I Alone Regress in a Hero Party That Was Annihilated - Chapter 5

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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#5. The Hunting Festival in the Blizzard (3)

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Whiiiiing…

The cold grows ever more severe.

Beyond the madly pouring blizzard, twenty shadows were walking forward.

Orcs from beyond the mountain peak

When their comrades who had gone on outpost duty failed to return, they set out to search directly.

[Grrruk―]

A Warchief whose head was three times larger than the other Orcs was leading the remaining nineteen Orcs.

Eventually, the Orcs arrived at the outpost.

[Gruk?]

But the outpost was completely empty.

While the regular Orcs tilted their heads in confusion.

[Sniff sniff sniff….]

The Warchief was twitching his nose without lowering his guard.

Faint but mixed with the wind came the smell of blood.

It was drifting from a snow hill not far from the outpost.

Sensing something suspicious, the Warchief ordered them to dig through the snow pile.

The regular Orcs swept away the surrounding snow with their large hands.

Then.

[Kuiik!?]

[Chweik! Chweiik!]

[Grrrrruk― Gruk!]

Amazing things appeared before the Orcs’ eyes.

Corpses.

The corpses of their comrades, completely bloodied and frozen, were buried in the snow.

[Grrrrrrrr….]

The Warchief examined his subordinates’ corpses closely.

There were thirteen corpses in total.

All the team members who had gone on outpost duty had been killed.

The condition of the corpses was also utterly miserable.

Most of the Orcs had their ankles, especially the Achilles tendons at the back of their ankles, completely severed.

The cause of death was excessive bleeding and hypothermia.

The Warchief examined the remaining corpses as well.

There were also clear traces of cuts from sharp swords all over their leg areas.

The arteries inside their calves and thighs had been intensively targeted.

The wounds around the groin area in particular were so horrific that even the savage Orcs were retching.

The cause of death was probably excessive blood loss and hypothermia.

…Crack!

The Warchief ground his teeth.

He wanted to catch the enemy right away and flay them alive, but the pouring blizzard was covering all traces, making it difficult to guess the identity of the attacker.

The Warchief decided to take his subordinates back to the Main Base and report all of this.

[Gruluk! Kruk!]

Soon, twenty Orcs followed the Warchief’s command and returned to the Main Base.

The dark Snowy Field where the blizzard raged.

In the Orcs’ minds, rather than anger toward the enemy, only the image of their horribly murdered comrades and fear of the unidentified attacker who might be hiding somewhere lingered.

Whiiiiiiiiing…

The blizzard carried by the cutting wind obscured everyone’s vision.

The Warchief Orc, standing at the very front, turned around and counted the number of subordinates following behind.

But.

[…?]

Strangely, there were only eighteen subordinates.

When they departed, there were definitely twenty including himself, so the number of subordinates following should be nineteen.

Had someone fallen behind?

Sensing something strange, the Warchief counted his subordinates’ heads once more.

[…!]

This time it was seventeen.

Something was definitely wrong.

The panicked Warchief counted his subordinates’ heads for the third time.

This time it was sixteen.

This was truly maddening.

As the Warchief was counting the numbers once more in this incomprehensible situation.

[Gruk!?]

He witnessed a shocking scene.

He saw the number of subordinates drop from sixteen to fifteen right before his eyes.

The subordinate at the very rear sank down without even being able to scream.

A whitish shadow that he had thought was just part of the blizzard flickered like a Ghost beside it, then suddenly vanished completely.

[Kraaaaaaaaak!]

The Warchief rushed out with his axe in hand.

He ran down the Hillside in one breath and stood in the middle of the Snowy Field.

The Orc that had just fallen was already dead with a hole in the back of its neck.

Behind it, three more corpses could be seen lying in the same manner, spaced apart at intervals.

Four subordinates had lost their lives just during the movement.

[O―ooooooo!]

The Warchief surveyed the surroundings with bloodshot eyes.

Suddenly.

…Whit!

A red line of blood crossed before his eyes along with a sharp cutting sound through the air.

As the Warchief quickly jerked his head back, a white blade grazed past the bridge of his nose at an almost invisible speed.

The bridge of his nose burned hot.

Hot blood flowed down, staining his lower jaw red before quickly turning into thin ice and shattering.

Soon, the white ghost he had glimpsed earlier revealed itself before the Warchief.

“That evasion just now, not bad.”

Featherback.

“You have quite decent reflexes.”

He was facing the Orc Warchief before him.

