A pair of strong feet left cracks on the ground.
For Marcus’s battle plan given in a short ti, Gorg only heard the first and last sentences.
The head, which wasn’t particularly smart to begin with, appeared even more clumsy with the surge of barbarian anger within.
Being able to stand still and wait for Marcus’s command before acting was already his limit.
Naturally, he couldn’t spare the brainpower to think about the intention behind such an arrangent at such a tense mont.
In the instant when his feet left the ground and his body lunged forward due to a powerful explosive force, his mind was seized by a single thought—
"Gorg, crush your skull!"
But as it turned out, if the thought was all there was without matching strength, it wasn’t enough for the Half orc to realize his unrealistic expectation.
The iron embedded wooden stick, as thick as the waist of a grown man at its thickest, ultimately did not land on the knight’s bucket helm.
Instead, it hit the knight’s belly because of an unexpected dodge that didn’t match his bulky fra.
This was an eerie experience that Gorg had never felt before.
Under the grip of muscles swollen with veins bulging, the first contact and collision with the iron embedded wooden stick was the surface of the knight’s belly, seemingly embedded in fat, covered by tal armor.
"Boom!"
A dull crash, like the toll of a bell, burst in the air.
Gorg wasn’t unfamiliar with this. He had encountered enemies clad in heavy armor like tin cans before.
He admitted the defense ability of those who wore iron plates; so armor was so well made that even his full strength would only leave a dent on the tal surface.
But the side effect of their strong defense ability was their overly slow movent speed.
And if he caught the opportunity, hitting them hard on the head or chest with his big iron rod,
No matter how sturdy the armor, the blood and bones protected within would turn to mush, like a shaken egg.
But the situation was different now.
The knight’s armor remained firm even when deford, which Gorg expected.
But beneath the armor, the massive belly that pushed the tal plates up demonstrated a far more terrifying defense ability than the armor itself, with those folds of flesh and deep purple veins laced with heavy fat.
The iron embedded wooden stick, carrying a force that could shatter an ordinary human, was swallowed instantly by the fat and at, disappearing without a trace.
Even though he exerted all his strength to the limit, hitting it only produced a sound without any feedback; all the force seed to sink without a trace.
Even the half-orc head, muddled by the power of anger and operating purely on instinct, ca to a montary halt.
The next second, what pulled Gorg back to reality was the sharp whistle of a heavy object tearing through the air from his side, coupled with a roaring alarm of danger in his heart.
Instinct alone made Gorg turn his body to the side.
So that the tal flail ant to hit his forehead went rely past his body.
It didn’t take his life...but it did take half an arm, along with a large chunk of flesh from his side.
The muscular, towering body spun to the side with the inertia of the flail.
In mid-air, the corner of his eye caught a familiar sharp shadow flashing past, turning into a slender arrow precisely shooting into the knight’s faceplate seam.
Though not enough to imdiately deprive him of combat ability, it caused his large body to stiffen montarily.
"Ah yes! Gorg still has teammates!"
The rapidly fading life force, combined with pain and the anger power draining out with the blood, made the half-orc’s mind start working again.
Marcus’s plan from earlier reappeared vividly in his mind.
"Hold on a little longer, wait for the dwarf and the captain to clear the surrounding small fries, then Gorg can..."
The thought was cut off halfway.
Because the half-orc lying on the cold ground saw the three figures who slipped to the other side of the square unnoticed while he was attracting the enemy’s attention, quickly disappearing into the depths of the fog.
Leaving behind only the black fletching still trembling at the arrow’s end sticking into the knight’s helt, and the human ranger with a longbow at the end of the team. As they vanished into the dense fog, that ranger gave Gorg one last look—cold and ruthless, eyes devoid of any emotion.
Realizing he’d been used as bait and abandoned, a surge of indescribable fury burst forth from his chest.
The special anger power blessed by the barbarian class masked the weakness, pain, and numbness spreading in him.
Torn apart by fury, his body temporarily forgot the reality of being gravely injured.
The still intact right arm bulged and braced against the ground, the powerful body wrapped in crimson energy began to rise from the ground, ready to return to the fight.
But once more, the flail, gleaming with cold tallic light, swept toward him with terrifying montum.
This ti, it struck the half-orc’s waist.
The fiery rage gathered monts ago, along with Gorg’s spirit, was completely scattered, turning into powerless fragnts drifting away.
The bleeding body flew through the air like a ragged sack, spinning and rolling on the ground.
The intense pain was fleeting, blocking his sense of pain yet again.
This ti, however, it was not due to the augnting effect of barbarian rage power under a death struggle.
It was the instinctive protective chanism of the body in the face of heavy injury, just before death.
His consciousness grew hazy.
Gorg’s eyes suddenly flashed with scenes of the past, even those mories long forgotten appeared vividly before him.
This should be what the old ones in the tribe spoke of, signs of a soul ready to leave the body, near death.
In that mont, he could even hear the sharp air squeezed out of the knight’s bucket helm with each breath and felt the subtle tremors of blood and mud flowing on the ground.
"Tap."
Then, from sowhere behind him, from where the Blood Blade Squad ca—
Unconcealed, unfamiliar footsteps sounded in the thick fog.
"Who?"
Gorg wondered instinctively.
But his only response was the inexplicable billowing of mist and a long, high-pitched wolf howl.
Darkness.
As if erging from the bottomless abyss, sending chills of fear, it silently spread as the mane swayed.
Brimming with explosive energy, slender, elegant limbs stepped lightly on the ground, leaving no trace as if a fignt of imagination.
Wolf eyes deep and cold, like icy pools in a gorge.
Gaze fixed on the fearso shadow looming in the fog, Gorg felt his consciousness frozen by an inexplicable tide of boundless fear.
"Wolf?"
The black shadow disappeared in an instant.
Replaced by the loud, sudden, and abruptly halted dry gasp from behind;
Accompanied by the sizzling sound of burning objects and the gritty sound of sharp objects slicing through flesh.
Bam—
It seed as though sothing heavy fell, causing the ground to tremble slightly.
"Glug glug..."
The sound of blood flowing, tal grating against the ground.
The sound of a sphere rolling on the ground.
Gorg once again saw the sa slender arrow by Ranger Qianli, piercing straight into the knight’s helt seam.
For the first ti, he saw close up the murky ochre eyes of the plump knight.
The bucket helm, sared with mud, still covered his face, though his head was already severed from the neck below.
Rolling on the ground until it hit his bloody waist, finally bringing it to a stop.
"Tap."
The footsteps sounded again.
They drew closer.
Stopping mid-draw, perhaps surprised by his faint remaining consciousness, the half-sheathed sword gave pause.
Unsheathed.
The blade whistled through the air.
Gorg’s perspective twisted and spun.
The last hint of light before his eyes was swallowed by darkness.
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