Chapter 1047: Who Did This?
Up in the sky, two Sky-rank orc warriors hovered. One was tall and broad, his body radiating a dense aura of battle energy, looking much like the chieftain of the Bloodfang Tribe.
The other was a bit slimmer, dressed in beast hide and clutching a staff, with three smoky fireballs floating around him—a clear sign he was an orc warlock.
Morgan, who had just cast an Eagle Eye spell, cried out in surprise when he saw the orcs attacking from outside.
"They're from the Goldtop Tribe!"
Everyone gasped in shock. The sudden appearance of the supposedly extinct Bloodfang Orcs was already astonishing, but seeing the Goldtop Tribe’s orcs here as well—this place was clearly anything but normal.
Leon cast an Eagle Eye spell on himself and looked out at the battlefield beyond the tribe. Sure enough, apart from the Bloodfang Tribe’s orcs, every other orc had a golden magical mark on their forehead. The center of the mark, right between the brows, looked like a golden gem, with two intricate lines extending from it into the temples—almost like they were wearing a golden crown.
That was the classic trait of the Goldtop Tribe’s orcs—far easier to recognize than the Bloodfang Tribe’s. Among all the orc races, only Goldtop orcs had those magical forehead markings.
“You bastards! How dare you attack our tribe? None of you are leaving here alive—I’ll send you all back to the earth myself!”
The Bloodfang Tribe’s chieftain roared in fury, gripping his massive sword—over three meters long—and clashed with the Goldtop Tribe’s chieftain in midair. Golden and blood-red lights intertwined as the two Sky-rank Sword Saints moved at terrifying speed, leaving only the shockwaves of their battle energy visible in the sky.
Lights crisscrossed in midair, shifting positions so rapidly that soon only flickering glimmers could be seen overhead—any trace of the two combatants was lost in the chaos.
Occasionally, a slash of battle energy would rain down—a golden arc, dozens of meters long, crashed to the ground and struck the outermost wooden barricade of the Bloodfang Tribe. That barricade, strengthened by centuries of blood rituals and totemic enchantments, was far sturdier than steel. Yet now, with a single blow, a crack over thirty meters long was torn open.
Meanwhile, the Sky-rank warlock of the Goldtop Tribe was locked in combat with the Bloodfang Tribe’s Grand Shaman. Fire and lightning tangled endlessly—bursts of flame erupted, while bolts of lightning, like serpentine thunder, danced through the air.
The surging waves of magical power pressed down so heavily that even those a kilometer away felt as if a massive stone was crushing their chests.
But anyone could see—the Grand Shaman wasn’t in good shape. After the last fight with the demons, his body was already on the verge of collapse. To boost his power, he’d channeled lightning directly through his body, a move that left deep wounds he hadn’t yet recovered from.
And since this was Bloodfang Tribe territory, the Grand Shaman had to constantly guard against stray spells falling into the tribe. From the very start, he’d been forced into passive defense—defeat was only a matter of time.
Atop the tribe’s high tower, everyone watched the battle in silence. Rafael pointed toward the fighting outside the barricade.
"Should we step in to help these Bloodfang orcs? The Grand Seer of the Bloodfang Tribe burned through too much soul power in the last battle, and now he’s stuck defending the tribe—he can’t even join the fight."
The Grand Chieftain and the Goldtop Tribe’s Grand Chieftain were evenly matched—neither could gain the upper hand in the short term. But the Grand Shaman probably wouldn’t last much longer.
If they lose... what do we do then?"