At that moment, the whips began to tremble; they were writhing as if they were alive. Only a breath's time would pass before they started striking like lightning within the rain of arrows.
Number seven's technique, Metal Storm, took its name from the substance the whips were made of and the image it created while being applied. The movement pattern designed for normal whips had been carried to a completely different dimension with the superior physical strength of the orc race and heavy whips.
"Not bad at all! Except for a small gap remaining behind him, your warrior is completely untouchable, Miloş!"
His whips were shattering the arrows they contacted. While the hum of the wind created was wearing down ears, he was very comfortable against attacks coming from three sides. This was the skill of a master-level practitioner. Maybe he wasn't legend-level like Nafız, and there was still a long way for him to reach even expert level, but he looked like an untouchable demon to the enemies facing him.
When the incoming attacks ended, number ten, who had been hiding behind his friend throughout this time, returned to the place he previously climbed in one move.
He had new targets because he had set his sights on the archer unit among the enemy warriors. While rapidly drawing and sending the five arrows he notched on his bow to their targets, his hand was quickly going to his quiver and grabbing the other five arrows.
Not even a breath's time passed between him stretching and shooting the arrows and notching new ones. There were two questions in the minds of the rebel tribe commanders watching him; one, how could he be so fast? Two, when would the arrows in the tiny quiver he carried on his back run out?
Although the answers were very easy, it was impossible for them to know. They couldn't guess that the technique he used, the bow in his hand, and the quiver were the marvels of the reward dungeon.
Together with his friend standing like the judge of death with whips in his hand, they possessed superior kinetic vision. Besides this, number ten could use his remaining four senses at high levels too. It was impossible for the slightest change in the area he was in to escape his radar.
His bow was a composite bow just like the one the Blood God used; small but almost as strong as a longbow. Actually, his arrows had a limit, but this number corresponded to a figure impossible for a standard quiver to reach. At the same time, the quiver, which was an interspatial storage item, could hold more than a hundred thousand arrows inside. What they spent so far wasn't even one-thousandth of number ten's stock.
Before the second batch of arrow attacks started, more than twenty enemy archers lost their lives. This time the archer in black armor didn't hide behind his friend. Before Metal Storm started, stepping on number seven's head with one foot, he hurled himself backward.
This move granted him the opportunity to glide in the air for a while. Number ten would use this opportunity created to shoot ten more arrows at enemy archers. When the second attack ended, thirty of the enemy archer unit of a hundred people were no more. While the attacks they made were useless, fear fell into these orcs losing a friend at every moment.
The attacks of number seven, who had already climbed onto his friend's back, were striking the final blow to their broken enthusiasm; five people were dying every time he drew his bow without a single miss. When their numbers dropped by half, the archers scattered in panic; they were open targets, which was the last thing they wanted to be. Their shielded comrades who were supposed to protect them weren't by their side; everyone's only concern right now was not dying.
The technique of the archer in the Elite Ten was incredible; he was scattering death even from atop a moving target. Every arrow he shot found its target; he was focusing his shots on carefully chosen vulnerable spots.
Maybe he wasn't a Sangre, but with the newly created style, he was at a completely different level from his kin. In this technique, which would be known as the Orc Trilogy, emphasis was placed on the most important elements.
In the method created based on speed, balance, and accuracy, the element of strength needed for other races was considered last. Because orcs never experienced trouble in this regard due to their superior physiques.
Panic started in the rebel tribe suffering a great defeat on two fronts. They were slowly realizing that the numerical superiority they trusted so much at the beginning meant nothing.
On top of that, other duos used neither ability nor reward dungeon items. While some had axes and some short swords in their hands, they were rapidly killing whoever appeared before them.
"I guess these show-offs didn't like their opponents! Look at their airs!"
While Nafız spoke grinning, her eyes were on number one and two. When Miloş turned in that direction, he saw his master wasn't wrong. This team was the slowest duo with the lowest efficiency, and they didn't even deign to attack anyone other than those coming right up to them and jumping to their death.
"Ma'am, you know how arrogant they are! I'm bringing them to their senses immediately!"
Just as Miloş tensed his muscles to leap from his place, a voice caught his ear.
"No need, the war will end in a moment anyway!"
While the Blood God observed the condition of her warriors, she didn't neglect to take the pulse of the battlefield either. The winds were blowing in the place of the previous morale and desire of the rebel tribe warriors. Due to the fear of death descending upon them like a nightmare because of their friends falling one by one, their steps were going backward.
Shortly after the first axe fell to the ground, knees hitting hard followed it. In the section where number seven and ten fought, a few warriors threw their weapons, prostrated, and fell to the ground. Death was coming towards them at full speed; no matter how much they resisted, they would lose their lives a few breaths later.
At that moment, a warrior remembering Nafız's words threw his weapon and bowed his head because the enemy commander had said, "Kill everyone except those who throw their weapons and prostrate!"
He wanted to try his luck; what good was pride after death in the end? While waiting with his eyes closed, it would take a long time for him to feel he was still breathing. Let alone the outside world, his communication even with himself was cut off out of fear.
He turned his head slowly to the side and saw the corpses of his friends with whom he joked and had fun in the morning. They were in the same row before the war started. They were dead, and he was alive. He had made his choice correctly and was receiving its reward by being able to breathe for one more day.
Not only he but all rebel tribe warriors were witnessing this scene. The archer hitting everything he shot was skipping the prostrated warriors. Of course, there were those wanting to take advantage of this situation; there were people among them faking falling to the ground and chasing the appropriate moment to attack later.
Their ends wouldn't be pleasant at all; warriors activating their abilities specifically didn't kill them, leaving them crippled to torture later. They couldn't wait calmly on the ground anymore; screaming in pain, they were begging to die.
After developments, warriors surrendering one after another exceeded half of the total enemy number. This wasn't the future promised to them. They would have their own lands, live like kings without answering to anyone, for the feelings sprouting inside them were always in this direction.
They wanted to be wild and unruly; the heritage remaining from their ancestors made them do this. Alyon and Nafız were fighting exactly against this right now. The Elite Ten representing the new generation orcs were tasked with destroying bad habits remaining from the old times.
Before long, no one was left who could fight in front of the orcs coming to the tribe with a single wagon. Rebels were waiting with their weapons thrown and foreheads on the ground. Nafız, quite pleased with this state of theirs, would start speaking while walking slowly.
"So you finally came round, you brainless ones! You allowed the Main Orc Tribe, incapable of protecting itself, to deceive you! Therefore, the end awaiting all administrative supervisors is death!"
The Blood God had just finished her words, but four heads had already flown into the air from among the prostrated crowd. When number eight applied the given order, orcs standing near the dying people felt only a breeze.
The tribe chieftain, his son, logistics and warrior chiefs were no longer living. While this situation frightened other orcs, Nafız raised her voice one pitch higher.