The Demon of The North-Chapter 146 - 145. The Battle

The first clash came like thunder.

Grey-skinned orcs poured through the shattered gates of Rothschild territory in a tide of muscle and iron, their tusked faces split by savage grins. They moved with brutal coordination, no formation, and no leadership, just barging and attacking anything that’s not orcs. Shields locking, axes raised, crude banners snapping in the smoke-choked air.

"Take it all!" one of the grim-looking orcs shouted.

To Leonhart and Mara, the cry registered as nothing more than a beast’s roar—raw, hostile noise stripped of meaning. It sounded no different from the mountain orcs they had fought before, creatures driven by instinct rather than thought. Neither of them realized, not yet, that these orcs were different, that they possessed structure, language, and a kind of intelligence all their own.

The orcs roared together, the sound rolling across the battlefield like a wave, thick with bloodlust and confidence. Weapons were raised, shields slammed against armor, and tusked faces split into savage grins.

Many of them believed this battle would be another easy victory, just like their campaign on the Aerthysia continent. Even the fierce resistance at the port there had only slowed them briefly; there was nothing they hadn’t crushed in the end.

They expected the same here. Yet doubt lingered at the edges of their confidence.

Some of the warriors glanced uneasily at the opposing lines, memories surfacing of the last encounter, the one that had wiped out their elite scout knights in a single, overwhelming strike. That power had come without warning, swift and absolute.

As they studied the armored figures standing before them now, a question crept unspoken through their ranks. "Were these the same knights?"

But strength was their religion.

To the orcs, power isn’t just a virtue; it’s a law, faith, and purpose all at once. An orc without strength had no right to draw breath, no place among the living. Weakness isn’t pitied nor forgiven. It’s erased. Those who couldn’t push forward are meant to fall and perish, their bodies trampled into the soil to feed the next generation of warriors.

So no matter how unsettling the memory of their previous encounter was—no matter how that unanswered fear gnawed at the back of their minds—they couldn’t hesitate. Doubt itself is a kind of weakness, and weakness is a crime punishable only by death.

They tightened their grips on the axe and spear. They lowered their heads, tusks bared, muscles coiling beneath grey skin scarred by countless battles. Whatever awaited them ahead, those knights, that unknown power, they would meet it head-on. If they’re strong enough, they will conquer it.

And if they aren’t, then they would die, as their creed demanded.

Fenclade’s forces are the first to surge forward, claws scraping stone, hooves and talons pounding the earth. The mammal-beastmen ran low and fast, eyes glowing gold, while the reptilian warriors struck from the flanks with terrifying speed. Above them, avian beastmen screamed through the sky, wings cutting the air as they dove, talons extended, ripping into exposed orc ranks before pulling away again.

An orc captain swung his cleaver in a brutal arc, the blow heavy enough to split armor and bone alike. A horned beastman met it with his weapon, steel ringing as spirit energy flared, but the sheer force still drove the blade through, cleaving from shoulder to chest.

The beastman fell with a strangled cry. Before the orc could savor the kill, the air shifted. A fox-beastman slipped beneath his guard, movements sharpened by spirit-bound agility, and drove twin daggers, etched with glowing runes, into the backs of the captain’s knees.

The spirit magic detonated on impact. The orc collapsed with a furious roar, crushed moments later beneath the charge of advancing claws and steel. Neither side yielded easily.

The orcs fought like walking fortresses, shields absorbing blow after blow, their thick hides turning shallow cuts into nothing more than irritation. When they struck back, bones shattered. A minotaur beastman is driven to one knee by a hammer blow that caved in his armor. He rose anyway, bellowing, and snapped the orc’s neck with both hands.

Then the Borgia elite moved.

Mara held her position, deliberately allowing Leonhart to indulge in the fight first before stepping forward herself. She knew better than anyone what would happen otherwise.

The mixed-blood soldiers were far stronger than the beastman warriors, deadlier, faster, and far more disciplined. If they advanced too early, the battle would end before it had truly begun. So she waited.

When they did move, they advanced in perfect lines. Dark, sigil-marked armor caught the light as if absorbing it, and eyes burned with an unnatural glow beneath helms and shadows.

These are imperial knights, the Borgia elite, carrying mixed blood through their veins: werewolf, beastman, and demon, bound together by ruthless training and an unshakable shared purpose. Each step they took pressed authority into the ground itself.

The sight of them, led by Mara, is awe-inspiring. From above, Liselotte watched, unable to tear her eyes away. There’s a terrible beauty in their formation, in the way power and restraint existed side by side. Their presence alone seemed to bend the battlefield, turning chaos into something almost orderly.

"Those are the Borgia elites?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the clash below.

"Yes, Your Grace," the avian warrior replied, wings steady as she hovered beside Liselotte. "They are the strongest force on this continent."

Liselotte hesitated, then asked softly, "Stronger than Leonhart?"

The avian warrior smiled, a knowing curve of her lips. "Which is why we submit to the emperor."

Liselotte let out a quiet breath. "Ah. I forgot about that."

