Praise the Orc

Chapter 221: A Great Path Has No Gate (4)

Back in the ancient times, there was a war.

It all started with the death of the God of Stars.

As the God of Stars returned to nothingness, it was the Ashen God, the overseer of all deaths, who conducted the funeral rites. She inherited the legacy of the God of Stars.

Thus, the Ashen God came to witness the fate of the universe and its very distant end.

A vision where the lights of the entire universe dimmed, the darkened world eternally sunk, and eventually returned to a state of emptiness, devoid of time and space, that was their final moment.

They were the last civilization remaining in the lonely universe.

And even that Eternal Sun was on the verge of extinguishing.

The Ashen God fell into despair.

She had an opportunity.

Through the inheritance she received from the God of Stars, she learned the grand magic of the cycle of life that could reverse the fate of the world by gathering their last powers for one last single moment.

However, time was running short, and the sun continued to set.

Before the power of their sun was exhausted, she sought to reverse the fate of the world.

The gods rebelled.

Thus, a conflict arose between the Ashen God and her followers, the races of death who were aiming to reset the cycle of the universe, and the gods of Olympus trying to stop them.

It was a gruesome fight.

And there he was.

Xantimur.

The most powerful dragon of all.

The dragons, who possessed almost a demi-god-level power, sided according to their beliefs in the conflict. Xantimur was one of those who sided with the Ashen God.

He was the last dragon tearing at the gods by her side until the Ashen God was defeated and cast into another dimension.

Despite most dragons dying or entering hibernation, he was able to preserve himself and remained fully awake thanks to his immense power.

After the Ashen God was defeated and cast into another dimension, Xantimur, left alone, contemplated the world.

Just like that, he became the hermit of the Black Forest.

"She has returned."

Xantimur built a fortress and extended his hand to those in need from there.

The recipients of his help were the main inhabitants of the world like humans, elves, and dwarfs, as well as marginalized beings like goblins, ogres, and trolls who were considered monsters.

Xantimur spent his time by their side and shared the joys and sorrows of these small and weak beings.

Their lives were but a moment compared to the time he had.

Yet, those moments he witnessed by their side were never in vain.

The intensity of their lives was impressive.

Compared to him and the gods, who had lived too long and lost the present, every minute and second of theirs shone almost too brightly.

"Do you truly wish to see the end...?"

The will of the Ashen God, striving to save the universe from its mortal fate and continue the cycle of life.

The sigh of a villager reflecting on a hard day's work while watching the setting sun.

Now, he could not tell which was more significant or heavy.

Xantimur closed his eyes.

The wind blowing into the fortress scattered his hair. His disciples, sensing the energy of the Ashen God, were looking toward the north. The usual bustling sounds of his lair were now submerged in silence.

The face of the Ashen God he remembered always bore a sad smile.

‘I will save the world from perishing.’

No one could see the world the way she did.

Therefore, no one could truly understand her despair.

‘I will not let the universe cool into eternity.’

In an era when the lifespan of the universe was nearing its end, the only thing she saw was death. She saw the vast darkness in the morning sunlight and resigned to the eternal void through a starless night sky. It was a sinking more terrible than death itself.

A cold wind blew in.

Xantimur closed his eyes.

Now, he did not know what he should do.

Suddenly, he thought of a warrior.

A man who had performed miracles wherever he went.

He had accomplished things that were thought to be impossible. He had slain the great chief who embraced calamity, faced a vast empire all by himself on the continent, and most recently, even defeated the gods.

Now, he was opposing the Ashen God in order to save the world.

The greatest warrior of that era.

Crockta.

It was a brief encounter, yet he was an unforgettable man. Rough and fierce but looked somewhat tolerable when he grinned. The force with which he swung his massive greatsword. The recklessness of charging without retreat.

What was the reason he could engage in such fights?

How could he do it?

"I am..."

Then, someone called him.

"Master!"

He turned around.

A kobold with an innocent expression was standing there.

He was a newcomer, weak and frail. His idols were the legendary archer goblin Kiao and the illusion marksman kobold Komojak. His disciples had found him passed out in the Black Forest after getting lost and dragged him to the lair.

"Today, I shot this much, kung!"

He proudly showed a straw dummy, now riddled with arrows, in front of him. The accuracy was lacking, with arrows strewn haphazardly, but he wore a face full of satisfaction.

"Tomorrow, I'll shoot twice as much, kung kung! Please train me again tomorrow, kung!" He said with a bright smile.

Tomorrow.

Xantimur watched him, dumbfounded.

This kobold knew nothing. Despite the countdown to the world's end ticking away, he spoke of tomorrow and laughed so carefreely.

Xantimur looked around.

His many disciples were watching him. An indescribable emotion flickered in their eyes.

"Tomorrow, huh?"

If the tomorrow spoken by this kobold were to come, that tomorrow wouldn't be this kobold’s alone but would belong to countless more. It would be a tomorrow for his disciples, all living beings, and Xantimur himself to enjoy.

With the setting sun, they would wrap up the day's work, and with sunrise, they would awake to face another day. Just like that, they would live through another day.

Every day, every moment.

Indeed.

It started to click.

"Twice as much won't be enough," Xantimur said in a gentle voice.

"Kung?"

"Not twice. You'll have to shoot three times as much. Do you think you can do it?"

The kobold looked astonished.

"T-three times, kung······."

Scratching his head and avoiding Xantimur's gaze, he looked at the straw dummy he'd turned into a rag, inspected the arrows, and pondered over the calluses and wounds on his hands. Eventually, unable to withstand Xantimur's stern look, he nodded.