* * *

Featherback thought.

‘This guy is, how should I put it, about average level.’

By his standards, the Warchief Orc before him was at the level of an ordinary Orc Soldier.

Of course, this was based on the era before his regression, when the Demon King was rampaging at his peak.

‘But to call this Warchief-level is absolutely ridiculous.’

Featherback vividly remembered the Orcs that had been strengthened by the Demon King’s power.

Especially the Warchief-level ones who stood at the pinnacle of Orcs—each one was called an Enemy of Ten Thousand and reigned as objects of terror.

Of course, the Warchief before him now was far from those.

Even being generous, he was at most the level of an ordinary adult Orc Soldier.

“Let’s see you show some grit, monster.”

Featherback swung his sword at the Orc Warchief.

The Warchief brought down his axe with a roar, but.

Clang!

It was deflected by Featherback’s shield.

[Gr―waaaaaaaah!]

The Warchief tried to smash Featherback’s shield by bringing down his axe, but it was impossible.

Clang clang clang! Clatter clatter! Thud―!

Featherback was not holding his shield vertically, but rather tilting it at an angle to deflect the Warchief’s axe.

If he blocked head-on, he couldn’t withstand the Warchief’s strength, so he deflected it at an angle.

This was a technique called Parrying, a skill that only veteran warriors who could handle their shield like their own palm could use.

Clang clang clang clang clang!

The Warchief’s axe blade scraped along Featherback’s shield, creating countless sparks.

At the same time.

…Thunk!

As if punishing the failed attack.

Featherback’s sword tip unfailingly stabbed into the empty space left after the axe passed.

…Thunk! …Thunk! …Thunk! …Thunk!

The inside of the Warchief’s right forearm, left armpit, right side again, then the inside of his left thigh.

With each failed attack, the soft flesh on the inside of his body became covered in blood.

The Warchief felt his mind growing hazy.

The White Sword and White Shield that Featherback used were almost invisible, buried in the heavy snow.

In contrast, the brown wolf hide covering the Warchief’s body and the black axe blade stood out far too much.

Thru―ust!

Featherback’s sword, hidden in the blizzard, once again pierced about a span deep into the Warchief’s chest.

[Gra―aaaaaah!]

The Warchief screamed with all his might, but Featherback paid no attention.

He only recalled the Mörsolt Swordsmanship Secret Techniques he had mastered before his regression.

―Grasp with the hand, support with the shoulder, step with the foot, press with the knee.

―Straighten the bones, remove the flesh.

―The hand must advance one span further beyond the realm of technique.

―Do not look at the enemy’s appearance, but see their spirit.

―Do not trust what comes through the eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and skin.

―Thrust the sword according to natural principles.

―Part the gaps between muscles, slip into the caverns of bones and joints, and tear away tendons and nerves.

―A novice sharpens his sword every month, an expert sharpens his sword every year, but a master does not mind never sharpening his sword in his lifetime.

―Just as light disappears when you close your eyes, and heat disappears when you peel away skin, when you close your heart, there is nothing that cannot be destroyed.

―Once you transcend the self and forget everything, there will be nothing in the world that cannot be cut down.

Featherback continued to swing his sword.

His purpose was not to kill in one strike or inflict a major wound.

Minor wounds.

It would be enough if he could just draw out a small amount of blood.

Swish― Swish― Swish― Swiiish―

The more Featherback’s sword moved, the more blood lines were carved across the Warchief’s body.

Because his body was burning hot with rage, the blood wouldn’t even freeze.

The bleeding continued.

It was no coincidence that the Mörsolt Swordsmanship First Form was named ‘Blood Drawing ‘.

[Huff―! Huff―! Huff―!]

The Warchief felt his strength gradually draining away.

His vision was growing dim and his limbs felt heavy.

Even during this, Featherback wielded his sword with extremely dry and efficient movements.

The ultimate assassination art unfolded through the center point that freely shifted from blade to sword handle, from sword handle back to blade.

At this rate, there was no hope.

…Grind!

The Warchief gritted his teeth.

Finally, he prepared for his final strike.

He planned to charge forward by stomping the ground hard with his foot.

Kwa―bang!

The Warchief stomped the ground hard with one foot.

However.

He couldn’t charge forward.

Whoosh―

Because the spot where the Warchief had stomped hard suddenly collapsed downward.

At the same time.

…Thud thud thud thud thud!

Sharp wooden stakes protruding from the bottom of the pit pierced through the Warchief’s foot.

