Chapter 77
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: Floor 8 - Lv. 790 Lava Hammer Battalion Commander
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Ogre or troll hide feels tough and leathery to the touch.
But it wasn't so impervious that my blade couldn't slice through, even after all their buffs and bonuses were layered on thick.
Greenskins generally don't favor armor—not that they can't wear it, but they often see it as shameful. That's why they fail to capitalize on their superior physiques so many times.
It's not entirely their fault, really.
An orc might manage, but when you're talking about hulks pushing three meters tall, practical issues like cost and materials start piling up.
Even back in the game days, the massive races that were huge—and strong because of it—came with penalties like that.
They had insane stats thanks to their sheer size, but equipment restrictions hobbled them hard.
Sure, their high stats meant sky-high HP, but no armor meant crap defense, so their effective durability often ended up a wash... or even a net loss.
They made up for it with the monstrous physical power pouring out of those giant frames.
Balance-wise, it was solid.
But like every game out there, there were ways to patch those innate weaknesses.
Money and tech did the trick.
Random encounters with Greenskin nations the size of a kingdom or smaller? No heavily armored ones show up.
An empire? You might run into them depending on the case.
Sir Dusban, the dwarves, and the fairies didn't know the ins and outs of the Orc Empire's internal affairs either.
Still, judging by the Lava Hammer Battalion's gear, you could guess it was thriving even among empires.
According to the intel from the kid, it was one of the three powers holding strong even in a far-future where they'd pushed into space.
I'd probably keep aggressively targeting Greenskins even after heading to the kingdom.
Even so, if they lasted that long, the saying held: a rich man ruined goes three years, an empire ruined goes three hundred.
And right now, the pinnacle of that Greenskin empire's tech and budget was swinging at me.
Vampires have countless drawbacks, but they come loaded with upsides to match.
In my case, my baseline physical stats being so pathetic kept tripping me up.
Vampires outclass humans across the board in physical prowess.
The incoming hammer wasn't so much a practical weapon as a display-piece statue in size.
Yet it wasn't crudely made.
You could feel the custom touches tailored to the wielder's tastes—like the terrifying skull engravings.
Each trooper probably had a dedicated artisan assigned.
To get Greenskins—who hated full armor—into full plate, you needed to bestow that kind of honor.
And honor? That's something only a nation can forge.
A position of glory that made even monsters swallow their pride and don the iron shell.
A living weapon crafted by the empire's emperor and the God of War.
Just the pressure from the attack that hadn't even arrived yet stung my face.
I scattered my body into bats.
It had been a while, so a few didn't evade in time and got smashed by the hammer.
There are plenty of reasons vampires suck to play, but their racial mechanics being a pain to handle is a big one.
Scattering and controlling your body isn't as easy as it sounds.
Back in game days, it wasn't this mechanic, so no issues.
Now? It felt like my limbs were floating separately in the air, each needing individual control.
And the bats that weren't even limbs? Those moved with some ineffable sensation I couldn't quite describe.
For my level of proficiency, I was damn good. Might even impress vampire society.
The parts of my body that didn't dodge in time were steadily dying off.
Normally it'd just be straight-up loss, but the Barbaroi Clan's authority let me dominate the blood as if it were still part of me.
When the enemy pulls it, you wanna scream "what the hell?"—but when I do it? Sweet as candy.
The bats melted into blood and took wing again. Minimal loss.
The troll who'd attacked me didn't roar in triumph.
Silent as stone, he swung the hammer again.
I scattered once more, minimizing the damage.
Mist Form would grant near-immunity to physical attacks, but my level was too low for it. Pitiful.
Magic from an ogre flew in from another angle. Not like the wild shots from the other squads—this was precise aiming, cutting off escape routes.
That kind of magic wasn't willed into being; it was innate, popping up without context.
Instant activation meant no interfering or blocking it.
I hastily reformed elsewhere. Wide surface area meant bigger hits from magic or blasts.
One bat's wing tip caught fire, but no big deal.
I scattered again, putting distance. Bats are flyers, after all.
Handled right, they offered way better mobility than running.
