CHAPTER 51: THE MORTAL BLADE

He emerged in a storage room, quickly checking his surroundings. Barrels of ale, sacks of grain, and—perfect—a pile of dirty servant clothes. Orcs had a strict hierarchy; nobody looked twice at the lowest caste.

Five minutes later, Arthur shuffled through the kitchen carrying an empty bucket, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. The kitchen staff barely glanced at him. Just another worthless servant cleaning up after his betters.

The head cook, a massive orc woman with arms like tree trunks, barked at him: "You! Take slop to the warg pens!"

Arthur grunted acknowledgment, grabbed the slop bucket, and headed out. But not before he’d slipped a packet of powder into the victory feast stew. Not poison—he wasn’t here to massacre. Just a mild sedative that would make the warriors sluggish. In about an hour, half the garrison would be fighting yawns instead of invaders.

The warg pens were near the outer wall. Arthur dumped the slop, then studied the guard patterns. Two orcs walking the ramparts, crossing paths every... forty-three seconds. A blind spot of roughly twelve seconds at the northwest corner.

He waited, counting heartbeats. When the guards passed, Arthur scaled the wall with practiced efficiency. No supernatural strength needed—just proper technique and the conditioning this body had maintained.

At the top, he froze. An orc guard stood ten feet away, back turned. Arthur could use his powers, phase through or dominate the guard’s mind. Instead, he picked up a small stone.

*Tink.*

The stone hit a shield across the courtyard. The guard turned, squinting. "Who goes—"

Arthur’s hand clamped over the orc’s mouth, other arm applying a perfect sleeper hold. The guard struggled, but Arthur had leverage and technique. Within seconds, the orc went limp—unconscious, not dead.

Arthur dragged him into an alcove, then took the guard’s spear. He notched specific marks on the wall—marks that, to a paranoid commander, would look like someone counting defenses for an invasion force.

*Let them think there are dozens of scouts.*

He ghosted through the stronghold’s upper levels, leaving a trail of subtle chaos. A weapon rack repositioned to block a critical doorway. A torch moved to cast shadows over a guard post. A water barrel with a tiny hole that would empty just when the fighting started.

Then he heard it—chanting from below. The shamans.

Arthur found the entrance to the ritual caves right where Grashk had said. Two guards flanked the entrance, looking bored. Arthur observed them, noting how one favored his left leg—old injury—and how the other kept touching his weapon, nervous habit.

He couldn’t take both silently without powers. So he got creative.

Arthur retreated, finding a store room full of ritual supplies. He grabbed a shaman’s apprentice robe and various mystical-looking components. Then he ran back toward the guards, letting panic show on his face.

"The masters need these NOW!" he barked in broken Orcish, hefting the supplies. "Intruders spotted! Ritual must finish!"

The nervous guard stepped aside immediately. The one with the bad leg hesitated. "I don’t recognize—"

"You question shaman business?!" Arthur snarled, pulling every bit of imperious attitude he’d learned as a prince. "When ritual fails, I name YOU to masters!"

That did it. Both guards practically shoved him toward the caves. Arthur hurried down, maintaining the panicked apprentice act until he was out of sight.

The cave system was a maze, but Arthur’s enhanced senses guided him. He could feel the magical energy pulsing ahead, hear the five shamans chanting in unison. He crept closer, using natural cover.

There they were, arranged in a pentagram around five crude stone idols—the *tok’ran* Grashk had described. The shamans were deep in their ritual, pouring power into a massive spell. Arthur could feel it building—a curse aimed at his army, designed to sap their strength.

He couldn’t let that happen. But five shamans, even without his powers, were dangerous. He needed to be smart.

Arthur studied the cave layout. The ceiling had natural formations—stalactites weakened by centuries of dripping water. The ritual circle was precisely drawn, but precision meant fragility. And the shamans were so focused they’d neglected basic security.

Time for some applied physics.

Arthur pulled out a small flask of oil he’d grabbed from the kitchen—meant for treating leather. He crept to a stalactite directly above the eldest shaman and poured the oil into existing cracks. Then he moved to the ritual circle’s edge and used his knife to scratch tiny imperfections in the chalk lines—not enough to break them, just weaken them.

Finally, he positioned himself behind the weakest-looking apprentice and picked up a fist-sized rock.

*Three... two... one...*

He threw the rock with perfect accuracy, striking the oiled stalactite. The formation, already weakened and now slippery, cracked. Three hundred pounds of stone crashed down toward the elder shaman.

The shamans’ concentration shattered. The elder threw himself aside, the falling stone crushing one of the *tok’ran* instead. The released magical energy backlashed through the weakened circle, sending two shamans flying.

Arthur was already moving. He rolled forward, grabbed the stunned apprentice, and applied the same sleeper hold he’d used on the guard. As the orc went limp, Arthur spun him around as a shield just as another shaman launched a blast of green fire.

The unconscious apprentice took the hit, screaming as he was jolted awake. Arthur shoved him forward into his attacker, then dove for the nearest intact *tok’ran*.

