I Refused To Be Reincarnated-Chapter 879: Drahk’mar

Elliot barely saw Morris charging toward the shaman at the gates before a guttural growl stole his attention. The old orcs were on him, their lips stretched into grins that shook his certainty. Prepare for melee combat, Morris had commanded. But was it even combat? This wasn't a noble conquest. It was butchery. Plain and simple.

His companions surrounded him in a tight circle, each drawing an enchanted blade from their bags. If anyone shared his reluctance, none of it showed on their focused frowns.

They hacked at the burning orcs leading the suicidal charge. Blades sliced through ill-fitted leather harnesses. His eyes widened as they dug into withered muscles, and blood sprayed on his cheeks.

Elliot watched the first orc collapse to the ground with a smile, its guttural voice feeling eerily grateful. "Drahk'mar."

"One down! Don't stop using spells even in melee!" The roar from his companion jolted Elliot out of his confusion. Karen had said it: it was him or them.

Clenching his jaw, he flung his satchel open and gripped the long handle of his weapon. He wrenched the war hammer he had finished enchanting two weeks ago out. But he didn't feel the pride that swelled in his chest each time he observed the mane of the roaring lion he had carved on the runebronze, or the soft leather wrappings covering the lines of intricate magical symbols on the hilt. If he had known he'd use it against sickened old warriors...

With a headshake, he swung the blunt edge of his hammer at the side of an orc. He felt the tremors of shattered ribs in his hands and saw the orc spew blood. Yet, even as it collapsed, the orc smiled. "Drahk'mar."

Elliot's eyes widened. Why? Why did it seem happy to be killed? What madness was this? It had to end!

He struck and struck, tears he didn't understand flowing down his cheeks for each "Drahk'mar," he heard. Each burst of starlight he hurled at an orc made him grip his hammer tighter.

A couple broke through their lines with wide swings of their axes. But the blades found no flesh, only shimmering barriers of laurels that erupted from the bracelets he had offered his teammates. When they counterattacked with all the viciousness of Grimhilde's teachings, the orcs opened their arms wide, embracing death with genuine smiles.

"Drahk'mar."

The battle lasted less than five minutes before Elliot heaved over his blood-dripping hammer. Fifty orcs now lay in heaps of broken, burnt, or sliced flesh. It was horrible. The stench, the gore—everything was. But the worst were the contented faces. Unable to hold his churning stomach, he folded, throwing up everything his stomach could.

"Who fights like enraged beasts only to smile when they lose? Suicidal bastards. Never fought orcs, but they shot to the top of my list of most annoying enemies." One of his teammates wiped the blood from his face, then nodded at Elliot. "I like your artifact more and more. Saved us a couple of scratches."

"Agreed." Karen rubbed the bile off Elliot's mouth with a clean handkerchief like a big sister. "You've fought much better than I did back then, and you're still on your feet. No shame in throwing up; we all did. But do you know how many you got? Around a dozen on your own! Who would have thought you were a battlefield genius!"

Elliot shuddered. "I-I'm not... I just wanted to—"

"We'll talk later. Morris needs us." Another teammate cut him off, and everyone nodded.

Elliot rushed with them to the gates, where the hooded orc unleashed spells he couldn't even begin to understand. Cold fire shot from its bone staff, while a sphere of blood devoured Morris' flames before they could reach it. Hexes distorted the air with symbols that made his empty stomach churn again.

Was that the unholy elemental power Teacher Diane had told them about? But why couldn't he feel any trace of mana?

"Great, you're done! Surround the shaman and end it with me," Morris yelled as he seared through a rain of blood needles. "Be careful. I can't feel this bastard's mana!"

None needed strategic command, not even Elliot. Though he couldn't see the shaman's face or body through its dark robes, he assumed it would be at least as old as its warriors. The others seemed to share his conclusion and lunged at the shaman.

The shaman's red eyes narrowed beneath its hood. It shook its staff, hurling curses and hexes that corrupted the ground. Toxic swamps muddled the team's charge, and the air thickened with a pungent scent of rotten meat.

"Clear the air!"

At Morris' command, fresh wind washed off the scent. The swamp's foul grip on the ground loosened, the earth firming beneath their feet. Karen enveloped them in a water bubble for a heartbeat, and when it dissipated, Elliot felt the vertigo from the toxins fade like mist.

They bridged the last couple of meters, using their mana to overwhelm the icy fire and surround the shaman from all sides, blades already swinging and spells forming behind them.

"You're head's mine!" Each of them let out a battle cry as the shaman's blood shield weathered their first strikes.

Elliot's hammer struck brutally, too. Starlight seared through blood, but barely affected it. His teammates' spells, however, tore holes through the liquid. The shaman waved his staff, but the strike didn't carry a shadow of the creature's former glory. Morris' youthful swing blasted the skull in a rain of splinters before his blade perforated his target's chest.

The shaman stumbled, but the rest of the team followed. An arm drew a bloody arc as it flew off, and its torso shattered when Elliot's hammer connected.

Finally, it was over... Elliot shook his head as the shaman collapsed on its back. Its hood lowered, revealing skin more sickly pale than green. Sections of tribal tattoos disappeared beneath the folds of its deep wrinkles, and its red eyes were squinted as if it couldn't see past a couple of centimeters.

The hole from which its tusks had fallen off moved with its lips in a last pleased murmur. "Drahk'mar."

Elliot froze. This word again. It began to obsess him. He had to know!