Chapter 275 Roll, Roll

"No, it wasn't me—I didn't!"

The shocked stares from her teammates in front and behind her drained the color from Ciri's face, leaving her somewhat incoherent.

She wanted to explain that it wasn't carelessness on her part. Some unknown, invisible force had targeted her foot for a split second, causing her to briefly lose her balance.

Otherwise, with the enhancement of the [Silent Prowl] Feat, she would never have made such a mistake in this situation.

But right now, nothing she said would help, and there was absolutely no time left for explanations.

The moment her right foot slammed uncontrollably into the ground, a clear footstep echoed across the dead-silent plaza.

Battle was already inevitable.

"Ah..."

The viscous, guttural moans overlapped and echoed through the air as the six desiccated corpses turned in unison to stare at the Bloodedge Squad.

Moving with an unsettling posture that seemed slow but harbored an explosive stiffness, they rapidly closed in to surround the group.

As the squad's ranged archer, Ciri, her face still carrying a trace of panic, relied on muscle memory the instant the battle began. She darted two steps back, ducking behind her teammates.

A deafening roar—no longer deliberately suppressed and brimming with fury—echoed from the massive maw between two upward-thrusting tusks, vibrating through Gorg's thick neck.

Rapidly swelling muscles stretched his pale green skin taut. A layer of fiery crimson, the symbol of his Rage, seeped from his pores and visibly spread over the half-orc's burly physique.

Gorg took the vanguard at the very front of the squad, his massive hands gripping the solid handle of his Iron-Studded Wooden Club so tightly it creaked.

Marcus, known as "Bloodedge," reacted the fastest. The instant the footstep sounded from behind him, he had already drawn the two gleaming scimitars from his waist. The soft hum of their tips tearing through the air echoed in the gale whipped up by his swinging arms.

Meanwhile, the mountain dwarf Stonebelly, who had been lagging at the rear of the formation, quickly stepped forward to stand just two paces behind the half-orc. His stout, short body planted itself as firmly into the ground as a tree stump, while the massive, razor-sharp blade of his axe glinted menacingly above his head.

Oppressing civilians, gambling, heavy drinking, greed, and treachery—they possessed perhaps every vile trait an Adventurer in this world could have.

But on the other hand, what had kept them alive through countless dangerous commissions up to this day—what allowed them to casually brutalize ordinary people without fear of reprisal, to gamble the night away as they pleased, and to actively plot and carry out sinister schemes against valuable targets...

...was the sheer professionalism, synergy, and discipline the Bloodedge Squad displayed during missions. It was the wealth of experience and formidable combat strength each member possessed as a veteran Adventurer.

Not a single one of them chose to run away in this moment.

Naturally, this wasn't due to some laughable concept like "friendship."

Rather, it was a calculated decision based on the massive profits of venturing deeper into Ash Valley, the bleak odds of escaping alone, and the consequences of being stabbed in the back.

With an unspoken synergy that was hardly worth praising, the four of them had simultaneously concluded that they needed to fight as a team rather than flee individually the very second the battle began.

They had even assessed the true threat on the battlefield—the volatile factor that could actually inflict casualties on the squad—at the exact same time. Swiftly falling into formation, they kept a wary eye on the desiccated corpses closing in, yet every single one of them focused their absolute attention on the massive, bloated figure in the center of the plaza.

"Crack."

Fractures rapidly spiderwebbed across the marble surface of the fountain pool, and putrid, viscous sludge slowly oozed out from within.

A tremor.

It was the thick ripples of sludge displaced by the behemoth inside. It was the quivering undulation of drooping, tumorous abdominal fat. It was the filthy iron armor, stretched to its absolute limit and groaning as though it might burst at any moment.

Amidst heavy, wet, and sticky breaths, the gigantic, bloated shadow slowly rose from the muck.

Turbid, sickly yellow eyes gleaming with a greasy light shifted slightly behind the pitch-black slit of its visor, locking onto the four uninvited guests in the plaza.

"Boom!"

The metal flail in its hand blurred through the air.

The ancient pool, having weathered untold ages of the elements, was instantly pulverized. A storm of shattered stone and foul sludge blasted outward, rocketing straight toward the Bloodedge Squad.

Marcus's pupils shrank. His twin scimitars danced around him in an airtight defensive weave, deflecting every piece of shrapnel aimed at him and Ciri behind him.

But a deep sense of dread pooled in Marcus's gut.

