Betrayal

As the setting sun took away the last glimmer of twilight, humans and Gnolls once again returned empty-handed from the long, deadly ramp of Zul'Aman. Pale moonlight filtered through a few thin clouds, casting its light upon the slumbering earth and draping the looming, shadowy forest in a veil of shifting light and dark.

The massive offensives of the past few days had exhausted every ounce of the soldiers' strength. The human troops tasked with clearing the battlefield had become perfunctory, merely piling the non-human corpses into heaps to be burned. As for anything else, these drained soldiers had no energy left to care.

Thus, on this night of lax defenses, the Troll Warlord Kalekin, who had been lingering in the forest, slipped through the blockade before Zul'Aman with a few trusted subordinates to return to his clan. Failure and pain gnawed at his nerves every waking moment; he had to rally his warriors again, he had to take revenge on the humans!

The returning leader injected renewed courage into the demoralized Troll warriors, but he brought his kin no victory or hope as they had imagined—only news of defeat and the despair of falling into an abyss.

"Kalekin, you madman!"

The High Priest's staff slammed hard against the wooden floor, emitting a dull thud. On the left hand gripping the staff, every finger of the Troll priest dug tightly into the wood, his dark green skin turning a lighter shade from the sheer force of his grip.

Zulsh looked up at the Troll Warlord before him, whose face was half-charred, leaving him with only one eye. The Troll Champion, having suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of the humans, had long since lost his original reason; rage and hatred had completely consumed his every thought.

"The warriors of Zul'Aman will not move a single step! I will not let all my kin follow you into the abyss of death!"

The aged Troll priest roared with all his might, raising his withered right hand to point at the snarling loser opposite him, his voice filled with helplessness and despair: "There are barely any soldiers left who can still fight. Even holding the defensive line is straining our forces; to launch an offensive is nothing but a pipe dream!"

"Do you think I am asking for your permission, old thing?"

On the unscarred half of the Warlord's face, the green skin twitched unnaturally. He might have intended to wear a mocking expression, but the nearly necrotic left side of his face rendered the effort futile. Under the dim candlelight and deep shadows, this powerful Troll warrior looked like a demon crawled up from the abyss.

"No, I am merely telling you a fact! In three hours, I will lead the warriors who can still lift a weapon to launch a final raid on those humans who think they have already won. The Wild Spirit will protect us!"

With that, the brawny Warlord swung his great axe, the heavy weapon carving a blur through the dim light. With a sharp crack, the keen blade sank deep into the floorboards less than half a foot in front of the High Priest. The violent impact caused the entire wooden hut to shake and creak, as if it were a shack about to fall apart.

The gust of wind forced the aged High Priest to squint involuntarily. He studied the Warlord, who was more arrogant and insane than ever, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. Zulsh seemed to have made up his mind; he watched the other silently, his right hand, hidden within the sleeve of his fur robe, beginning to trace strange gestures.

For years, he had never truly clashed with Kalekin, and as he grew older and more frail, he had never had the chance to truly strike, but he remained a powerful spellcaster. He would not let the deranged Warlord send Zul'Aman—and the entire clan—to their doom.

However, the nearly insane Warlord clearly did not notice the other's subtle movements, instead waving his hands wildly and continuing his bluster: "The heroic warriors will reclaim their glory with their own hands! I will lead them to avenge the Champions who perished in this war!"

Then, he ceased all movement, stepped forward to the Troll priest, and bent down to pull his axe from the floor: "As for you, my High Priest, you coward who has lost all courage—even that captured fool Hamia is better than you!"

As the Warlord exposed the back of his head to the High Priest, Zulsh, who had been holding back, finally completed his movements. He extended his right hand, now shrouded in a grey-black mist, and pressed it against the back of the Warlord's head, letting out a fierce shout: "I will not allow anyone to destroy the Mossflayer Clan from my hands, not the humans, and not you!"

Wither Hand! The High Priest, who had always been kind and avoided conflict within the Mossflayer Clan, used this 7th-circle divine spell to show the mad Warlord the reason he had remained standing in his position—the terrifying reality of a 14th-level High Priest capable of casting 7th-circle spells.

Powerful death energy surged into the unsuspecting Troll warrior's body in an instant, followed by a violent eruption. In less than half a second, black light representing death and negativity enveloped the Warlord, draining his strength and causing the muscles in his limbs to wither at a visible rate.

The Warlord could clearly feel his strength and life force ebbing away—not because his senses were keen, but because the effect was simply too obvious. He could not even stand straight before collapsing to the ground; despite his frantic struggling, he was already too weak to even rise.

Yet this was only the beginning. Although this 7th-circle spell could wither an ordinary soldier to death, it was not yet a fatal injury for this physically robust Troll Warlord, whose constitution was nearly legendary.

"You... how dare you... betray... me..."

Zulsh looked expressionlessly at the once-haughty warrior, now reduced to meat on a chopping block due to a moment of carelessness, and shook his head slightly: "It is you who betrayed us. I will not let you destroy our clan."

Without hesitation, the Troll priest raised his staff and cast a small black cloud at the warrior lying on the floor—Shadow Word: Pain. This 3rd-circle spell quietly enveloped Kalekin's body. His frame twisted from the pain and corruption, but he no longer had the strength to make a sound.

With no time to spare for the convulsing corpse of the Warlord, the aged priest leaned on his staff and walked outside. He still had important matters to attend to—

Having served as Warlord of the Mossflayer Clan for years, Kalekin possessed a unit that was absolutely loyal to him. Now, he had to personally send these warriors, who might lash out due to Kalekin's death, into the embrace of the earth.