As she stood beside the carriage, scythe now fully revealed and resting casually against her shoulder, Rebecca turned her attention to Tobin. The merchant was still on his cart, reins tight in his hands, eyes wide as he stared at the growing number of orcs emerging from the trees. The air was thick with tension—the low grunts of the pig-like creatures, the clank of crude armor, the heavy breathing of the mercenaries as they braced for the next wave.
Rebecca walked calmly toward Tobin's wagon, her steps measured, cloak swaying behind her. She stopped beside his seat and spoke in a low, steady voice that carried over the growing chaos.
"Go through the clearing Gaara made. Wait for us a safe distance away. If we don't make it back in two sun hour, leave. No looking back."
Tobin swallowed hard, glancing once at the orcs, then back at her. His face was pale, but he nodded quickly.
"Thank you," he managed, voice hoarse. "Be careful."
He snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward, the cart rumbling as it rolled past the fallen trees Gaara had shoved aside. Tobin shouted orders to his crew—sharp, urgent—and the rest of the wagons and carts followed, wheels creaking as the caravan moved through the gap and down the road. Dust rose in their wake, the sound of hooves and axles fading as they disappeared into the trees.
Rebecca turned back toward the mercenaries without another word.
Muel was already on his feet again, arm still stiff but functional, blood drying on his tunic where the arrow had struck. Lirael stood beside him, bow drawn, fresh arrow nocked. Gaara had his shield raised, warhammer in his other hand, eyes locked on the orcs.
The new wave was larger—orc warriors and archers pouring from the bushes, grunting and snarling, but their presence paled next to the single towering figure at the rear.
Rebecca calmly surveyed the situation.
—---
[Orc commander – Level 37]
Species: Boar-Orc
Rank: D+
Level: 37
HP: 410 / 410
Strength: 94
Dexterity: 63
Agility: 71
Vitality: 96
Intelligence: 58
Wisdom: 61
Mana Pool: 177 / 177
[Passive Skills]
- Thick Boar Hide
- Rage Frenzy
- Warlord's Presence
- Iron Will Endurance
- Charge Momentum
[Active Skills]
- Brutal Cleave
- Roar of Command
- Blood Surge
- Berserk
- Groundbreaker
[Traits]
- Orcish Might
- Command Aura
- Greater Libido
[Lirael – Level 24]
Species: Elf
Rank: D
Level: 24
Class: Ranger
HP: 192 / 192
Strength: 46
Dexterity: 60
Agility: 66
Vitality: 48
Intelligence: 58
Wisdom: 63
Mana Pool: 179 / 179
[Traits]
- Elven Grace: Natural bonus to Agility/Dexterity in natural environments.
- Keen Senses: Heightened perception and ranged accuracy.
[Muel – Level 31]
Species: Human
Rank: D
Level: 31
Class: Swordsman
HP: 227 / 227
Strength: 62
Dexterity: 67
Agility: 65
Vitality: 55
Intelligence: 50
Wisdom: 47
Mana Pool: 147 / 147
[Traits]
- Blade Mastery: Enhanced precision and speed with edged weapons.
[Gaara – Level 29]
Species: Human
Rank: D
Level: 29
Class: Heavy Vanguard
HP: 268 / 268
Strength: 66
Dexterity: 42
Agility: 45
Vitality: 70
Intelligence: 41
Wisdom: 48
Mana Pool: 130 / 130
[Traits]
- Vanguard Resilience: Increased resistance to crowd-control effects and knockdowns.
—---
She moved forward to meet the trio.
As she neared, Muel's voice cut through the tension, sharp and urgent.
"Why didn't you leave with the caravan?"
Rebecca sighed softly, the sound almost lost in the low grunts of the approaching orcs.
"Do you want to survive this predicament and see another day?"
Muel's eyes flicked to the horde, then back to her. He nodded slowly, reluctant but clear.
"Yes."
Rebecca gave a small nod in return.
"Then listen. The Orc commander is Level 37. The rest of the rabble don't exceed 20."
