The Time of Blood Sacrifice (IV)

"Kill! Show 'em who hates harder!"

Facing enemies dozens of times their number, Ur showed no intention of retreating.

After a brief run-up, he was the first to leap into the enemy horde.

"Aaagh!"

Like surf crashing through brush, he swung his fighting knife, guiding his massive body into the enemy ranks and leaving a trail of crimson behind him.

The enemy's weapons threw sparks from his armor and carved scars into his flesh, but he feared nothing. He fought with grim resolve, striking back at every foe within reach like a rabid Jumpy. He never flinched, throwing himself into battle solely to kill, ready at every moment to embrace death.

"Chop! I'm choppin'!"

The battle quickly became mechanical slaughter. Ur cut down one enemy after another, each victim split apart like a curtain before he moved on to the next.

To his boys, this boss was the living embodiment of war.

Half an hour later, the last abomination's head was severed, and twisted corpses carpeted the ground in dense layers.

Seven or eight figures, their bodies dyed red with blood, stood upon the battlefield like empty shells. Heavy breathing was the only sound.

Ur felt as though his limbs had been filled with lead. His blade had broken after he had cut down the hundredth—or perhaps the hundred and twentieth—enemy, and afterward he had simply kept picking up weapons from the dead.

Now he held a chipped axe.

Even an Ork as strong as him had nearly exhausted his strength in such an intense battle.

Ur could feel blood running down his neck. Two fingers on his right hand had been sliced off, while his stomach and back bore seven deep wounds.

Serious, but not fatal.

That silence returned. Not just him—his surviving boys seemed to have spent every