Dorian continued on, trekking deeper into the forest. So far, he had killed goblins, wolves, hogs, deer—even a few bears. None of them were particularly unique or magical, but they had given him something he sorely needed: experience.
That experience would be vital for the battles ahead.
Every creature he slew not only helped him level up, but also sharpened his control over the weapons he had created. His attacks became more efficient, and his timing was more precise. Bit by bit, he was becoming a real fighter.
It didn't end there. With each skirmish, his body adjusted to the flow of combat. Eventually, two new skills appeared in his status: Adept Bow Mastery and Adept Blade Mastery. They were added automatically once he surpassed the threshold of fifty confirmed kills.
They weren't game-changing on their own, but they made his actions smoother—his aim more fluid, his swings less forced. It was progress, and it came with a comforting sense of direction.
But he didn't have time to dwell on that. His next encounter would be far more dangerous—his first confrontation with an actual magical beast.
He followed the guidance of the all-knowing book, its words shifting across the page to direct him further into the dense foliage. Eventually, the path narrowed until it brought him to a jagged cliffside.
From there, he spotted them.
A group of Orcs. Roughly twenty in number.
Most were lounging around a large, makeshift fire pit. A few feasted on fresh meat while two brawled in the center of the camp, their clash drawing wild cheers from the others. The air around them echoed with deep, guttural laughter.
"Damn it… Why are they so big?" Dorian muttered, crouching low behind a bush to study them.
Each orc was massive—no less than two meters tall and bulky as tree trunks. Their skin ranged from pale olive to dark, soot-like gray. Some wore rusted armor, others just heavy leather or scraps of bone plating. But all of them carried weapons—axes, spiked clubs, jagged swords. They weren't wandering beasts. They were trained fighters.
As he scanned the area more carefully, something caught his eye.
Two of the orcs were breaking away from the group, dragging something behind them—no, two figures. Human, both slumped and bound.
His heart sank before he quickly turned his gaze back toward the camp.
From the remains scattered around the fire, and the bloodied armor tossed aside like trash, it was clear now: there had been six adventurers.
Only two were still alive.
The other four had already met a gruesome end. And from the looks of it, their corpses were what the Orcs were currently feasting on.
"Poor bastards… They must've been looking for my dungeon," Dorian thought grimly, bile rising in his throat.
He shook the feeling off. Now wasn't the time for emotion.
He needed to act.
These orcs weren't just threats—they were opportunities. Powerful souls, and worthy ones. If they had taken down armed humans, they were nothing to scoff at.
"I have to kill all of them," he muttered to himself.
But not head-on. That would be suicide, and he wasn't that desperate.
His first move would be to eliminate the two that had separated from the main group. If he took them out quickly and quietly, he could come back for the rest, one by one, whittling their numbers down without alerting the camp.
He moved silently from his perch and began tailing the two orcs.
They were focused entirely on their captives. Their confidence made them careless. They hadn't even gagged the women, and the screams echoed through the forest like alarm bells.
Half the woodland creatures nearby had likely fled in fear. Still, the Orcs didn't seem to care.
Dorian crept through the brush, unseen and unheard.
As he watched them, he hesitated.
He didn't know if he wanted to help the women or let them serve as distractions. Both looked injured—one so much so that she was fumbling for a dagger, perhaps to stab herself… or maybe the orc holding her.
It was hard to tell.
Either way, Dorian couldn't act yet.
He needed them to move just a little further away from the camp. A little deeper into the woods. Just enough to make sure the others wouldn't hear.
Dorian wasn't here to play hero, especially not for two strangers. He kept his body low and his pace steady, following their trail from a safe distance.
Dorian moved like a shadow behind the two orcs, his presence masked by the dense underbrush and the noise of the women's screams. He remained just out of sight, breathing steadily, one hand gripping the hilt of his dagger.
He was weighing options.
Would a single stab to the heart be enough? It usually was, but orcs were tough. Maybe the throat? Sever the windpipe. Or better yet, go for the spine and drop them instantly. He flexed his fingers along the dagger's handle, already envisioning the angles.