Bones cracked and armor reshaped along enchanted seams as they unleashed their full power—mixed blood revealing itself at last. Demon fused with werewolf. Beastman bound with demon. Beastman intertwined with werewolf. Their bodies expanded and sharpened, strength multiplying as magic reinforced flesh and steel alike. Swords grew with them, reforged in a heartbeat to fit clawed hands and altered grips.

They struck the orc shield wall like a living battering ram.

Wood splintered. Iron buckled.

A lion-wolf knight with burning red eyes tore straight through the fractured line. His fangs sank into an orc’s throat as his blade drove cleanly through another’s chest in the same motion.

The bodies fell together, grey skin torn open, dark blood steaming as it spilled across the ground beneath his clawed feet. The line didn’t hold. Behind them, demon-blooded soldiers raised their hands, and hellfire bloomed.

Not wild, indiscriminate flames, but controlled, surgical lances of infernal magic. Fire punched through orc armor, igniting from within, detonating shields, and tearing formations apart in violent bursts of heat and light.

Screams cut through the chaos as the smell of scorched flesh filled the air, thick and choking, mixing with smoke, blood, and iron. The battlefield burned. And the Borgia elite advanced through the flames, unstoppable.

The orcs began to feel it deep in their bones, an instinctive dread that crawled beneath muscle and pride. This is no ordinary resistance. They had met their equal. Perhaps worse.

The beastmen alone had already pushed them back, forcing their formations to bend and fracture under relentless pressure. Claws, steel, and spirit-bound weapons had taken their toll. But the second wave, the ones advancing now, are something else entirely.

These warriors didn’t resemble any single race. They’re like living chimeras, blending bloodlines into forms that are both terrifying and beautiful. Power radiated from them with every step. They struck harder and faster, with a precision that made each blow feel deliberate and fatal. Where the beastmen had inflicted wounds, these new warriors caused complete destruction.

Even their magic is different. Magic had never been a problem for the orcs of Calonia; their hides are thick enough to resist most spells. That was why it had been so easy to plunder the Aerthysia continent; flames scorched, lightning stunned, and curses bruised, but rarely did any of it truly break them.

But the magic used by this second group of warriors of this continent isn’t the same. It didn’t just bruise or burn their skin. It tore.

Infernal energy and warped spirit-force ripped through grey flesh as if it were cloth, splitting muscle from bone, shattering the orcs’ natural resilience. Shields that had held against siege weapons buckled. Armor warped and melted. The ground itself seemed to recoil beneath their advance.

Slowly—inevitably—the balance shifted.

The orcs still fought savagely. They still hunt. They still roared defiance into the smoke-choked sky. But they’re losing ground. Formations frayed. Lines buckled. Their elites fell one by one, hunted down by avian assassins who dropped from the clouds like death itself and the magic coming from those warriors with crimson eyes, beautiful yet deadly.

An orc warlord, towering even among his own kind, rallied what remained of his forces for one final push. He charged forward, axe spinning in a deadly arc, intent on cutting down two beastmen in a single sweep.

He never reached them. A fox beastman with crimson eyes stepped into his path, beautiful in a lethal, unnatural way. Her fur burned a deep crimson beneath the smoke-filled sky, and her eyes glowed the same merciless red. She moved once. Just once.

Steel flashed. The warlord’s roar is cut short as she tore through him in a single, precise slice. His massive body split, momentum carrying him forward for half a step before he collapsed into the mud, lifeless.

But the battle isn’t done. Another warlord, just as massive and just as furious, is already locked in combat nearby. This duel was brutal from the first strike.

Axe met sword in a shower of sparks, tusks snapping inches from fangs as the two collided again and again. Each blow shook the ground beneath them.

The orc landed a crushing strike, the impact shattering one of the beastman’s shoulders with a sickening crack. The beastman staggered but did not fall.

Spirit-light flared. Healing magic surged instantly, woven through muscle and bone. Flesh knit itself back together, the damage undone before blood could even spill. The beastman rolled his shoulder once, testing it, then bared his teeth in a feral grin.

The duel continued—faster now, deadlier. Another warlord fell.

That’s the breaking point. The remaining orcs began to retreat, dragging their wounded with guttural snarls and broken howls. They didn’t flee in panic; Calonian orcs never did.

Instead, they pulled back step by bloody step, shields raised, backs straight, refusing to turn away even as blood soaked the ground beneath their feet. Pride kept them standing. Strength demanded it.

Above the battlefield, Liselotte saw it all. "No!" she screamed, her voice sharp with fury and command. "Kill every last one of them!"

Leonhart looked up, ears flicking, and grinned despite the blood streaking his armor. "Aye aye, my lady."

Mara cracked her neck once, rolling her shoulders as if warming up for a proper exercise. "Well," she said calmly, raising her voice so it carried across the field, "you heard what the Viscountess said. Drink the healing tonics—"

Glass shattered as vials were uncorked and tossed aside. "—and hunt those orcs." The response is immediate.

Beastmen surged forward, no longer holding formation. Then the Borgia elite joined the chase. There will be no mercy now. Only pursuit.