Once you're used to it, you could even apply Dash to each individual bat.
One troll finally snapped and hurled his weapon.
Less a spear, more a pillar—it tore through the air.
No dodging that eerily accurate, lightning-fast throw.
I barely saved my heart, but the rest of me exploded into shreds.
The ground detonated too. The surface warped, dirt blasting skyward.
Less a javelin, more a missile. Not even a tungsten rod dropping from orbit or anything. Unreal.
But I played it cool, feigning nonchalance and mockery.
"Hey, buddies, that all you got?"
Forming just a mouth on a bat's back to trash-talk? It pissed them off hard.
I knew from experience. Even the Lava Hammer Battalion's elites weren't immune.
The ones chasing me now? They'd taken the bait from petty taunts.
No matter how dumb Greenskins got, elite squads like this wouldn't bite easy.
You had to prove you were a threat first.
In truth, only four had peeled off to chase the vampire who'd popped in and slung magic.
A single squad, looks like.
The rest just watched from afar, like it was a show.
Laughter boomed—even sounded like they were betting.
Felt like a zoo monkey.
This march was a triumph for the battalion, if not the whole brigade. They'd ravaged, destroyed, and looted humans at will.
They were just here to clean up the rear's screw-up.
That mindset? About to change.
Obviously, the party's top firepower right now was the kid.
No sugarcoating it. She came from the future—what you gonna do?
I'd casually asked her level.
"171," she'd said.
NPCs without Mind Maps have no intuitive way to know their levels.
Figured future-me had measured it properly.
EXP calculations factored in enemy gear and situations holistically.
A bit of flexibility, you know.
Future timelines with boosted average power tended to yield more EXP.
But that number... what the hell happened in the future?
"Alright. What's the highest-damage spell you can cast?"
"Inferno. I practiced a ton. Dad said not to treat it as a skill—he drilled it into me. Uh, future Dad, I mean!"
Classic me. Knew exactly what was needed.
Still, that "Dad" bit? Never got used to it.
Inferno was an installation spell with almost no physical impact from the magic itself.
As an install, you typically drew the circle ahead of time.
Effect was simple and horrific: jacked the temperature inside the circle's bounds—like a vertical cylinder for a round one—to extremes.
The key? It happened in an instant.
It couldn't directly touch a living being's core temp—self-awareness guaranteed minimal magic defense.
But the result? Like a modern thermobaric warhead.
Magic ignored physics, spiking air to thousands of degrees. It expanded wildly, blasting superheated wind.
For a Spirit King, it was basic stuff.
Implementing it manually took this much effort—hence strategic weapon status.
No special camouflage, yet the monsters strolled right into the circle like it was nothing.
That obvious, and they were still cocky?
I stopped. The monsters halted too. Their earth-shaking steps faded, leaving an eerie silence.
I drew my sword and pointed.
One ogre laughed in disbelief.
Then the kid popped out from stealth, Invisibility dropping.
The youngest rode her like a pony.
Vampire or not, those stubby limbs limited running. Bat form was still a work in progress, so she had to hoof it.
The youngest volunteered as transport.
Call it a self-propelled gun.
Trolls started snickering. Yeah, it looked ridiculous.
I smirked and Blinked away.
Inferno
The commotion was impossible to miss.
The disciple watched the scene with detached boredom.
When that snarky guy showed up bold as brass, she'd wondered what his game was.
Even seeing him lure a few monsters away, she couldn't guess his plan.
In her mind, sneaking in was smarter.
Not many shamans had survived.
With the resourcefulness she'd seen at the fairy forest ruins, he could've slipped in and delivered aid quietly.
She might've even helped.
But later she realized: he probably didn't know the situation here in detail.
Best he could manage, then.
Still, he looked way too shaky.
Then the explosion hit.
No flames. Nothing structurally violent.
Just a boom of bursting air that deafened her ears.
Heat wave.
The chill northern plains felt like midday desert for a split second.
Then cooled just as fast.
A reverse gust followed in the blink of an eye.
At the center, the pursuing squad stood frozen.
Then...
Not flesh collapsing, but armor clattering to the ground.