"No!" an elder shaman roared. "Stop him!"

But Arthur had already wrapped his hands around the stone idol. Without supernatural strength, he couldn’t crush it. But he didn’t need to. He just needed to move it six inches to the left—outside the ritual circle.

The effect was instantaneous. The magical matrix collapsed, power earthing itself into the cave floor. Two more *tok’ran* shattered from the feedback. The shamans howled in rage and pain as their connection to the spirits severed.

Arthur rolled away from a vengeful strike, came up with a handful of ritual sand, and threw it in an elder’s eyes. As the orc clawed at his face, Arthur kicked his knee from the side—right where orcs had a nerve cluster. The elder dropped.

Four down, one to go. The last shaman, an elder with bone trinkets rattling in his beard, raised his staff. Even without the *tok’ran*, he had personal power—

A feminine voice echoed through the cave: "*Enough.*"

Everyone froze. From the shadows stepped an orc woman unlike any Arthur had seen. Tall, athletic, with intelligent eyes that seemed to see straight through him. She carried a shaman’s staff in one hand, a warrior’s axe in the other.

"Lady Urzara," the elder shaman gasped. "This human defiles—"

"This human," Urzara interrupted, her eyes never leaving Arthur, "just defeated five shamans without using a drop of magic. He poisoned our feast, sowed chaos in our ranks, and infiltrated our most sacred space using nothing but wit and skill."

She stepped closer, and Arthur tensed, ready to finally unleash his powers if needed.

But instead of attacking, Urzara smiled—a fierce, proud expression. "You hide your true nature, but I see it. The way shadows bend toward you. The way the cave itself seems to recognize you." She dropped to one knee, laying her axe at his feet. "*Mor’gath nei. Grathar’nok mei’tash.*"

The elder shaman made a strangled sound. "You dare—"

"I dare speak prophecy," Urzara said firmly. "This is the one foretold. The Demon King who conquers not through power alone, but through cunning. Who offers strength to those who kneel." She looked up at Arthur. "Show them. Show them what you truly are."

Arthur studied her for a long moment. Then he smiled and let his suppressed power flood free.

The cave trembled. Shadows writhed. The broken *tok’ran* dissolved into motes of light that swirled around him like a constellation. His form blurred between human and something else—something ancient and hungry and amused.

The elder shaman fell to his knees, eyes wide with religious terror. Above, Arthur could hear the sounds of battle beginning—Klaus starting his diversion, Elliott’s team scaling the walls.

But down here in the dark, the real victory had already been won.

"Rise, Urzara of the Bloodfang Clan," Arthur commanded, his voice carrying harmonics that made reality shiver. "You saw truth when others saw deception. That wisdom will serve me well."

She stood, eyes blazing with triumph. "What are your orders... my king?"

Arthur’s grin was pure predator. "Help me show your people what happens when prophecy meets preparation. And then?" He gestured at the cave entrance where sounds of battle grew louder. "We build an empire."

The conquest of Bloodfang Stronghold had begun. But Arthur had already won the most important victory—he’d proven he didn’t need supernatural power to be dangerous.

He just preferred it.

Voices. Orcish, guttural and harsh. Arthur pressed himself against the tunnel wall, parsing the words through his system’s translation.

"—chief says double the watch. Humans coming."

"Bah. Let them come. Gorak will crush them."

"You hear about the Demon King rumors? They say he makes orcs kneel."

"Fairy tales. Pass the ale."

Arthur filed the information away. Fear and skepticism in equal measure. Perfect for exploitation.

The cave trembled as Arthur’s released power washed over the ancient stone. Shadows danced and writhed, responding to his presence like eager servants. The elder shaman remained on his knees, eyes wide with religious terror, while Urzara stood tall, her face glowing with triumph.

"The battle above," she said urgently. "My brother doesn’t know what you are. He’ll fight to the death rather than yield to what he thinks is just another human conqueror."

Arthur could hear it clearly now—the clash of steel, the roar of combat, Klaus’s theatrical battle cries at the main gate. His enhanced senses picked up Elliott’s team breaching the north wall, moving with supernatural efficiency through defenders still groggy from the drugged feast.

"Then let’s educate him," Arthur said, his voice carrying those otherworldly harmonics. "But first..." He turned to the elder shaman. "You have a choice. Serve the prophecy, or be left behind by it."

The old orc’s tusks ground together as he wrestled with decades of tradition. Then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to the cave floor. "*Mor’gath nei. Grathar’nok mei’tash.*"

"Good." Arthur helped him rise, letting a trickle of power flow into the shaman. The orc gasped as he felt the enhancement take hold. "Gather any shamans still conscious. Tell them the tok’ran are broken, but a new power offers itself."

Urzara led the way up from the caves, her movements already showing subtle improvements—faster reflexes, more fluid grace. The passive enhancement from being near Arthur was already changing her.

They emerged into chaos.