"Low-health elite? Come on, how do you not go for the kill?"
Eric had seen it with crystal clarity: that last arrow had dropped the orc squad leader down to a mere seven HP.
Execution threshold: achieved.
Without a second thought, Eric scrambled out of the tunnel. Before the nearest orc could even grunt in alarm, he had his sword drawn. One swift, clean arc—shhhk—and the squad leader was sprawled on the ground, lifeless, health bar completely wiped.
With their leader gone, the surrounding orcs panicked. The pack of dire wolves that carried them faltered as well, ears pinned and nostrils flaring, no longer sure who to follow.
Eric didn't waste a moment. He surged into the chaos like a whirlwind of steel, slicing through both riders and mounts, cutting down several before they could even raise a weapon in retaliation.
The scent of blood thickened, coppery and sharp. Finally, one orc snapped back to its senses and shrieked, "Kill him! He's alone!"
Schwing!
Eric's blade flashed again. The wolf beneath the yelling orc collapsed, its legs severed mid-gallop. One more upward strike and the rider's head snapped back unnaturally before tumbling off his mount.
That orc—trying to rally the others—had barely finished a sentence before he was dead.
With the would-be commander gone, chaos took over again. Some orcs still tried to charge, thinking they'd overwhelm the lone human.
They didn't get far.
Eric needed only two hits to kill, sometimes not even a third. His sword cut through them like a butcher through raw meat.
They had no formation. No discipline. Just a mob of grunting bodies hurling themselves forward, one by one, like children trying to rescue their grandpa in a burning house. It was idiotic.
The ones outside the brawl didn't help either. They just clumped together, yelling, blocking the retreat of those inside like a bunch of clueless concert-goers trying to crowd into the exit at once.
Some tried barking orders. Those didn't last long. Eric made sure of that. Even if he had to take a few hits, he'd always prioritize decapitating anyone who looked like they were about to become a new leader.
At that moment, he deeply understood the difference between a force with command… and one without.
When that orc captain had been alive, Eric had to sneak around, pick off targets from the shadows, and run the second he got a kill. One second too late, and he'd be dogpiled.
But now?
If Eric didn't want to fight, he could leave whenever he felt like it.
The gap was immense.
'No wonder', he thought, 'in the War of the Five Armies, once Azog died, the entire orc host fell apart.'
A disorganized army without formation, with every fighter doing their own thing—no matter how many—was just a mob of headless flies. Nothing to fear.
Blood soaked his clothes, dripped from his hair, and spattered across his face, but the sword in his hand still gleamed—a steady, shining beacon like a star that never dims. That shining blade became the last thing many orcs and wolves would ever see.
When more than half of the cavalry unit lay dead or dying, Eric considered retreating.
After all, numbers didn't lie.
Even if the orcs were clumsy, if enough of them just flailed in his direction long enough, they'd eventually wear him down.
He was already at half HP, and his saturation bar wasn't looking great either.
But then something strange happened—the orcs began to hesitate.
They stared at the human—alone, blood-drenched, panting—but still upright, sword raised, eyes gleaming with the same sharpness as before.
And worse… he was healing.
Healing.
It terrified them. They didn't know what was scarier—the fact that he was still alive, or that he looked no closer to death than when the fight began.
He'd been stabbed. Slashed. Bitten. And yet, he just yanked the blade out and kept fighting like it was a morning jog.
One or two times was scary. Four or five was straight-up unnatural.
By now, many orcs were looking at Eric like he was some cursed reaper that couldn't be killed—only escaped.
Eric, meanwhile, had backed into a slight opening, shouted something fierce while waving his sword around for dramatic effect—and then hunched over and frantically chewed on dried beef jerky like his life depended on it.
Because, well… it did.
When his saturation bar finally hit full and his HP bar started creeping back up, Eric charged again.
"I'm just waiting to regen! What are you waiting for?"
The smell of blood thickened in the air, cloying and metallic.
And finally… the orcs broke.
