CHAPTER 101: A MOST UNBREAKABLE MEATHEAD

"YOUR MISSION," I bellowed, pointing a dramatic, pale finger towards the pit, "IS TO GO DOWN THERE AND HIT HIM UNTIL HE STOPS MOVING! CHARGE!"

With a deafening, unified roar of pure, unadulterated rage, my bait army charged.

It was a glorious, stupid, and utterly suicidal wave of green-skinned fury, pouring down the canyon slopes into the pit below.

"And they’re off," I said, leaning back against a rock and pulling out my phone. I brought up the live feed from a Goblin Sniper I had positioned on a nearby peak. "Let’s see the show."

The battle was, for a few brief, glorious moments, a beautiful, chaotic storm of violence.

My Orcs and Ogres hit Grak’s line—which was just Grak—like a tidal wave.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, percussive symphony of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the pit as two hundred brutes clashed with one, even bigger brute.

Grak was in heaven.

He laughed, a deep, guttural sound of pure joy, as he waded into the sea of his enemies.

BOOM!

His fist connected with an Ogre’s face. The impact was an absolute detonation of force. A massive shockwave of white energy erupted from his knuckles, and the Ogre’s head simply... ceased to exist. Vaporized into a fine red mist.

BOOM!

He backhanded an Orc, sending the creature flying a hundred feet through the air to crash against the canyon wall with a sickening, wet crunch.

He was a whirlwind of destruction, a living, breathing meat-grinder.

And he was having the time of his life.

"He’s magnificent," I murmured, a note of genuine, professional respect in my voice. "A true artist. A virtuoso of violence."

"He’s also winning, my Lord," Isabelle pointed out dryly.

My bait army was being systematically, brutally, and very efficiently dismantled.

"Patience, Commander," I purred. "All part of the plan."

I watched as Grak, in his berserker fury, fought his way to the center of the pit.

He was surrounded by a mountain of his own making, a grim tableau of broken bodies and shattered weapons.

He stood over the last, twitching Orc, his massive chest heaving, a wide, triumphant grin on his brutal face.

His back was turned.

He was overconfident.

He was exposed.

"Now," I whispered into the comms.

From the shadows of the canyon walls, two phantoms of impossible speed emerged.

Isabelle and Chloe.

BOOM! BOOM!

The ground exploded under their feet as they launched themselves from the cliffs, two silent, deadly arrows aimed at the heart of the beast.

The wind shrieked as they closed the distance, their forms blurs of dark armor and pale, determined faces.

Grak, his senses still buzzing from the thrill of the slaughter, turned at the last possible second.

His triumphant grin vanished, replaced by a look of shocked, utter disbelief.

He had no time to raise his guard.

He had no time to brace himself.

CRACK!

Isabelle’s dark blade, Dáinsleif, moving faster than thought, bit deep into the back of his knee, severing tendons and shattering bone.

The impact was a sharp, focused detonation, and a visible shockwave ripped through his leg.

He roared in agony and surprise, his leg buckling beneath him.

At the same instant, Chloe was upon him from the other side.

Her twin daggers, Whisper and Silence, were not aimed at a vital point.

They were aimed at his hands.

Her blades danced, a blur of motion, and Grak roared again as his massive, powerful hands were rendered useless, the tendons in his wrists sliced with a surgeon’s cold precision.

He fell.

The Unbreakable Beast.

The mountain of muscle and fury.

He crashed to the floor of his own fighting pit, a wounded, helpless giant.

I made my entrance.

I didn’t rush. I strode down into the pit, my long, dark coat swishing with each deliberate step.

I stopped before the fallen king, looking down at him with an expression of cool, detached appraisal.

"Impressive," I said. "You killed two hundred of my best disposable idiots in under ten minutes. That’s a new record."

Grak glared up at me, his eyes burning with a hateful, impotent fire. "Coward," he growled, his voice a low, pained rumble. "You hide behind your women. Your tricks."

"I don’t hide," I corrected him gently. "I delegate. It’s called management. You should try it sometime."

I crouched down, my red eyes locking onto his.

