The Record of Orc Civilization

Chapter 482: The Baptism of Blood

As Moku dragged Furfur away, the battle between the monsters and the Demons exploded with unstoppable fervor. No trumpets blared; no tactical commands were issued by generals. When the two fronts collided, the battle broke like a burst dam. This was no organized military engagement; it was a colossal anarchy. Millions of monsters and Demons tore into one another as if unleashing a pure, primordial hatred that had simmered for millennia.

The air was thick with an orchestra of death: the clashing of steel against claws, the roar of weapons rending flesh, and the sickening snap of bones breaking before they could knit themselves back together. Hundreds of spells and magic circles clashed against the horizon, illuminating a hundred-mile radius like a lethal display of fireworks.

The atmosphere grew heavy with the metallic tang of spraying blood and the acrid stench of scorched mana from exploding mantras. The eyes of both monster and Demon had long since turned blood-red—whether reflecting the gore-soaked earth or the burning night sky. Yet, one thing was clear: a wide, ecstatic grin was plastered across the face of every combatant. They were feasting. It was an anarchic banquet gifted in blood and harmonized by the music of death.

The Asuras realized they could have easily dominated this celebration, but they knew Moku hadn’t thrown this party for them. The true protagonists were the other monsters—those who had spent their lives as strategic bait or laborers in the dark alleys. Thus, the Asuras contentedly adopted the same role Moku had played: clearing out the threats that were too powerful so the common monsters could enjoy their own revelry.

By any means necessary, the Asuras hunted down Level 5 and Level 6 Mana Demons, dragging them away from the center of the fray. Even after toppling these mighty foes, the Asuras did not intervene further. They stood back, watching from a distance with sharp, vigilant eyes, allowing their brothers and sisters to savor the pure combat. This was Moku’s promise to his people, and as the vanguard, the Asuras ensured that promise was kept.

Diru successfully lured the Level 5 Core Mana Demon away from the epicenter of the battle. His adversary was a practitioner of the Curse Spell Faction, specifically of the Pain type. Any strike that connected with an opponent would cause the victim to experience agonizing pain multiplied several times over. Not only that, but every single blow would leave behind a cursed brand, allowing the Mana Demon to trigger excruciating pain within his enemy at any moment of his choosing.

His domain was similarly attuned to suffering; it was capable of mirroring the sensation of pain endured by his opponents right back at them. To complement this, the Mana Demon could suppress the pain receptors within his own anatomy, rendering his combat style incredibly brutal, with a heavy focus on trading devastating blows.

However, Diru was not about to buckle under mere pain. He had no need to even activate his Vivid Dream—simply fighting with the techniques of the Mantra Path and Body Forging Path was more than enough. His Black Unicorn maneuvered with fluid agility, slipping through the enemy’s onslaught while relentlessly firing counterattacks of Brajadenta Beams from its horn. Diru was in no hurry to finish his foe; instead, he seemed to be merely playing around, intentionally dragging out a battle that should have been entirely one-sided.

Until finally, a clean hit from a Brajadenta Beam shattered the Mana Core in his opponent’s chest. A moment later, the Mana Demon’s body collapsed and spontaneously crumbled into pieces.

After ensuring his enemy was dead, Diru glanced around and saw that the other Asuras had already completed their assignments. He made his way back toward the center of the battlefield—not to join the fray, but to check if there were any remaining domain users from the Mana Demon faction.

It appeared he would be able to rest shortly. There were no domain users left; every single one had been hunted down one by one and easily defeated by his comrades. Without Furfur’s presence, the demon army was utterly incapable of matching the absolute might of the Asura race.

Diru ultimately chose to perch on the branch of a tree, observing the other monsters relishing the grand warfare they had long yearned for. The other Asuras, who likewise found no remaining enemies to fight, joined him; they sat back casually, watching the course of the war play out like spectators at a show.

The battlefield had long since transformed into a landscape of horrors. Flesh was stripped from bone as Demon claws tore through the front lines. Bones shattered under the massive hammers of Hobgoblins who fought as if they had no tomorrow. Wild spells filled the heavens until even the moon, trying to peek through the clouds, was obscured by the dust of death.

The slaughter lasted through the night. The screams of the dying gradually faded into the heavy, labored breathing of the survivors as the sun began to crawl toward the eastern horizon. When the dawn finally illuminated Bitter Maja, it revealed only a sea of corpses. Mountains of Demon and monster carcasses were piled as high as hills. The earth was no longer brown; it was a soggy mire, slick with pools of blood that had yet to soak into the soil.

Yet, amidst this expanse of death, a miracle occurred.

The surviving monsters—Orcs missing limbs, Hobgoblins with shattered armor, Sylphs with torn wings—did not wail in grief. They cheered. Their roar was so thunderous it shook the heavens. In that single moment, the putrid political intrigues, the inter-caste hatred, and the festering sense of inequality that had plagued Wilwatikta... all of it died alongside the Demons.

What remained was simply the Monster. Every cell in their bodies vibrated with the euphoria of pure combat. They had finally found their true identity: they were not slaves, they were not servants; they were destroyers.

The Asuras, who had spent the night as mere spectators, began to emerge one by one. Every monster watched their arrival, but there was no longer any trace of hate or envy in their eyes. The Hobgoblins slammed their fists against their chests in a rhythmic salute, bowing their heads in a deep, unspoken gratitude that words could never capture.

They realized that last night’s feast was only possible because the Asuras had held the line. Without Furfur, the Demon army—despite being triple their number—was merely hot meat waiting to be devoured. Even so, the presence of Level 5 and 6 Demons would have ruined their sport if the Asuras hadn’t removed them. Because of this, the Hobgoblins and other monsters could finally understand the true meaning of battle. Though a Level 4 Mana Demon remained a formidable foe for them, that was exactly what made the victory meaningful.

Their blood still burned. The sight of their fallen brothers on the ground did not make them falter; it made them ready to start the same battle all over again. In fact, from the lingering smiles on the faces of the dead, one could see how happy they had been before death claimed them. A flicker of envy even touched the hearts of the living as they looked upon those who had preceded them to the Promised Land—a place where an even more glorious battle awaited them for eternity.

The sound of footsteps approached. Hundreds of thousands of remaining monsters turned as one. The Strongest Monster walked calmly toward them. In his hand hung a severed Demon head. Everyone knew it was the head of Furfur, the Volcano Demon.

Moku stood before his people, meeting every pair of eyes with a piercing gaze. He tossed Furfur’s head onto the muddy ground, where it rolled and came to a stop at Boku’s feet. He said nothing; he simply gave a slow nod, as if whispering, "Your vengeance is settled."

Moku turned back to the ranks of monsters before him, and his voice resonated directly within their minds.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, his voice hauntingly calm.

The sun continued to rise, and a mist began to creep from the cracks of the blood-stained earth.

"NOT YET!" the monsters answered in unison, a roar like a clap of thunder.

Moku gave a small, approving nod. "Good." He then raised his arms wide into the air, as if to embrace the entire world.

"My monsters! Finish the Nest of Calamity!"

Moku’s voice boomed, tearing through the remaining silence of the dawn. The red mist shifted as the sun climbed higher into the sky.

"Build me that Altar, and I swear upon the blood that soaks your feet today: I will not only lead you to a battle far grander than this, but I will lead you to bring the Apocalypse to every corner of this world! We will turn the earth into our playground, and every nation will tremble at the thunder of our footsteps!"

"NOT A SINGLE CREATURE SHALL SURVIVE THIS. GRANT MY REQUEST AND RECEIVE YOUR REWARD!"

The sunlight now fully bathed the battlefield, even as a creeping red mist began to swallow everything in its path.