Some died. Others ran. One way or another, the entire squad was annihilated.
Over twenty wolf-mounted orcs lay dead. Including mounts, that was more than forty bodies, littering the field like a butcher's yard after a festival.
Eric's glowing sword finally dimmed, its magical aura fading.
A system chime echoed in his ears:
[Faction Reputation: Valleyfolk +100]
[Faction Reputation: Dúnedain +100]
[Achievement Unlocked: Friend of the Hidden Vale]
[Achievement Unlocked: Ally of the Dúnedain]
Eric blinked. "Huh?"
He opened his status panel.
Apparently, once your reputation in a faction hits 10, they begin to see you as a friendly stranger. At 100, you're basically family.
"Well then," he muttered, "guess I'm officially best buds with people I haven't even met yet."
He glanced at the reputation log.
Ogers, orcs, and wolves—all enemies of the free peoples. Each kill had earned him a trickle of respect.
Not just from the Dúnedain or the Valleyfolk, either. Once word of this spread, other allied factions would also start viewing him more favorably—though probably not with quite the same enthusiasm.
Eric took another bite of his jerky. The sun was still high.
"Time to go say hi to a few more Ogers."
---
Unfortunately, he never found any.
He spent the entire night hiking over hills, ducking into caves, checking all the troll hotspots—and not a single one showed up.
Turns out, finding trolls required a lot of luck and more patience than Eric had.
Eventually, with his backpack stuffed full of loot—including a shiny enchanted longsword—and no Ogers in sight, Eric called it a day.
He hadn't found the legendary trio of treasure-hoarding trolls. Maybe fate had spared them—for now.
Back at the bridge where he'd hidden his horse, Eric lifted the stone hatch.
The horse blinked at him, perfectly fine.
"…Yeah, sorry about that. Locked you up for days," Eric said, patting its mane.
The horse just snorted and munched some grass, looking unimpressed but wise, like it had seen worse.
"Let's ride."
With one smooth motion, Eric mounted up and galloped eastward—riding until nightfall.
By evening, he pulled out his map, glancing around to compare landmarks.
"At this speed, I should reach the Hidden Valley by dawn," he estimated.
According to Farodan, there was a small, hidden path that led straight into the valley—
FWIP!
A sharp whistling sound sliced through the air.
"Wha—!?"
Eric's horse reared, startled. He nearly fell off.
Looking down, he saw an arrow lodged in the horse's side. Even with armor, it had taken seven HP.
Eric snapped his head toward the shadows.
A sea of glowing red eyes stared back at him from the treeline—hundreds, packed tightly in eerie silence.
Orc cavalry.
"OH, COME ON!"
Eric cursed, yanked the reins, and bolted in the opposite direction.
"Was that… a hit?"
The orc archer looked confused. "Pretty sure I got him. Why's that horse still sprinting like nothing happened?"
"After him!" someone bellowed.
A swarm of dire wolves and riders thundered forward in hot pursuit.
"Chief! That's the one who wiped out our unit in the Oger forest!"
An orc rider crept forward, his wolf limping and looking like it had PTSD.
"I know. The warlord put a bounty on his head."
The orc leader grunted, gripping his axe.
"I'll be the one to take it."
His mount howled, and the entire horde surged after Eric.
Meanwhile, Eric was mentally screaming, "Why me why me why me WHY ME—" (of course he know why.)
A hundred elite orc riders, all geared up like the king's own guard, and they were chasing him, a solo player with half a backpack of loot and indigestion from too much jerky.
He cursed under his breath, glanced back, and saw the mass still gaining.
"I've been running half the night. Do these wolves not get tired!?"
In theory, he had options:
—He could keep running and maybe tire them out.
—He could dig a hole, drop into it, and seal it up.
—He could bait them into a trap.
—He could fight…
Eric was mentally debating when he felt the ground start to tremble beneath him.
He looked up.
And there—on the edge of the plain, silver-grey shapes glimmered in the starlight.
A cavalry line.
He blinked.
"...Wait. Are those—?"