"T-three times is a lot, kung... but, I'll try, kung...”

"Good."

Xantimur looked at the other disciples.

They were all watching him.

He spoke again.

"I want to see how much everyone has progressed tomorrow. It will be a grueling day. Are you all prepared?"

Their eyes widened. The disciples looked at each other and then began to nod one by one.

Xantimur smiled.

"Good."

His body levitated into the air.

Xantimur, who had the appearance of a young man, began to transform. Scales as black as his hair sprouted all over his body. Wings stretched out from his back, and the iris of a beast gleamed brightly in his eyes. Now, he had become a being as immense as his fortress.

A body large enough to cast a shadow over the entire lair.

With beautiful scales and broad wings, it was the most powerful race, the Dragon.

Xantimur's true form was revealed.

This was the new kobold’s first time seeing Xantimur’s true form, which even his older disciples had seldom seen. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

Xantimur, having reverted to a Black Dragon, whispered.

His voice was still as gentle as before.

‘Turn in early today and prepare for tomorrow.'

One disciple asked loudly.

"Where are you going, Master?!"

'I...'

Xantimur spread his wings and turned his body.

'I, too, will go to prepare for tomorrow.'

He soared toward the Temple of the Fallen God.

* * *

Kwaaaaaaaaaaa!

The Black Dragon's Breath cascaded like a waterfall toward the massive cannon. Crockta and Abaddon rolled to avoid the aftermath.

Kwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

The world was filled with ringing.

The Breath melted everything.

The breath that he released from his mouth engulfed everything, leaving behind only a vast cavity.

The ground flowed like lava. Where the ancient weapon once stood, now only a deep pit remained, emitting hot heat and smoke.

Crockta gazed blankly at the sky.

The Black Dragon he saw for the first time.

Yet, he knew exactly who the dragon was.

"Xantimur————!”

Xantimur had appeared and neutralized the enemy's weapon.

Crockta laughed. It was the salvation that he did not see coming.

"You were acquainted with Xantimur as well," Abaddon said with a hollow, hopeless voice.

"The Xantimur I knew... he once harbored our great will with us. Why is he getting in our way now?" He continued.

"Hah, I guess the Xantimur I know is different from the one you know,” Crockta replied.

Crockta did not know what he had been in the past. However, the Xantimur he knew was a hermit of the Black Forest living among monsters in his lair. He was not one who would follow the Ashen God's will.

Around Xantimur, who soared into the void, magic unfolded. Following his will, dozens of spheres were dropped toward the magic cannons.

"Keugh...!"

Abaddon stretched out his power to block Xantimur's attack, but Crockta quickly struck him. God Slayer moved toward his throat.

"Hup!"

Abaddon dodged the attack too late and was slashed on part of his arm. Flames rose from the wound, warping one of his arms.

"Kaaaak!"

He tried to calm the Eternal Fire caused by God Slayer with his magic, but it was not easily extinguished.

He floundered on the ground.

While he was busy trying to put out the fire, Xantimur destroyed every single one of the magic cannons.

With the shelling stopped, the armies of the gods advanced, eliminating the monsters.

Abaddon sighed.

"First, you bring an unidentified sorcerer who reached the realm of demi-gods, and now you have the ancient Black Dragon Xantimur’s help."

Things Abaddon thought unbreakable were vainly shattered by the third parties he and the Ashen God hadn't predicted.

"It seems the heavens are aiding me."

"The heavens... Hahaha, the heavens, you say..." Abaddon chuckled.

In this situation, the phrase sounded almost like a satirical comedy. Crockta too laughed low.

After a while of laughing, Abaddon continued,

"Kill me now. I cannot fight anymore."

The last flame given to him by God Slayer was still not extinguished and was continuing to consume his body.

The undying fire from his arm climbed his shoulder, slowly eating up his flesh.

Crockta shook his head.

"I have no intention of killing you."

"If you don't kill me now, I'll recover and stab you in the back."

"Try it if you can."

"Why are you sparing me?"

As Crockta passed him, he said,

"Because I still need you."

"You need me...?"

"Remember the time you served me that fantastic cooking of yours? I can't forget that taste."

"..."

"I really want to eat your spicy noodle dish again. So next time..."

Crockta looked back at Abaddon and smirked.

"Let's meet at the dining table."

Then, he moved toward the Temple of the Fallen God again.

Abaddon blankly watched his back.

"Next time, huh?"

Repeating the words, Abaddon chuckled.

Somehow, he felt relieved. Perhaps deep down, he wished for such an ending too.

Avoiding death is the instinct of all living beings.

The gods were approaching. Abaddon moved away from the front line to the distant sky to avoid them.

Floating in the air, he watched Crockta lead the front, followed by the gods and other mortals.

"Do you also like spicy food?"

Abaddon suddenly asked.

Beside him was Xantimur, now back in human form. He looked tired. Using Breath of such a magnitude to that extent was a taxing task even for him.

Xantimur answered,

"I’m indifferent about it."

"Is that so? If there really is a next time... I'd like to make you like spicy food. My spicy noodle dish is really great. It was even approved by Crockta," Abaddon said.

"Is that so. I look forward to it. Sincerely."

"Hahaha, I’m being sincere as well."

Above their heads floated the white sphere created by the Ashen God. Destiny had left their hands. Not even the gods knew the outcome. The battle for the existence of the world was rushing toward its finale.