The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 37 : The Night of Bloodshed (8)

Gharom charged once more, fury blazing in his eyes like molten lava.

His grip on his spear was so tight it nearly crushed the metal itself, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths, as if he were drawing air straight from the mouth of a volcano.

In the opposite corner, the elite orcs were also slowly retreating.

The summoner knights’ formation hadn’t broken—instead, it grew more solid with each passing minute.

With every attempted breach, the counterattacks became more organized, more precise, more intelligent.

The orcs faltered. Their cohesion began to unravel.

One of the orc captains attempted a desperate move—pouring all his inner qi into a suicidal explosive strike, aiming to tear through the summoners’ line... but it failed.

Instead of surging forward, his qi rebounded inward, tearing his body apart from within. He collapsed without a sound.

The orc cries shifted suddenly—from war chants to screams of panic.

But Gharom did not yield.He had never known the taste of retreat.

"I will not fall here!"

He roared the words and swung a savage sideways strike, aiming for the stranger’s neck.

But...

Before the blow could land, the stranger raised his hand.

It was as if the very air froze for a moment.

As if movement within the hall stalled—not through magic, but through something simpler...As if the qi the knights used as the core of their system had asserted its complete dominance over the surroundings.

Gharom froze in midair—then dropped to the ground, powerless.

His eyes widened. He couldn’t move a limb.

There were no visible bindings, but an unseen weight crushed his body—his very bones felt shackled.

The man spoke in a cold tone, clear as the morning breeze:

"You have decent physical strength, but you focus solely on leveling up through your unorthodox training system... while your energy control skills are pathetically underdeveloped. You’re advancing like someone sprinting through darkness—unaware of the wall that’s just ahead."

As he spoke, his gaze shifted toward the battle—his soldiers clashing with the orc unit Gharom had brought.

Then, without warning, he drew a handful of arrows from his quiver and used his bare hand as a bow.

From it, he fired a series of small arrows—not magical, but crafted from concentrated flows of Qi. They flew silently, releasing brief, transparent bursts of energy with each shot.

Each flash struck an orc, stunning the pathways of their Qi momentarily, freezing them in place for a few seconds.

In those brief moments, the summoner knights’ blades found their marks—plunging into hearts without resistance.

In the heart of this chaos, amidst the rising screams from the battlefield, Gharom saw nothing—nothing but him.

Everything else faded from his perception.

The fires spreading along the camp’s edge, the screams of the dying and the wounded, the clash of weapons, even his own soldiers falling one after another—none of it registered anymore.

His focus was absolute... locked on the being standing before him.

Panting, blood soaking his chest from multiple wounds, Gharom whispered hoarsely—a voice so faint it barely reached his own ears:

"Who... no... what level are you?"

It wasn’t a strange question coming from Gharom.

And to truly grasp the weight of his shock—one must first understand who this orc was.

Gharom was no ordinary orc commander—he was a rarity even among those already deemed rare within his tribe.

Born with an exceptional gift that outshone his peers, it was clear from the moment of his birth that he was destined to become a remarkable warrior.

His bones were denser than stone, his muscles harder than raw steel, and his skin could shrug off the slash of a sword with ease.

It was no surprise then, that among the orc tribes, he was known by the title "The Natural Awakening"—a term that signified a reemergence of his ancestral warrior lineage, awakened instinctively in his blood.

To truly understand the weight of this title, one must first look at the energy systems across the various races of this world.

In this realm, excluding the mage system—which is driven by the soul and referred to differently depending on the race, such as "shaman" or "spirit master"—each race possesses its own distinct path to developing what is known as the Essence of Life.

This is the universal term for the spiritual or physical energy that allows living beings to surpass their natural limits.

Despite their different paths, all systems share one goal: to transcend the limits of the body, and harness the latent energy within living creatures.

For the orcs, their path is unique and deeply tied to their bloodline.

While humans utilize Qi as an internal energy—extracted from the nutrients in food, purified through breathing techniques and meditation—the orcs rely on their blood as the core source of their power.

They employ primitive, yet highly effective techniques that stimulate what they call the Bloodline Might—a force drawn from the deepest recesses of their genetic makeup.

In essence, orcs do not focus on absorbing energy from the world around them; rather, they ignite the fire already coursing through their veins.

Among these techniques, there existed methods equivalent to the human Qi Breathing, but instead of focusing on energy absorption from nature, they aimed to increase the blood concentration within the vessels and activate what orcs referred to as Bloodline Boiling.

For Gharom, however, such methods weren’t necessary. He never needed specialized training or external stimuli. Everything about him was natural—he had effortlessly reached the next stage in the Essence of Life development system.

His breakthroughs weren’t achieved through struggle; they occurred as a matter of course, because the transformation had already taken root deep within him. His blood had been boiling with power since birth.

By the time he reached a level comparable to the Iron Knights among humans, he found no rivals within his tribe—nor even among the warriors of neighboring clans. That’s why he had effortlessly crushed the once-mighty Akdad Clan and claimed command.

And after that...Gharom fought in countless battles.

