horse, saw the situation clearly.

*Hastings is using a war of attrition through harassment.*

That night, the orcs camped in the woods. The chieftain did not sleep, sitting there with wide, bloodshot eyes, jumping up to scan the surroundings every few moments.

By the next morning, the chieftain’s face looked haggard, and the light in his mung-bean eyes had dimmed significantly.

As they set off and moved through the woods, trouble struck again.

The orc in the lead suddenly let out a strangled cry as a vine caught his ankle, hoisting him into the air. Before he could react, a tree trunk bristling with sharp, jagged edges flew from the side, nailing the orc to a tree and killing him instantly.

The chieftain’s roar echoed through the forest, but where was Hastings?

The last remaining orc led the horse carrying Shaya, his short legs trembling so violently he could barely walk.

The chieftain grew increasingly agitated, pacing back and forth to vent his rage, smashing a large tree to pieces. Suddenly, he rushed to the horse, grabbed Shaya, and hoisted him onto his own back, letting out a series of fierce, guttural yells.

Just as they were about to emerge from the woods, a cold arrow whistled from the trees, instantly piercing the last orc trailing behind.

With that, all of the chieftain’s subordinates were dead.

The chieftain stopped roaring. He cast a cold glance at the woods behind him, then, with Shaya on his back, strode out into the open wilderness.

Shaya sighed inwardly. Hastings had achieved his goal. He had slaughtered all of the chieftain’s men; the harassment phase was over. Next, it would be a direct confrontation.