The trio stared at her—eyes widening, postures shifting in visible surprise. Lirael's ears twitched, bow lowering slightly.
"You have the Identify skill," she said, almost accusingly.
Rebecca shook her head once.
"No. I have the Inspect skill."
The realization hit them hard—Muel's brows rose, Gaara grunted in quiet acknowledgment, Lirael's eyes narrowed further. Inspect was rarer, more precise, and far less common than Identify. It explained how she knew exact levels without a chant even in the presence of level differences.
Ora's voice whispered in her mind, urgent and fragmented.
*Don't… give… much away.*
Inside, Ora paused, curiosity flickering through their connection.
Why are they so surprised? Inspect is just a skill. Why the sudden grade system. They act like it's special. Bury that question for later.
Rebecca ignored the thought, turning her gaze back to the orcs. The commander was advancing now, axe dragging a furrow in the dirt.
"We have no time," she said, voice steady. "I need you to keep the orc commander busy."
Muel exhaled through his nose, grip tightening on his sword.
"Yes ma'am."
"Gaara—front line. Lirael—cover fire. I'll flank."
Rebecca lifted the scythe slightly, blade angled toward the oncoming horde.
"I'll handle the rest."
Rebecca moved with speed and precision, eyes scanning the dozens of charging orcs. She couldn't help but laugh silently in her heart—she had told them levels no higher than 20, but in truth every single one exceeded level 25. If they knew the real levels, they would lose their nerve. The commander alone was 37, and the rabble hovered between 26 and 31.
She called out firmly in her mind.
"Master."
Ora replied instantly, sharing his stats with her to cover the difference. But this time something was different. Since reaching level 15, Ora had been able to share his skills with her.
She lunged into the fray, finding a distracted orc at the edge of the pack. She spun the scythe in a smooth upward arc from below, the blade slicing clean through its neck in a single, brutal stroke. The combination of brute strength and the bonus damage her Harvester class granted when using scythes and sickles made the cut devastating—the orc's head flew free, body crumbling to the ground in a heap.
As she raised her head to look at the rest expecting terror, she saw lust-filled expressions and wide, leering smiles on many of the orcs' pig-like faces. She had no time to wonder why—the orc commander's brutal swing came crashing down toward her.
Rebecca threw herself sideways, dodging the axe's arc. The impact sent debris flying—rocks and dirt exploding outward. She twisted mid-air, using a skill to land on her feet, steady and ready.
The commander wasted no time, charging at her with terrifying speed. Gaara intercepted, shield slamming into the orc's path, but the force pushed him back several steps. He attempted to use his aggro skill—roaring a taunt that should have locked the commander's attention—but the effect lasted little more than a moment. The orc's focus remained locked on Rebecca, eyes burning with hunger.
Rebecca realized what was happening, her presence was too strong. She activated
[Apex's Dread]
All enemies within the skill range are designated as prey.
Weaker targets who fail to guard against it experience several debuffs.
Stronger targets experience reduced perceptual clarity toward the wielder.
—---
Now the mercenaries could face it seriously.
Lirael's charged arrows flew in a deadly rhythm—two piercing the commander's shoulders, forcing it to stagger. Gaara pressed forward, shield bashing its chest, warhammer swinging in heavy arcs that cracked armor. Muel flanked, longsword cutting precise lines across the orc's thighs and arms, slowing its movements.
Meanwhile, Rebecca wove through the horde from behind. Using her Surprise Assault skill and the
For the first time, looks of shock appeared on the orc faces—wide eyes, snarls turning to confusion.
Rebecca smiled faintly.
She began to weave her way through the remaining orcs, using the environment to her advantage—leaping off fallen trees, spinning around trunks, the scythe a blur of silver and death.
Rebecca dashed through the horde with calculated grace, the scythe a deadly extension of her arm. One orc lunged with a rusty maze; she sidestepped, bringing the blade down in a diagonal sweep that cleaved through its shoulder and into its chest, purple blood spraying in an arc. Another swung an axe wildly; she ducked low, the weapon whistling over her head, then rose with a upward thrust, the scythe's point piercing under its chin and emerging from the top of its skull. Purple gore dripped from the blade as the body slumped.