His eyes shifted between the two targets. One of the orcs was older—broader shoulders, more scars, slower gait. The other was younger, leaner, but clearly strong, probably the son. They had nearly identical faces—flat-nosed, yellow-eyed, brutish. Mutt-faced, he thought.
The younger one might fight back even with a blade in his chest.
"Damn it... fine. Let's go with the old one," Dorian muttered in his mind.
The elder orc had stopped walking and had chosen a spot just beside a large rock formation. With an impatient grunt, he threw the girl he'd been dragging to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Blonde hair, fair skin—she looked like a classic healer type. A monk or priest, maybe. Her robe was wrapped and tied around her own limbs, used as crude restraints. She couldn't move.
Probably the only reason she hadn't been torn apart already.
Dorian crouched lower, narrowing his eyes.
The orc began removing his clothes.
"Idiot," Dorian thought, watching in disgust.
The creature's heavy armor and gear clanked to the ground, piece by piece, followed by a rank, suffocating odor. It hit Dorian like a wall of rot and wet fur. His nose twitched, but he kept his composure.
He flipped his dagger in his hand, twirling it once, twice—a subconscious habit when he was preparing to strike.
This would be his first major prey. A big one. But definitely not the last.
The orc grunted and tossed his sword aside.
Clank.
There it was—that perfect moment. The blade landed several feet away—close enough for retrieval, but far enough to leave the orc vulnerable.
The girl groaned softly, her face twisted in pain. She had probably taken a punch to the gut earlier. Her limbs twitched weakly, but she couldn't do much else.
Dorian waited.
He counted down the seconds, each one pulsing in rhythm with his breath.
He had already charted out the orc's steps—the angle of approach, the sound masking provided by nearby rustling leaves, the distance needed to keep his stealth enchantments active.
It was all perfectly calculated.
And now, the orc's thick fingers were fumbling with the priestess's robe. His attention was completely locked on his victim.
Too distracted to look behind him.
Now.
Dorian launched forward.
He moved with controlled speed, just fast enough to stay cloaked by his stealth gear. The enchantment shimmered faintly around him, barely perceptible as he closed the gap.
The orc didn't even register the danger.
Backstab activated. The blade sank in clean and deep.
Dorian didn't stop. He threw his free arm around the orc's thick neck, clamping his elbow tight against the creature's face to muffle any screams. The struggle was intense—pure brute strength against precision.
Blood burst from the wound, dark and hot, pumping out like it had been forced by a second heart.
The creature thrashed, tried to howl, but Dorian's hold didn't budge.
The orc's weight shifted, then staggered.
Its legs buckled.
Dorian twisted the blade on the way out.
The orc went limp. Dorian let the corpse drop and tossed it aside without ceremony, his breath steadying as he turned and sprinted toward the second one. That orc had led the other captive deeper into the trees, near the sound of running water.
But what Dorian found wasn't exactly what he had expected.
The girl—bruised and bloody—had somehow gotten hold of a dagger. She stood unsteadily on her feet, brandishing the weapon with both hands, teeth clenched, ready to strike.
The orc, however, wasn't alarmed.
It was playing with her. Laughing.
Taunting her like it was all part of some sick game.
She looked like a mage, based on her robe and the light fabric that still clung to parts of her body—what was left of it anyway. The robe had been ripped in several places, and she was half-exposed. Her stance was wild, and though she slashed desperately, the dagger didn't seem like a threat even to a novice like Dorian.
Still, she was keeping the orc busy. That was something.
Dorian crouched low again, staying hidden in the brush, silently watching. Timing was everything.
He waited.
He needed the perfect moment to activate his shadow stealth. The enchantment wasn't infinite—it had a cooldown, and he needed to hit hard when it counted most.
The girl lashed out in a frenzy. Her movements were erratic, her grip unstable.
With a single flick of his wrist, the orc swatted the dagger away like it was a toy. The force of the blow sent the girl flying backward, her body hitting the ground with a dull thud, rolling over once before coming to a stop a meter away.
The orc barked a laugh, a deep and revolting sound.
And just like his companion, he began to remove his clothing.
Dorian's jaw clenched.
He hadn't expected to see this again so soon, and it boiled something deep inside him. Rage mixed with revulsion. It was the kind of madness that made his hand reach toward the berserk ring again, the same one he'd used before when things got overwhelming.
