Chapter 18
Chapter 18
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: 2. Job
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Precisely speaking, it hardly looked substantial enough to call a village.
The haphazardly woven branch fence was one thing, but the houses that resembled primitive huts where cavemen might live seemed more fitting to label a hamlet.
'Hold on, a hamlet?'
Splat!
He flattened himself to the ground like a frog in an instant. If this was an orc hamlet, he couldn't afford to linger so carelessly. He knew his own abilities best. He could handle two or three sick orcs, but against the horde pouring out from that hamlet, he'd be dead in seconds. There were already about ten huts visible.
Even assuming five orcs per hut, that made fifty in total. Terrified a mere breath might give him away, he belly-crawled to a better vantage point for observing the hamlet. He couldn't fight them, but he figured he'd at least gather some intel. Yet he soon noticed something off.
Not a single orc in sight.
'What's going on? Are orcs nocturnal?'
No moving orcs was one thing, but no sentries at all? That was suspicious. He grabbed a nearby pebble and chucked it at a few huts—no reaction. Sung-hoon crouched low and crept closer to the hamlet. He easily vaulted the waist-high fence and poked a finger through a hole in the nearest hut to peek inside.
'Empty?'
He slipped inside quick as a flash in case someone saw, spotting a few blankets and odds and ends. The overpowering stench made him bolt out, muttering in disappointment.
"What the hell? Did they all clear out and head somewhere?"
Confirming two or three more huts were equally barren, Sung-hoon realized his guess was spot on. A sinister grin spread across his face as he rubbed his hands together.
"Heh heh heh, so the place is totally empty right now? Perfect. Time for some house raiding."
House raiding.
It was an inevitable rite of passage for any hero. Of course, a true hero wouldn't discriminate—empty house or occupied, they'd storm in and loot everything from cash to items to treasures. After circling the first five tents, Sung-hoon came up empty. Just straw mats and junk.
But the hut in the hamlet's center felt different.
It was somewhat tidy, even had a table—clearly an important one.
Maybe the orc chieftain's quarters. He ransacked it thoroughly, but found nothing worthwhile. He did uncover some neatly plated smoked meat, but knowing orcs had eaten it killed his appetite. Same story everywhere.
The orc hamlet had zilch of real value to begin with.
The only takeaways were a few hides from unidentified beasts and some filthy sundries.
"Chwit, chwiit…."
As he approached the last two huts, the distinctive orcish snorts made Sung-hoon drop low and peer cautiously inside.
'Lying down. Sleeping?'
It didn't quite look like sleep.
Pained groans interspersed with labored, ragged breaths, and some didn't even twitch.
Thud! Thud!
He tapped the hut a few times and made noise, but no orcs stirred. Boldly, Sung-hoon strode right in. Still, they lay motionless.
'What the...? Are these guys sleeping? No, wait—are they too sick to move?'
Every orc he'd fought so far had red rashes on their skin. These were way worse. Rashes everywhere, some wounds rotted open, pus oozing. Eyes barely open—they were suffering bad.
Sung-hoon slowly drew his sword, hesitating. Straight-up combat didn't faze him. Kill or be killed. But slashing defenseless foes? His sword hand wouldn't move.
'Calm down. You've cut down plenty like this. You got sick of it in the Starting Room.'
To be precise, those had been inert corpses. These orcs, orc or not, groaned in agony, barely able to move. He agonized briefly, then gritted his teeth and raised his sword high.
Stab!
The blade plunged in without mercy, blood soaking the floor.
Even with its heart pierced, the orc couldn't scream—just shuddered a few times and went still.
Stab! Stab!
Killing helpless foes took an unexpected mental toll. But skip it, and he'd die. At least they weren't human—just orcs, illusions crafted by the gods. Small comfort.
Six orcs in that hut. Total dispatched: twenty-two. One hut left.
"Bingo."
More mindless sick orcs sprawled everywhere. He could wrap this mission faster than expected. Sword raised to swing—then he froze.
"…Chwit, chwiit…."
"The Elder… is returning…."
"Keep watch around the area."
'Shit!'
The voices outside nearly made his heart leap from his chest. He'd been so absorbed in the slaughter he hadn't noticed them approaching.
Logically, slipping away unseen was smartest. But reason urged him to assess coldly.
'Twenty-two down, seven here. One more and mission complete. Flee now, and security tightens. Better to go for broke here.'
He rigged a quick trap at the entrance first. Hardly a trap—just two swords jammed in, linked by fishing line to snag ankles. But they wouldn't expect it in their own home; it'd work.
'Just one. One more.'
He dispatched the immobile orcs cleanly, gripped his sword, steadied his breath. Anyone would do. The second the trap sprung, he'd swing.
Meanwhile, the elder strained to walk straight, heading to the corner hut. He planned to cast basic healing on his ailing minions.
"Chwit, I'm pretty sick myself. Head's not working right."
In normal shape, he'd have left guards. But fever-weakened self-control made him drag every mobile orc out upon hearing of the attack.
No lunatic would raid an orc hamlet in broad daylight anyway. Sighing, the chieftain approached the hut packed with the ill.
In truth, hunting sick orcs was far easier than healthy ones. Their famed physiques and senses dulled badly.
A healthy elder would've sniffed the blood reek and caught on. Likely rallied minions to surround it. But he was just a sick orc now.
Snag!
"Chwit?!"
He tripped over the line, tumbling—and a sword flashed beside him. A regular orc would've lost its head. But even rotten, he was still an elder orc.
"Chwiiiiiik!"
"Blocked it?!"
In that split second, he raised his left arm, parrying Sung-hoon's blade. The arm sheared off midway, dangling, but he saved his neck. Rolling out of the hut, he bellowed without hesitation.
"Intruder! Human!"
"Chwiiiiiik!"
"Save the elder!"
Orcs grabbed weapons and charged en masse. At least twenty, by rough count.
'Run? Press on?'
The sick hut was remote in the hamlet; healthy orcs avoided it fearing contagion. Nearest foes needed ten-plus seconds to arrive.
Sung-hoon charged the elder. Despite the lost arm, the elder snarled ferociously, aiming his wand with his right hand.
"Fire Arrow!"
"Fire Arrow!"
⟨ Fire Arrow ⟩
Sung-hoon had only seen Shock magic before. And he felt the power of this Fire Arrow. The forearm-thick flaming arrow radiated intense heat even from afar. A direct hit would hurt bad.
Whoosh!
Not a real arrow, but no slouch in speed—the fiery projectile streaked toward him.