A third orc charged, tusks bared; Rebecca pivoted, using the haft to trip it, then finished with a downward chop that severed its head clean off. The forest floor was already slick with blood, the air thick with the metallic scent and the orcs' guttural howls.
But the orcs adapted fast—forming groups of four, backs to each other, weapons outward in defensive circles. Their eyes darted, snarls mixing with wary grunts.
Rebecca targeted one such group, slipping close under the cover of chaos. She aimed for a quick kill on the rear orc, scythe arcing silently toward its neck. But it turned at the last second—ears pricking at some faint sound. She adjusted mid-swing, driving the blade into its chest instead, the point punching through armor and bone with a crunch. Hot blood bubbled from its mouth as it gurgled.
She yanked to redraw the scythe, but another orc from the group grabbed her wrist—thick fingers clamping like iron. Its grip crushed down, pain shooting up her arm. Rebecca twisted, drawing her second sickle with her free hand, spinning it in a blur to slice through the orc's arm at the elbow. The limb fell free in a spray of purple, the orc bellowing in agony.
Before she could recover, a third orc swung its axe—connecting solidly with her side. The impact was like a hammer blow, sending her flying through the air. Ribs cracked, breath exploding from her lungs. Her back slammed into a tree trunk with bone-jarring force—but at the last instant, Ora sprouted tentacles from her body, coiling around her like a cushion. The impact was blunted, but pain still flared hot through her torso.
She slid to the ground, gasping, barely rolling aside as arrows whistled past, embedding in the trunk with thuds. She activated her camouflage and stealth skills, body fading into the shadows, presence dimming to near nothing. With a quick leap, she ascended the nearest tree, scrambling up bark and branches until she squatted on a sturdy limb, hidden in the leaves.
Ora's voice came, calm but firm.
*Catch your breath… pace yourself. We can't hide long. Orcs… keen smell.*
Rebecca nodded silently, chest heaving as she steadied herself.
*Show me… your sickle.*
She drew both weapons, holding them out. Ora sprouted a tentacle from her back, secreting a viscous liquid over the blades—thick, iridescent, enhanced with mana that made it shimmer faintly, like oil laced with starlight.
*Neurotoxin… enhanced with mana. Paralyzes nerves… spreads fast. Lethal in seconds.*
Rebecca stared at the blades, left clueless by the explanation.
Ora sensed her confusion.
*Strong poison. Kills quick.*
She smiled, understanding now, and sheathed one sickle, gripping the other tightly.
She stood on the branch, taking her scythe and hurling it downward at the orcs below. The blade spun like a wheel of death, embedding in one orc's chest with a thunk, kicking up a cloud of dust and leaves that obscured the ground.
Using Mana Perception to navigate the haze, she dropped down, weaving through the cover to deliver shallow cuts—just enough to nick skin and deliver the toxin. The forest filled with screams of poisoned orcs—bodies convulsing, nerves firing wildly—and the shrieks of scared ones as their comrades fell foaming at the mouth.
The unaffected orcs broke, running in all directions, panic spreading like fire.
Rebecca followed a few heading toward the caravan's direction. As they crashed through the forest, she shadowed them from above, leaping branch to branch. Taking her sickle, she slit her arm—a quick, shallow cut—and smeared the blood across the blade, applying the poison. The wound sealed in moments, courtesy of Ora's regeneration.
She rushed ahead, dropping silently behind the first orc and slashing its throat. Purple blood sprayed; it fell gurgling. The second she hamstrung, then finished with a stab to the back. The third she caught mid-stride, sickle hooking its leg and pulling it down before severing its neck.
As the final one broke through the treeline into the road clearing, she jumped—running a few steps along tree trunks for momentum—and dropped from above, stabbing it through the head with a crunch. The body collapsed, dead before it hit the ground.
She pulled out the sickle, whipping it sharply to clean the blood, and raised her head to the road clearing—to a surprising sight.