CHAPTER 923: THE AVENGER ARMIES

After a moment of consideration, Orion decided against destroying the elemental whirlpool.

Half an hour later, its pull began to weaken before dissipating completely.

The body of the Tritail Dreadturtle was long gone.

In its place, bobbing on the surface not far from Orion, was a vessel the size of a washbasin, shaped like a turtle’s shell.

Inside rested three shimmering, aquamarine turtle eggs.

Seeing them, Orion understood immediately what had happened. The Tritail Dreadturtle had sacrificed every last drop of its life force to incubate these three eggs. It had chosen its offspring over its own survival.

Then again, Orion thought, it wouldn’t have survived anyway. Once you were dragged into this war, willingly or not, defeat meant your fate was sealed.

"Smart old turtle," Orion murmured, carefully collecting the three eggs before turning back toward the Leonidas palace.

In a way, the Tritail Dreadturtle had secured a powerful master for its descendants, a strong protector.

Back in the main plaza, Orion checked on Makareth and Isabella.

A swarm of shamans and priests were attending to them, and the worst of their injuries had been seen to. Both, however, remained unconscious, their minds having clearly suffered significant trauma.

His gaze swept over the slumbering colossal dragon, then drifted out toward the distant sea. It seemed Leonidas and the female dragon, Daize, had gotten a little carried away in their chase.

Meanwhile, in the Titanion Realm, north of the former dwarven Tribe’s lands.

This was the edge of the Blacksteel gnomes’ territory.

Perhaps due to their similarly short stature, the gnomes race had always been a vassal to the dwarven race. It was a relationship that had guaranteed their security and allowed their civilization to flourish.

But the good days for the Blacksteel gnomes had ended the moment the dwarven race was corrupt.

They were assaulted by a joint force of Dark Dwarves and their puppets. Their own My lord had been blasted into a bloody paste by Brokk, the Dark Dwarf king.

Faced with death and terror, the Blacksteel gnomes bent the knee, choosing servitude under a new master.

The Avenger armies.

That was the name of this new faction, led by a man named Torin.

Inside a large tent within a grim, imposing military encampment, Torin’s eyes snapped open, gleaming with a sharp intensity.

"Well, Torin? Isn’t supernatural power a beautiful thing?" a voice purred. "Welcome to the world beyond. You are a lord now. Heh heh heh..."

Across from Torin, a puppet was perched on a round table, leaning casually against one of Orion’s stolen wine gourds. It was Ogu, the clown.

His voice pulled Torin from the intoxicating trance of his newfound transcendent power. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He was now a Legendary level powerhouse.

A man of his strength held significant standing anywhere on the continent.

"So this is supernatural power?" Torin murmured, holding up his hands. A sphere of raw Abyssal energy coalesced between his palms. Feeling the terrifying force contained within, he felt that while he couldn’t move mountains or part seas, splitting a cliff face or diverting a river seemed entirely possible.

"Are you sure there are no side effects to gaining power this way?"

Supernatural strength was incredible, but a seed of doubt remained. This ascension to the Legendary level wasn’t like the others.

He had achieved it through a dark ritual, sacrificing countless lives to some unknown entity to force a connection with his Lord’s Stone. It was an extreme, forbidden path.

"Don’t you feel the power that is now your own?" the puppet Ogu countered, sidestepping the question. "Why waste time with pointless second-guessing?"

Of course, Ogu wouldn’t tell him the truth. Ascending this way was indeed possible.

But the clown had no intention of revealing that the moment Torin outlived his usefulness, everything would be stripped away.

Power gained from a pact with an evil being was flawed, a loan that could be recalled at any time. Right now, Torin was little more than a vessel, a host for the entity he’d sacrificed to.

"You have to understand, Torin," Ogu’s voice dropped, low and conspiratorial. "Beyond the rank of lord, every single step forward is a monumental struggle. Any method that helps you advance is a method worth trying."

He sounded like he was trying to convince Torin, but also, perhaps, himself.

"If you succeed, the method works. Why should you care if the path is cruel or wicked? Am I right, Torin?"

Feeling Ogu’s gaze on him, Torin looked up and met the puppet’s eyes.

"You’re right," he said, his voice firm. "I’ll accept any method, as long as it gives me power."

His gaze was resolute. In that moment, he finally felt he had the strength to truly contend for dominion over the continent.

"I’ll hold up my end of the bargain," Torin declared. "Soon, you and I will both have a territory of our own."

Torin was dead serious, but Ogu’s response was less than optimistic.

"You and I are not enough, Torin. Not even close," the puppet said, his tone all business. "We have to push north, sweep up more lords into our ranks. Only then will we have a force that can truly stand against the human kingdom."

Ogu’s analysis of the continent’s political landscape was chillingly clear.

"And have you considered this? The human kingdom will likely rally other factions to deal with us. The stoneheart horde, the dragons, the blood elves... they are all our potential enemies."

On this point, Torin had his own ideas. He didn’t share Ogu’s bleak outlook.

"The Stoneheart Horde will likely be our enemy, thanks to the assassination you orchestrated to sow chaos," Torin conceded. "But I believe we can negotiate with the dragons and the blood elves. We can send an envoy."

Making an enemy of every major faction on the continent was suicidal. Torin was clear-headed enough to understand that. He believed in complex diplomacy, in offering strategic benefits to carve out a space for them to survive and thrive.

"It’s not that simple, Torin!" Ogu’s voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "The fall of the dwarven Tribe is a feast, and the Stoneheart Horde, the dragons, and the blood elf race will not pass up a slice of the cake. It is the nature of great factions. The fundamental law of this cruel world."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Think about it. To them, our Avenger armies are just another piece of that cake, and not a small one. Tell me, does a diner negotiate with the meal on his plate?"

The words hit their mark. Torin listened, processing the cold logic. But he held fast to his own convictions.

"Fine," Torin said, his decision made. "We’ll prepare for both outcomes. We’ll try your way, and we’ll try mine. Maybe one of them will create an opening for us. No?"

He wouldn’t abandon his own strategy without trying it first, without seeing it fail with his own eyes.

Whenever his opinion clashed with Ogu’s, his own would take precedence.

Torin was acutely aware that he couldn’t let himself be manipulated, couldn’t let anyone else pull his strings.