Orc Tyrant

Sharak is not stupid. He once sold his body and soul to demons as a weapon, but he knew secrets that his brothers did not know.

Discipline is the key to mastering and controlling. Even the most powerful demons cannot fight against a tightly guarded human soul. They can share flesh and blood, but they absolutely cannot rule his existence.

This demon is so powerful that he doesn't even know what it is called, but has asked him a lot in the last few days, and at this critical moment, it demands everything.

But he is not stupid. Prudence and vigilance are the only ways for him to deal with creatures in this field. He has seen too many of his brother's shells become a boarding nest for demonic wisdom, and all the previous existence has disappeared.

Angry Oak howling below, they are not like wolves, but a group of madmen.

The howl of a wild beast is a product of the laws of nature, while the howl of a madman is the joy of fusion of anger and equal torture, born from a life that has been spurned and distorted.

He turned his head to look at the fuzzy stone pillar.

"At my request, you pursued my voice for several days and nights. Now you are standing in front of the stone statue carved by the sinner in my image. You have completed all the tests to prove that you are worthy of this integration. Shahrak, what about now?"

"I'm ready."

Sharak said, making a signature gesture in front of his throat and taking off his helmet.

He could hear the friction between the iron boots and the rock, and Ok was about to arrive. From the moment he failed to assassinate the boss, the mad dogs would not stop chasing after him.

In his impression, each integration is very different.

Once it was like a hammer hitting his nerves, as if the devil was getting into his body in an invisible way.

Sometimes, it was like a series of unconscious sensory explosions-the shadow of the lost soul passed from the corner of his eyes, and at the same time, whispers from the whole world came in his ears.

This time, he felt that the integration was a physiological change, which was a welcome blasphemy for his bleeding and convulsing body.

The pain goes deep into the bone marrow and crushes it.

"Well……"

He fell to his knees. Then his eyes hardened in the eye sockets and merged with the bones behind him. He flicked them, scratched them, and pulled them, but his eyeballs had turned into stone **** in the skull, dotted from his face. Protruding spine.

Power brings a powerful sense of fascination, and no combat potion or tranquilizer can compare with the power that penetrates into his muscle fibers.

He tore his armor, he no longer needed these protections, and the metal broke and scattered all over, making room for the growing chitin carapace.

Sharak endured the pain, concentrated, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat.

Control, control, control!

It’s just pain, it won’t kill him, it can be overcome...but

The pain is too strong, far beyond the integration of all the past experiences, the pain reaches his essence, beyond the limit his flesh and blood can bear, the pain penetrates his bones and transforms into something deeper, more concrete and more Something fragile.

"I'll give you a lesson"

The voice said:

"Not all pain can be controlled."

Sharak turned around and yelled through the mouth that had turned into a mouth full of sharp teeth. His jaw was almost out of control.

Gradually, his voice faded, and his cry stopped abruptly, turning into a strange laugh.

"Not all enemies can be defeated."

Fear, the fear that appeared for the first time in his life, flooded his body with adrenaline.

"My new servant, hello, please call me... Wendigo."

————

A pilgrim from hell, standing on the edge of a towering cliff beyond comprehension rushing into the horizon formed by madness and pain, he looked down at the army below.

They are nothing but ants and rats.

A meaningless war fought by creatures the size of gravel.

His armor has been turned into broken copper and iron, and has been repaired countless times after countless battles. The weapons he used in the war have also disappeared.

His sword was broken in a massacre a few days ago.

He could see that among the ants surrounded below were a group of people named Shadow Blade.

For a while, he was also one of them, serving as a vanguard in the war, issuing a series of stable orders or listening to reports that came in ceaselessly, with smiles in the corners of his eyes and laughter from his lips during the killing.

At such a distance, he couldn't tell which army was at war or whether they still had an organization.

Even a glimpse through the sand and dust can reveal the most conspicuous fact that mankind once again lost in the face of enemies whose numbers overwhelmed them.

Personal courage and heroism are useless here.

A battle can consist of tens of thousands of duels of individual souls, but it is impossible to win a war.

The wind, as always, a traitor in this field, brought the irregular fragments of the roar from the valley below to his ears, and he let the wind blow by his side without any guilt, as if he didn't care about him untie it. Long hair flying in the wind generally doesn't have any sense of killing and screaming.

He squatted down and held the red sand on this spine of land in his hands. His eyes never left the battlefield. Even though he had no interest in who lives and died, his fighting instinct still pushed him.

Below him, Oak's Storm Boy hovered or flew over the battlefield, adding the clamoring bullets into the frenzy of the battlefield below.

Ouke's giant machinery-at this distance only the size of his finger-traversed the crowd, and the flash of their weapons when they fired was still enough to leave a bright and dazzling trail in his vision.

He smiled, not because of the fight.

What is the name of this world?

He found that he didn't even know the answer to this question.

His curiosity has brought him to one world after another, and he is here now watching many creatures die in the thousands, not even knowing what is worth their lives to defend.

How many warriors fighting, bleeding, and screaming in the valley below he recognizes?

The vast majority.

He didn't have any doubts about it, and at the same time felt ridiculous about it.

He stood up, opened his clenched fists, and let the wind blow away the lifeless dust in his hands. The dust turned into mist under the light of the bleak sun hanging in the sky and disappeared from sight.

The slender figure turned away from the battle and left the cliff. The footprints marked his course, but he believed that the wind would cover up the footprints for him before anyone noticed this.

He looked towards the horizon,

In a space invisible to the naked eye, he saw three huge minarets in the west rushing straight into the sky. These creations were not made by the skills of human beings or other lives, but were formed purely by divine ideas.

That will be his destination.

In this vision beyond rationality, the landforms shaped by greed and hatred are more real than mortal craftsmanship or the magical work of natural laws.

He once crossed the bridge of oblivion and stepped on the stone island suspended in nothingness.

He has explored the tombs of countless kings, but he did not take away a trace of the priceless treasures inside.

He has traveled through hundreds of worlds where reality and illusion blend in the realm, and he turned a deaf ear to that feast.

What drives him is curiosity, and what sustains him is faith.

Once, all he needed was happiness, but the master's will has cooled this core.

Silas was no longer a mortal, no longer a shadow blade.

He now calls himself the Masked Prince, representing the great will of the Hungry Lady, walking in this land.