The Record of Orc Civilization - Chapter 420: The Arsenal of Retribution

Artur would not let the Arion foothold in Heles stand. Tonight, he would sanctify Anna’s name with blood. Starting with the “first sin” standing before him: Nash.

Small magic circles flickered into existence in the air, vomiting forth his collection of magic items—runed daggers, mana discs spinning like saw blades, and silver chains inscribed with binding symbols. All moved in perfect synchronicity with his rage.

Nash realized immediately that the rhythm of the fight had shifted. Artur was no longer a mage relying on technique and spells; he had mutated into a walking arsenal.

The first dagger streaked out, nearly grazing Nash’s temple. It was followed by a mana disc from the left, which Nash was forced to deflect with an elbow reinforced by Brajamusti. Searing sparks exploded, but before Nash could land, mana chains lunged from a blind spot, seeking to ensnare his legs.

Crack!

Nash used Padakacarma to glide through the air, but Artur was already waiting at his landing point. Lightning scorched the earth as Rabi’s Fang slashed toward the Arion’s throat. Nash blocked with his left arm, creating a vibration that rang through the air.

But Artur no longer stopped to jeer. He pressed the assault without pause. Daggers, discs, and chains struck from every angle, forcing Nash into a slow retreat. Wounds began to appear on Nash’s body—strange, shallow cuts that refused to close and throbbed with a searing ache.

Artur raised his hand high. A blinding light gathered in his palm, condensing into a spear that radiated an aura both sacred and horrifying.

The spear vanished. Its speed surpassed the eye’s ability to track its trajectory. Nash attempted to dodge with Padakacarma, but his drained stamina made him a fraction too slow.

The tip of the spear only grazed Nash’s abdomen. No blood flowed. There was no tear in the green skin. Yet, Nash suddenly collapsed, letting out a guttural scream as if his very soul had been sliced by an invisible blade. His body convulsed violently, his eyes bulging in sheer agony.

That was the Soul Spear.

Not a mere magic item harvested from a monster, but a true Artifact.

That was the Soul Spear.

It was no mere magic item harvested from a monster’s remains; it was a true Artifact. Such weapons were forged only by those who had transcended mage limits and stepped into the Realm of Law—the Level 7 Constellation Mages. They imbued sacred metal with their very understanding of natural laws, creating a weapon whose strikes were absolute. The Soul Spear did not attack the flesh; it impaled the very existence of the opponent’s soul. It could not be parried; it could not be deflected.

This artifact belonged to the noble House of Gaht, lent in secret by Robert to Artur—a small betrayal for the sake of a grand obsession. Even within his own clan, Artur had never been granted access to a weapon of such caliber.

In the distance, Nash struggled to steady his breath, which now felt heavy and hollow. He stared at the spear of light in Artur’s hand with sheer horror. For the first time since the duel began, the Arion veteran realized a bitter truth:

The man before him wasn’t just fighting. He was performing a ritual of purification. And Artur would not stop until Nash was utterly erased from this world.

The effects of the artifact did not disappoint. Artur watched as Nash writhed, his body still upright but his soul clearly being flayed from within. Every shallow breath Nash took seemed like a torture that shredded his very existence. Artur was in no rush to celebrate; with a sharp flick of his wrist, the Soul Spear he had thrown earlier vanished and reappeared in his palm in the blink of an eye. A pale light ignited at the tip, ready for one final throw. One strike to end the “sin.”

But before Artur’s arm could swing, an object streaked out of the darkness with air-shattering speed.

His predatory instincts screamed. Artur leapt back, bolts of electricity scorching the earth as he evaded. His face darkened—once again, someone dared to interrupt his ritual.

BOOM!

The object struck the earth with a thud that shook the city’s foundations. Dust billowed high, the ground cracking as if struck by a divine hammer. Yet, the curse on the tip of Artur’s tongue died as the dust thinned.

It was a fragment of a human body. Only the upper half, severed brutally.

Artur froze. He knew the face all too well. Gathjee. His mentor and superior—a Level 6 Constellation Mage known for his feral strength, a man who had nearly touched the Realm of Law. The man hailed as Stent Gaht’s greatest disciple now lay lifeless. His lower half was gone, as if torn away by a predator far more savage. His eyes were wide, frozen in an eternal expression of disbelief and regret.

Who could have dismantled a near-Level 7 like this?

The answer arrived before the smoke could settle. That mana aura… a frequency he knew by heart. The person he had been searching all night stood before him, shielding her firstborn son from death.

“Anna!” Artur cried out, his voice shrill with a haunting, misplaced joy, completely ignoring the corpse at his feet.

Anna no longer wore her elegant party gown. War armor now encased her torso. But there was a deeper change: her skin had turned a dark, blackish-green—a sign that she had discarded her humanity entirely. Even so, to Artur, those blue eyes shining like sea gems were still the most beautiful sight in the world.

Anna gently set down the unconscious Cila and turned toward Nash.

“Nash, can you still move?” Anna asked calmly. There was no explosion of rage, even though her son had nearly perished.

“Mother… forgive me,” Nash rasped, his breath hitching. “I failed to kill him.”

Anna shook her head slowly. Her gaze flickered to the Soul Spear in Artur’s hand. “Even if your strength is equal, you lack the armaments he possesses. Artur is Robert’s close friend; it is no surprise he holds a human artifact. Unfortunately, our kingdom is not yet capable of producing such things.”

Nash offered a bitter smile. “Do not be sad, Mother. The Wilwatikta Kingdom is still young. We cannot compare ourselves to a civilization thousands of years old. I am certain that one day, Moku will find a way to catch up—”

“Anna!” Artur cut him off harshly, his voice trembling between anxiety and obsession. “Are you alright?! What happened to you? Did that disgusting creature force you to do this?!”

A heavy silence followed. Anna and Nash both stared at Artur with the same expression: confusion and utter disgust.

“Mother…” Nash whispered softly, “Is there something truly wrong with his head?”

Anna let out a long, heavy sigh—a breath laden with the weight of history. “Nash. Step back. Heal your wounds.”

Her gaze shifted to Artur. Instantly, the warmth of a mother vanished, replaced by the absolute cold of a storm’s core. “It is time I put an end to this farce,” she said flatly, her voice echoing with an undeniable authority. “…forever.”