Smoke rose.
The disciple shuddered.
Not at the lethality—that was just a one-shot trap. If repeatable, he'd have charged in openly.
What chilled her were the surrounding ogres and trolls.
Laughter died.
Triumph evaporated.
These were elite soldiers. Trained from youth to share life-and-death, devoted to the empire—comrades.
She hadn't believed Greenskins capable of that, back in the day.
But a comrade's death—and it looking like a joke?
The air froze colder than the heat wave's peak.
Even uninvolved, her legs felt weak.
Human days? She'd have shrugged it off.
Orc now, most divine power had slipped her grasp.
A nearby troll's overhead smash would've ended her easy.
Terror crept in. She backpedaled instinctively.
Bumped someone—her master.
Trdongt, ever laid-back, chuckled in disbelief.
"That bastard hangs provocations like no one's business."
The entire Lava Hammer Battalion surged to their feet.
The motion alone was a thunderclap.
The giant monsters snatched weapons and charged.
The earth quaked.
Like an earthquake.
The disciple tripped, rolled.
Ahead, unlucky orc spectators got kicked by troll feet, tumbling.
Trampled into oblivion.
Dust billowed on frozen ground.
The God of War was a troll, but no fool.
He'd marked this annoying, headache-inducing, arrogant Exile who'd reappeared, and was monitoring closely.
When elaborate taunts goaded the whole battalion into a charge, he scowled hard.
Greenskins like that? Uncontrollable.
Emperor or whoever—same deal. Holding back rage that high meant not Greenskin.
He knew and fell for it anyway.
What was the suicidal play aiming for?
Long years of experience yielded one answer.
Something rare right after server launch—he'd ignored it before.
[Human Card], Saintess, Trdongt—maybe even persuasion done. Mainstream progress.
Killing the Abyssal Orc Hero? Not a huge loss.
Wasn't his piece anyway—could happen.
The greedy old troll didn't love hero units beyond his reach.
But handing over the Saintess? No.
Oracle issued.
The troll observing sourly—the only one not charging—obeyed.
The Lava Hammer Battalion commander shot up.
Among countless War God followers, exceptionally mighty, born with ambition to match. A prime tool who obeyed better than most.
The God of War's planned [Hero Unit] powerhouse troll warrior bolted toward Trdongt and disciple.
Disciple had no time to react—snatched in giant hand.
"Commander! What the hell?!"
Trdongt screamed.
To him, the god's oracle he'd borne descended.
「Krr. Orc traitor...」
Shamanism fired. No effect. Bounced clean.
Disciple nearly crushed helplessly.
Bam!
A dagger—more launched than thrown—streaked from nowhere.
Shattered into light shards.
Expending its life, the weapon unleashed a final, devastating blow.
Ambush judgment plus double damage correction loosened even that brute grip.
Disciple shed her robe, escaped.
Ribs cracked—several, by the feel. Breathing hurt like hell.
Farther off, dagger in hand, the girl charged at full speed.
She closed instantly, kicked the commander's head.
He met it forehead-first, no dodge.
Crack—her leg shattered.
"Ow ow ow, that hurts bad."
Blood sprayed, leg regenerated. Skilled motion. Seeing it, the Saintess pegged her as Exile.
One of the three from the ruins—the one fried by lightning.
Something streaked in, embedded.
"I-I can't beat this guy, so I'm outta here!"
Girl fled full-tilt at the growling commander.
He actually hesitated at her no-look-back sprint.
God of War bellowed at him.
The god had seen it.
The card flying like a stiletto bore a human sigil.
Commander wavered: chase girl or finish disciple?
Full context? He'd crush disciple no thought.
But god knew; this troll didn't grasp the exact situation.
Just followed orders.
That tiny gap decided the fate of a promising young troll who might've become a great hero and altered history.
Disciple snatched the embedded card.
Familiar smooth texture—from one forced use before.
Corner of vision: fallen master nodding.
She knew how. Forced trial run.
God roared; massive fist swung.
Fist dwarfing her body incoming, disciple tore the card.
Orc strength made it easy—unlike human days.
Light erupted.