[Screeeeeeeeeeech!?]

A trap.

He had stepped right into a booby trap.

The Warchief fell to the ground and immediately began rolling around while clutching his foot.

One foot, pierced by the wooden stakes, was now completely useless.

That wasn’t all.

Whiiiiiiing…

The terrible cold and cutting wind began to freeze his mangled foot.

Due to the extreme pain and cold, the Warchief couldn’t even think of getting up.

At that moment.

“Not getting up?”

The ghost who had been hiding behind the blizzard until now, Featherback, revealed himself before the Warchief.

“Then you’ll never be able to get up again.”

At the same time, blood spurted from the Warchief’s eyes.

Featherback’s sword tip had sliced through the bridge of his nose between his pupils, completely taking away his sight.

[Kuaaaaaaaaaak!]

The Orc Warchief screamed while covering his face with both hands.

He couldn’t even think of resisting anymore.

A single bloodied insect trembling and crawling on the floor.

No different from the end of the other Orcs.

Featherback looked down at the Orc Warchief and spoke indifferently.

“It must have felt good when you attacked the Territory Residents of Mörsolt Territory. Fleeting monsters.”

At the same time, Featherback’s hand firmly grabbed the Warchief’s hair.

“I won’t kill you right away. You need to stay alive as long as possible.”

[…?]

The Warchief showed signs of not understanding why Featherback wasn’t killing him immediately.

But Featherback didn’t bother to resolve his confusion.

“Hmm, though dying early might be better for you.”

* * *

How much time had passed?

New Orcs came down from the Main Base beyond the Mountain Peak.

It was because their comrades who had gone out for reconnaissance never returned.

They stopped frozen near the Outpost.

[Chwiiiiiik!?]

Dozens of Corpses were scattered in a horrific scene.

Every single one had their necks severed.

A scene as if the Death God riding the wind had harvested only heads with his Scythe.

The Orc Soldiers searched the Disaster Site with hesitant steps.

Eventually, they were able to find the Warchief.

…Flinch!

The Warchief was covered in blood but still not dead.

His neck was still properly attached, and most importantly, he was still moving his body little by little.

[Grrruk— Chwik?]

The Orcs called out to their Warchief and approached him.

But then.

[Krrrrrrr…]

The Warchief’s expression was extremely strange as he raised his head at the sound.

As if he couldn’t see ahead, he shook his head back and forth, opening and closing his mouth with an expression that looked ready to cry at any moment.

A terror-stricken expression, a voice that wouldn’t come out, mouth movements that seemed to say “run away.”

Since this was the first time the always brave Warchief had shown such behavior, the subordinate Orcs froze in place.

However.

[Grrruk!]

[Gurrrrrrrrruk!]

The subordinate Orcs mustered their courage and approached the Warchief, trying to support him.

They didn’t know who had done this to their Warchief, but surely that person couldn’t be in good condition either.

If injured, there was a high chance they would have frozen to death in the bitter cold of minus 40 degrees, unable to endure for long.

But the Warchief only continued to shake his head.

The Warchief sent a warning to his subordinates to flee, opening and closing his mouth with a voice that wouldn’t come out.

Right at that moment.

Rustle—

As the subordinate Orcs’ hands touched him, the Warchief’s body moved greatly.

Rustle— Rustle— Rustle—

The Warchief’s facial expression contorted in pain as his voice, which hadn’t been coming out, continued again.

[Kuu—Weeeeeeek!]

The subordinate Orcs were startled by that miserable scream and stepped back.

Soon after.

Riiiiip!

The frozen wound on his abdomen tore open lengthwise, and something revealed itself from inside the Warchief’s belly.

[Kyaaaaaaak!?]

The Orc Soldiers were so shocked they let out shrill screams and collapsed on the spot.

Splat— Splat— Splash!

Something covered in blood crawled out onto the White Snow Field.

“Your Warchief’s body, you see.”

Featherback emerged from inside the Warchief’s belly, drenched in warm blood.

He spoke while brushing away the intestines that hung down like hair.

“It was warm and soft, quite pleasant. I nearly dozed off.”

The orcs, their legs giving out, crawled backward across the floor.

Featherback slowly approached the retreating orcs.

Despite the madly pouring blizzard, he could be seen clearly.

A gentle curve drawn before the eyes of the terrified orcs.

It was a warm smile traced by the corners of Featherback’s mouth, drenched in hot blood that steamed and billowed in the air.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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