The Crimson Tempest
When the Blood Cult's techniques are wielded by the reincarnated cult leader, a deafening explosion ripped through the battlefield.
Kwaaaaah—!
Along with it, flames surged across the scattered oil. Steel arrows punched clean through orc bodies.
"Fall back! Someone get us out of here!"
"Gruk! Damn it all…!"
But the orcs could not retreat. The instant any of them tried to run, their own kind would cut them down before the humans even had the chance. Only the shamans were permitted to withdraw.
"Gruk! Moving out."
In the end, the elderly orcs and those from weaker tribes—shoved forward as disposable meat shields—were the only ones sacrificed. The shamans seized the opening and slipped away to the rear. All the while, blades of wind carved through orc flesh.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
"Ahahaha!"
Lumia's bright laughter threaded between the screams. Her thin, razor-sharp wind blades sliced apart the orcs' bodies in every direction.
"Graaaagh!"
"Gruk!"
Blood sprayed wildly. From a distance the scene was pure carnage, yet Kyle watched it with cold appreciation.
Good.
The sight that once filled him with dread now stirred nothing but satisfaction. The fact that he could enjoy it sent a shiver of pleasure through Lumia as well.
Very good.
The snowfield beneath the ramparts had turned a dark, viscous crimson. Orcs died in every imaginable shape—some burning, some skewered, some crushed—while the stench of charred meat rolled upward until even those atop the walls could taste it on the wind.
In romance fantasy novels, a scene like this would never appear.
Kyle turned from the slaughter and approached Volkrik.
"Commander."
"What is it?"
Volkrik's gaze flicked toward him.
"Their main force back there." Kyle pointed past the meat-shield line at the orc warriors and warg cavalry waiting in reserve. "I can shake them for you."
"At that range?" Volkrik's eyebrows twitched. The distance was far beyond arrows, even ballistae. Catapults might reach, but accuracy was a fantasy. Large-scale magic from the mages would be equally uncertain.
"I swear on my life there will be zero friendly casualties. If any of our men are harmed, I will accept whatever military punishment you deem fit."
The confidence in Kyle's voice made Volkrik pause. The commander stared at the distant orc formation for a long moment, then looked back.
"You're certain it won't touch our allies?"
"Yes."
"If anything goes wrong, I will stop you at once. The moment I give the order, you cease."
"Understood."
Volkrik gave a short nod. "Very well. Show me."
Permission granted, Kyle strode to the edge of the rampart. Leina and Wulfran took up positions at his sides like honor guards. Lumia watched intently from just behind him. Under their gazes, he looked down at the carnage below.
Orcs bleeding out from arrow wounds. Orcs writhing in flame. Orcs gasping through ballista bolts. Orcs crushed by stones yet still clinging to life. They were all still alive. And every one of them was bleeding.
That was enough.
Time to show them why Blood Cult techniques became the terror of every battlefield.
In the martial world there had been arts like the Star Absorption Technique—demonic skills that stole a victim's internal energy and innate qi, converting it into the user's own power.
Yet most who practiced them met ruin. Foreign energy remained foreign. Forcing two completely different types of qi to mingle inside one body guaranteed violent conflict.
It went beyond destroyed dantians and ruptured meridians. The clashing energies would eventually tear the practitioner apart from the inside.
Even the Demonic Cult had shunned such absorption arts.
But the Blood Cult had taken a different path.
They changed the fundamental concept.
The Blood Cult never converted stolen energy into their own internal power. They never fully absorbed it into their bodies at all. Instead they treated it as external, consumable fuel—nothing more.
It granted no permanent increase in strength. It did not become part of them. What it offered was the ability to burn an overwhelming amount of power in a single instant.
They could unleash devastating martial arts or sorcery without expending almost any of their own qi.
That was the Blood Cult's way.
Of course, there were limits.
It doesn't work on healthy targets. Not with this frail body, at least.
The Blood Source Usurpation Art could not be used on just anyone. Only the wounded—those already bleeding—could have their life force stolen from a distance. Shallow wounds yielded little. Deep wounds yielded much. Corpses were useless. You could draw no heat from a flame that had already gone out.
But beneath the ramparts right now lay hundreds of perfect targets.