He almost activated it.
Almost.
But this wasn't the time.
These weren't goblins. These were seasoned killers. They had already taken down a capable adventuring party, and if he lost control now, he might not survive the aftermath.
So he stayed calm.
Even as the half-nude girl curled into herself and sobbed uncontrollably, Dorian didn't wait to see what would happen next.
He broke from cover, moving fast.
This time, he aimed for the neck.
The orc, to his surprise, still had its chest piece on. That was a problem. He couldn't rely on a torso kill—not against that thick armor.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Why couldn't it be night?"
He closed the distance in seconds. No hesitation. No flair.
Dorian activated Backstab once more and plunged the dagger deep into the base of the orc's thick neck. The blade slipped between the vertebrae, severing the spinal cord in one brutal motion.
The orc let out a brief choking sound, then collapsed like a felled tree.
Its massive body landed with a dull crash, partially on the girl's leg, pinning her down.
Dorian didn't look at her.
He didn't stop to check if she was okay.
There were still more Orcs out there, and he wasn't about to get caught off guard because he stopped to babysit.
He pulled out his bow and began walking back toward where the priestess had been left.
Somehow, the damn girl had fainted.
Typical.
He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound—until he suddenly stopped.
Two more orcs had wandered off from the main camp. Whether it was curiosity or suspicion, they looked like they were coming to check on the others.
They were sneaking around, but not with much skill. Not like him.
Fortunately, Dorian was still cloaked—his stealth mode active—and crouched within the thick shade of a bush.
"Two free kills. Nice," he muttered under his breath, grinning.
He sheathed his dagger and drew his twin swords instead. Time for something a little messier.
He picked the one in the rear first, silently closing in behind him. These two were approaching fast, likely about to discover the dead orc leader and the unconscious priestess.
Dorian needed to act before they could make a sound.
He slipped behind them like a wraith, invisible still, the shadows clinging to his gear. His heart was calm. Focused.
Two clean slashes.
Two necks flew free from their shoulders before they even knew he was there.
The bodies dropped hard.
Dorian grinned, wicked satisfaction curling on his lips. He felt the surge again—the rush of mana, the pulse of growth.
He had hit level 18.
The first two orcs had each given him a level, and these two added another. Progress was fast. Efficient.
Even better—he hadn't made a sound. The rest of the Orcs, still clustered around the fire, hadn't noticed a thing.
They were still partying. Still drunk and laughing, or more like grunting.
He could hear their chants echoing in the distance as they devoured the supplies and leftovers of the fallen adventurers. Tents, bags, food, weapons—all ransacked.
Dorian crouched beside a rock and pulled his bow once more. It was time for the next phase of the plan: pick them off from a distance. Dwindle their numbers until it became manageable.
That was always the plan.
He had killed plenty of beasts and wild animals this way already.
When charged, his arrows gained a spectral enchantment. They could cut through armor like it was nothing. Perfect for the kind of heavy gear some of these orcs were still wearing.
"Twenty-four," he whispered.
That was the count TOP had given him. Two dozen orcs, still alive and feasting.
Dorian touched the earring embedded in his left ear, syncing with the stealth protocols and magical readouts. Everything checked out. His gear was active. His stealth had reset. His quiver was full.
The twenty-four orcs remained clustered around the fire pit—none of them isolated, none of them weak-looking. He needed a strategy.
"So what do you suggest I do here?" he muttered aloud, addressing the book. "You're not seriously expecting me to fight all twenty-four at once, right? There's gotta be a smarter way to do this. A safer way."
He couldn't see the book physically, but using the power of the necklace, he could sense the familiar presence and read the shifting text that appeared in front of his eyes.
The book's reply came with its usual sarcastic tone.
[Only 24? Were you not supposed to be able to kill them now? That was the whole point of bringing you to this section. Or would you rather have fought the armored-plated lizardman? The poisonous manticores?]
The text flickered, then updated again.
[Now kill them. I'll tell you the order. Miss a shot, and you'll be forced to fight it head-on later—so don't miss.]
Dorian exhaled, slowly drawing back his bowstring.
It was time to cull the herd.