Even though it was just a casual strike, he clearly recognized the terrifying strength of the fat knight before him—a strength that vastly eclipsed their own.

No one in the entire Bloodedge Squad, not even Stonebelly or Gorg, could withstand a direct hit from that.

They absolutely could not fight it head-on!

His mind raced. In the span of a single breath, Marcus made his decision.

"Gorg, get up there and stall that knight!" he barked at the half-orc holding the vanguard.

"Watch its attacks, don't let it hit you head-on!"

"Stonebelly, you and I will take out the surrounding corpses! Move fast, clear the field, and then we'll gang up on the big guy!"

"Ciri, support from the rear! Keep your eyes peeled for any ambushes!"

"Gorg, go!!!"

The moment his voice fell, the burly figure cloaked in crimson light rocketed forward like a hound slipped from its leash.

A pair of powerful feet cracked the ground with their heavy tread.

Out of the rapid-fire battle plan Marcus had just barked out, Gorg only heard the first and last sentences.

His already dull mind was rendered even more sluggish by the Barbarian's Power of Rage surging through his veins.

Standing in place long enough to wait for Marcus's command before acting was already the absolute limit of his self-control.

Naturally, there was no way he could spare the brainpower in such a tense moment to ponder the reasoning behind his captain's orders.

In the split second his feet left the ground, his body briefly suspended in the air by the sheer explosive force of his charge, only a single thought remained in his mind: 'Gorg will smash your head in!'

But reality proved that having an intent without the strength to back it up was not nearly enough for the half-orc to achieve his unrealistic fantasy.

The Iron-Studded Wooden Club, its thickest part comparable to a grown man's waist, ultimately failed to land on the knight's barrel helm.

Instead, thanks to a burst of instantaneous speed that completely defied the enemy's bloated physique, the knight slightly evaded the blow, causing the club to crash into its abdomen.

It was a bizarre sensation Gorg had never experienced before.

Driven by his bulging, vein-popping arms, the first thing the Iron-Studded Wooden Club made contact with was the surface of the knight's belly—specifically, the metal armor that seemed thoroughly embedded into the fat.

"Thud!"

A dull, bell-like ringing erupted through the air. Gorg was no stranger to this sound; he had faced plenty of enemies clad in heavy armor, looking like tin cans.

He certainly acknowledged the defensive capabilities of those guys who draped themselves in iron plates. Against high-quality armor, even his full-strength strike would only leave a dent in the metal surface.

But at the same time, the side effect of that formidable defense was their overly sluggish movement speed.

And if he ever caught an opening to viciously smash his massive iron club right into their skull or chest...

...no matter how sturdy their armor was, the flesh and bones protected inside would be scrambled like an egg, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of mush.

But right now, the situation was completely different.

Even though it had deformed, the knight's armor remained solid—that much was within Gorg's expectations.

But at the same time, the obese belly pushing those metal plates outward, the dense layers of fat nestled beneath folds of flesh and purple-blue veins, displayed a defensive power far more terrifying than the armor itself.

When the Iron-Studded Wooden Club landed, a gargantuan force capable of completely pulverizing an ordinary human was instantly swallowed by that thick meat and fat, vanishing without a trace.

Even though he had swung with everything he had, the impact yielded absolutely no feedback other than a sound. All of his force seemed to sink like a stone into the ocean, utterly absorbed.

Even the half-orc's mind, currently clouded by the surging power of Rage and running purely on instinct, stalled for a fraction of a second.

The very next second, what snapped Gorg back to reality was the shrill whistle of a heavy object tearing through the air beside his ear, and the blaring alarm of mortal danger exploding in his heart.

A beast-like survival instinct forced Gorg to instinctively twist his body.

As a result, the metal flail that should have smashed directly into his skull only grazed past his body.

And it didn't take his life—it only took half of his arm and a massive chunk of flesh from his waist.

Caught by the momentum of the flail's swing, his burly, massive frame was sent tumbling into the air. In mid-air, the corner of his eye caught a familiar, sharp shadow suddenly streaking past—a long arrow that shot precisely into the slit of the knight's visor.

Although it wasn't enough to instantly incapacitate the knight, it did cause its bloated body to stiffen in place for a brief moment.

'That's right! Gorg still has teammates!'

The rapid loss of vitality, the piercing pain, and the power of Rage bleeding out of him alongside his blood jump-started the half-orc's brain.