A forbidden Blood Cult technique that extracts the vital energy of the wounded to serve as temporary combat fuel. The deeper the injury, the greater the harvest.
Kyle raised his hand.
A faint blue energy began to leak from the dying orcs. At first it was no more than wisps, like breath on a winter morning. Then dozens, hundreds of threads streamed toward Kyle's fingertips and poured into him.
"Gruk?"
"What… what is this?"
The orcs did not die instantly. The distance prevented Kyle from draining them in one swift pull. Yet their breathing grew ragged, their bodies chilled rapidly. The life force they had clung to through pain was peeled away layer by layer.
A thread-thin stream rose from an orc missing an arm. A much thicker current surged from one pierced through the chest. Even thicker still came from those still burning alive.
Each individual yielded only a small amount, but there were thousands of them. Hundreds still lived and bled among the five thousand orcs. Their combined energy gathered, condensed, and coiled at Kyle's fingertips.
Normally the technique could not exceed the practitioner's own capacity. Forcing more would cause the caster's body to explode. But Kyle's unique condition—his transcendent mental realm from his previous life paired with his current weak vessel—allowed him to handle power far beyond what this body should permit.
With this much energy, I could wield the strength of a Sword Master for a limited time.
Yet he chose not to. This was not a duel. It was a battlefield against twenty thousand enemies. In war, techniques that killed large numbers were far more useful than any blade.
Kyle lowered his hand. Below the ramparts, the blood spilled by the orcs had frozen in the bitter cold, becoming crimson crystals scattered across the snow. Those droplets were his target.
Thousands of frozen blood crystals rise into the air, empowered by stolen life force and transformed into high-speed lethal projectiles. The greater the fuel, the deadlier the storm.
The same technique he had used during the dawn reconnaissance. This time its power was on an entirely different scale. The thousands of crimson ice crystals littering the ground beneath the wall shot skyward. Kyle poured the freshly usurped energy into them, turning the blood droplets into deadly bullets.
Oooooong—!
Every eye on the rampart turned toward him.
"What the hell is that?"
"It's not magic!"
"Could it be some forgotten ancient sorcery?"
"Who cares? It's helping, isn't it?"
Kyle offered no answers. He simply raised his hand and aimed at the orc main force.
"Consider this repayment for the arrows you sent earlier."
The next instant, the frozen blood crystals howled forward like a crimson tempest.
Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shk—!
The blood bullets slammed into the orc main force that had believed itself safely out of range. Human arrows could not reach here. Neither could ballistae or magic. Yet the bloodstorm poured down on the orc warriors and warg cavalry.
"Kwaaaaah!"
"What is this?!"
"It's blood! Blood is flying at us!"
"Block it!"
Orcs raised their shields. Wargs bared fangs and twisted wildly. But the blood bullets, reinforced by stolen life force, were nothing like the fragments from dawn.
They punched straight through leather shields, slipped into gaps in armor, and tore through arms, shoulders, and thighs. Several orcs dropped with crystals buried in their eyes or throats.
One warg took a bullet to the eye and went berserk, hurling its rider to the ground. Two nearby orcs were trampled beneath its claws.
"The formation is breaking!"
"Calm the wargs!"
"Stop that human!"
The main force had not been destroyed—the orc army was simply too vast, and the energy Kyle had gathered had its limits. He had not killed thousands in a single strike. But it was enough.
The orcs who had believed themselves in a safe zone were thrown into chaos. Part of the warg cavalry rampaged out of control. Several shamans and riders fell.
The distance they had trusted to protect them had been violated.
The gathered energy ran dry in an instant. A faint crack appeared on Kyle's fingertip. A single drop of blood fell onto his Black Ice Iron gauntlet. The backlash from forcing power beyond his body's limits.
Kyle clicked his tongue.
Still too weak. Just this much and I already suffer rebound.
Yet the smile never left his lips.
Well, the longer this war drags on, the stronger I'll become. It's only a matter of time.
A stunned silence hung over the rampart for a moment. Volkrik spoke first.
"Magnificent, Your Grace. The enemy's morale must have plummeted."
Then a thunderous roar shook the heavens.
KUOOOOOOOOOO—!
"Looks like their Great Warrior is furious," Kyle said.
As much as the allied soldiers gazed at him with admiration, the enemy now burned with rage.