His current combat prowess could be ranked—by human knight standards—at the very peak of the Iron Knight tier. He could even hold his own against mid-tier Bronze-level knights in a close match, albeit for a limited time.

And yet, in front of this unknown man...All of that power, his high level in a unique energy system, his vast experience... felt meaningless.

Not only his own strength—but even the elite unit he had brought with him.

Gharom had personally formed that unit, handpicking only the fiercest, most experienced, and rigorously trained orcs.

They were the elite of the elite, a semi-special forces squad not far off in discipline and efficiency from the shadow units that served under human kings.

Each member of that unit had undergone years of brutal training.

Their instincts had been honed like blades, their control over their bodies refined, and they had mastered the art of formation-based combat—supporting allies, maintaining pressure during clashes and retreats, coordinating strikes like a seamless machine.

They were meant to face the best of humanity, designed to tear through the harshest fortified borders.

They form a semi-special military unit, with combat capabilities that surpass even the average among orcs.

With the right background, circumstances, education, and training, any one of them could easily replace the current orc tribe leaders who are still commanding the battles against the fortress soldiers below.

But now...Even they were falling.

And in the end, no one remained but Gerom—standing alone, facing that strange man. The man showed no aura, held no weapon, and uttered no spell.

He simply raised his hand—calmly. Yet every time Gerom attacked, he was crushed with unbelievable ease. His strength faded, his spirit shrank, and his instincts screamed for him to flee.

But he didn’t run. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was up against.

It felt like a child trying to fight a grown man. And this opponent wasn’t just toying with him—he was dismantling him piece by piece, shattering his pride with slow, deliberate precision.

Now, kneeling and gasping, barely able to lift his head, Gerom asked in a broken voice stripped of defiance and filled only with desperate surrender, "What... are you?"

The man gave a cold, emotionless smile and replied in a soft, chilling voice that left no room for doubt: "That doesn’t matter... not now. But you will remember me... when you wake up—in your cage."

He slowly raised his hand...

A dense surge of chi burst from his palm, forming a pressurized current invisible to the naked eye—but unmistakably felt, like a massive boulder collapsing from the sky.

At first, hearing those words, rage flared in Gerom’s eyes. The man before him had clearly declared his intention to capture him.To an orc, survival at the hands of the enemy wasn’t something to be grateful for—it was an insult. A disgrace that demanded a blood-soaked response.

But that fury quickly melted into stunned disbelief as Gerom watched the man manipulate chi with astonishing finesse—effortless and masterful.

His expression shifted from rage to awe, before he muttered in a trembling voice:"You... You can wield chi like that? That means... No—how could a Silver Knight be here, in this place?!"

The man smiled faintly—without warmth—then sent a wave of chi surging toward him.

Suddenly, Gerom’s feet lifted off the ground. Not by his will, but by an overwhelming external force.His body spun in the air like a lifeless puppet, before being violently hurled into the ceiling, slamming into the wall, then crashing to the ground—unconscious.

And with that, the battle—or rather, the "game"—between Arthur’s companion and Gerom, the elite orc commander, came to an abrupt end.

Meanwhile, at the battlefield’s edge, the fighting still raged between soldiers of both sides.At first, the human troops had been dominating the orc elites—though the orcs’ resilience had delayed a swift victory.

But what happened to their commander... that was the final blow.

The sight of Gerom—their proud, powerful leader—crushed in such a humiliating manner shattered their morale.Even as trained elite warriors, signs of collapse began to show.Some began retreating, trying to flee back through the corridor they came from.Others, in a desperate bid, pushed forward—hoping to reach their fallen leader, now lying there like a broken beast.

And among them, more than one thought silently to themselves:

How can I surrender... without that man killing me?

In the end, this battle didn’t last much longer—only a short while—before the man who had led the human forces to crush the orcs stepped in as well.

From behind, he calmly turned his head toward one of the officers and said,"Prepare the lower restraints. And bind not only the orc commander, but any of his elite who surrender willingly."

Then he turned to the stern-faced man in his forties and spoke with respect,"Sir Jonathan de Caster, I’m sorry... but there are still several enemies left. I must ask you to proceed with the plan we discussed."

Arthur’s tone held a genuine respect. Even though the man before him was one of his summoned warriors, loyal to him with unwavering devotion—just like the others—Arthur never forgot who he truly was.

This was Sir Jonathan de Caster... a Silver-ranked knight, a level considered exceptional even within the kingdom.

Among the Werner family, only the founder had ever reached that rank. The rest of the descendants—including Arthur’s own father—relied on the family’s resources and their talents to rise only to the rank of Bronze Knights. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Thus, out of respect for true strength, Arthur decided to treat powerful summons like Jonathan with the same dignity nobles offered each other.

Jonathan looked at Arthur and gave a silent nod, acknowledging both the command and the trust placed in him.

"I do, my lord," he said firmly. "I’ll see to it personally."

Arthur met his gaze and spoke with quiet confidence, "Then go, Sir Jonathan. The battlefield awaits your strength."

Without another word, Jonathan turned sharply, he turned and rushed out of the war chamber, a group of soldiers following close behind.