"Now, Grak," I said, my voice a low, dangerous purr. "We have a choice to make. You can lie here and bleed out, a sad, forgotten footnote in my glorious rise to power. Or... you can join me."

He snorted, a sound of pure contempt. "Why would I serve a coward?"

"Because I can give you the one thing you crave more than anything else," I said, a slow, knowing smile on my face.

"A good fight."

His eyes widened slightly.

"Join me," I offered, "and I will point you at enemies so strong, so powerful, that they will make my army of Orcs look like a pack of frightened kittens. I will give you an endless war. An endless challenge. A chance to prove, once and for all, that you truly are the strongest there is."

I stood up and held out my hand.

"What’s it to be, Grak? A boring death in the dirt? Or a glorious life of endless, beautiful violence?"

He looked at my hand.

He looked at my two commanders, who stood behind me like silent, deadly Valkyries.

A slow, brutal, and deeply unsettling grin spread across his battered face.

"You had me at ’endless violence’," he growled.

He took my hand.

The deal was struck.

My collection of magnificent, monstrous bastards had just grown by one.

And the Dwarf King of Hakui had no idea what was about to come knocking on his very, very sturdy mountain door.

The canyons of Hakui were a monument to brutalist nature.

Jagged spires of black rock clawed at the perpetually gray sky.

The wind howled through the narrow passages.

It was a low, mournful sound.

I, personally, found it drafty.

We stood on a high cliff, looking down into the main arena of Grak the Unbreakable’s domain.

It was a vast, circular pit.

It was littered with the bones of whatever unfortunate creatures had wandered in.

A proper, no-nonsense fighting pit for a proper, no-nonsense meathead.

"He’s down there," Isabelle said, her voice a low murmur.

She was peering through a pair of high-tech, magically enhanced binoculars that Yori had whipped up.

"He’s... practicing."

I took a look.

Grak was, indeed, practicing.

He was punching a solid granite pillar the size of a redwood tree.

BOOM!

The ground trembled, even from our vantage point a thousand feet away.

His fist connected with the stone.

The wind shrieked, a vortex of displaced air swirling around the point of impact.

CRACK!

A massive shockwave of white force erupted from his knuckles.

A web of fissures spiderwebbed across the surface of the pillar.

"He’s going to be a problem," Chloe stated.

Her voice was a flat, cold whisper from the shadows beside me.

"He’s a challenge," I corrected her.

A slow, predatory smile touched my lips.

"And I do so love a challenge."

I turned to the assembled force behind me.

Two hundred of my finest, dumbest Orcs and Ogres.

They were the leftovers from Gorgon’s conquered army.

They were big.

They were mean.

They were expendable.

"Alright, you magnificent green bastards!" I roared.

My voice boomed across the canyon.

"You see that big, angry-looking fellow down there who is currently committing acts of geological violence?"

A collective, low grunt of affirmation rumbled through the ranks.

"He has insulted your honor!" I declared.

My voice dripped with a righteous fury I did not, in any way, feel.

"He said... he said your mothers were hamsters and your fathers smelled of elderberries!"

A wave of confused, angry muttering rippled through the army.

Orcs, as a rule, were not familiar with Monty Python.

But they understood insults.

"YOUR MISSION," I bellowed, pointing a dramatic, pale finger towards the pit.

"IS TO GO DOWN THERE AND HIT HIM UNTIL HE STOPS MOVING!"

"CHARGE!"

With a deafening, unified roar of pure, unadulterated rage, my bait army charged.

It was a glorious, stupid, and utterly suicidal wave of green-skinned fury.

It poured down the canyon slopes into the pit below.

"And they’re off," I said, leaning back against a rock and pulling out my phone.

I brought up the live feed from a Goblin Sniper I had positioned on a nearby peak.

"Let’s see the show."

The battle was, for a few brief, glorious moments, a beautiful, chaotic storm of violence.

My Orcs and Ogres hit Grak’s line—which was just Grak—like a tidal wave.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, percussive symphony of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the pit.

Two hundred brutes clashed with one, even bigger brute.

Grak was in heaven.

He laughed, a deep, guttural sound of pure joy.

He waded into the sea of his enemies.

BOOM!