Captain Marcus's earlier plan surfaced clearly in his mind.

'Just hold on a little longer. Once the dwarf and the captain finish clearing out the small fry around us, Gorg will be able to—'

His racing thoughts abruptly ground to a halt midway.

Because as he collapsed onto the freezing ground, the half-orc saw them: taking advantage of the distraction he had provided, three figures had already quietly slipped to the other side of the plaza and were rapidly vanishing into the depths of the fog.

The only things left for him were the black tail feathers of the arrow trembling as it stuck out of the knight's visor, and the cold, cruel, completely emotionless gaze the human ranger at the rear of the fleeing squad shot him in the final second before her silhouette melted into the thick mist.

Realizing he had been tossed aside as bait, an indescribable fury erupted from his heart.

Empowered by the [Barbarian] class, his specialized power of Rage rapidly masked his weakness, pain, and numbness.

His injuries hadn't healed, but beneath the surging torrent of wrath, his body seemed to momentarily forget the fact that it was critically wounded.

His still-intact right arm bulged as he fiercely pushed off the ground. Wreathed in crimson energy, his burly frame was right on the verge of scrambling back up and returning to a combat-ready state.

But the flail, gleaming with the cold luster of metal, swept diagonally upward once again, carrying a terrifying momentum. This time, it smashed directly into the half-orc's waist.

The flaming aura of Rage that had just coalesced, along with Gorg's spiritual willpower, was instantly shattered, scattering into a shower of impotent motes of light.

Spraying blood, his body flew high into the air like a ragged sack before spinning and tumbling to the ground.

A surge of excruciating agony flared and vanished; Gorg was once again shielded from the pain.

Only, this time it wasn't the desperate, last-stand enhancement of the [Barbarian]'s Rage.

Rather, it was the body's instinctual defense mechanism against overwhelmingly fatal trauma on the brink of death.

His consciousness gradually blurred.

Scenes from Gorg's past suddenly flashed before his eyes. Even long-forgotten memories surfaced with crystal clarity.

This had to be what the elders in the tribe used to talk about—the sign that the body was nearing death and the soul was about to leave its shell.

In this moment, he could even hear the sharp hiss of airflow squeezing through the visor slits of the bloated knight's helm as it breathed. He could feel the minute vibrations of blood and muck flowing across the ground.

"Tap."

And right at that moment, from behind him—from the direction the Bloodedge Squad had originally come.

Unfamiliar footsteps that made absolutely no effort to conceal their presence suddenly echoed through the dense fog.

'Who is it?'

Gorg wondered instinctively.

But the only response he got was the inexplicable, churning swirl of the fog and a long, high-pitched wolf howl.

Pitch black.

A terrifying, pitch-black darkness that seemed to hail from the Bottomless Abyss silently spread amidst swaying fur.

Long, elegant limbs brimming with explosive power stepped lightly onto the ground, yet like a phantom, they left absolutely no tracks behind.

Deep wolf eyes, piercingly cold like a secluded pool in a dark valley.

Staring at that terrifying silhouette fading in and out of the thick mist, Gorg felt as though his very consciousness was freezing over from the boundless dread welling up inside him.

'A wolf?'

The dark silhouette before his eyes vanished in a flash.

Taking its place from behind him was the sudden, loud, and immediately cut-off groan of a desiccated corpse, accompanied by the sizzling sound of something burning and the heavy, tearing noise of a sharp object cleaving through flesh.

A faint tremor ran through the ground, sounding like a massive object had collapsed.

"Roll, roll—"

Blood pumped and gushed, accompanied by the friction of metal grinding against the ground.

It was the sound of a sphere rolling across the floor.

Gorg once again saw the long arrow loosed by the ranger Ciri, speared straight into the slit of the knight's visor.

And for the first time, he got a close-up look at the bloated knight's turbid, yellowish-brown eyes.

The muck-stained barrel helm still covered its face, but the head was completely severed from its neck.

It had rolled across the ground, only coming to a stop when it bumped against Gorg's own mangled waist.

"Tap."

The footsteps rang out once again.

Gradually drawing closer.

As if surprised that Gorg still had a sliver of consciousness left, the half-finished scrape of a sword returning to its scabbard suddenly paused.

An unsheathing ring.

The blade whistled as it swept past.

Gorg's vision pitched and tumbled.

The final sliver of light before his eyes was swallowed by the dark.