A Waste of Time

Chapter 121: Curved Shimmer

Daemon and Ippo had rested, but the effort it took to reach this place still left them drained—urgently in need of food, drink, and any supplement to restore the energy they had spent. Yet neither voiced complaint. They rose again, steadying themselves, and turned their eyes upward toward the next trial.

The climb.

Their raw feet throbbed with every step, pain pulsing in constant rhythm. Fingers joined in that same agony, skin split and joints aflame, forced to grip at whatever narrow cracks and tiny protrusions could be found along the vertical wall of the cliff-like step. Together they climbed—guiding one another, assisting, even saving each other when a slip threatened to end the ascent.

The hundred-meter climb took nearly as long as the run across the sinking path. But at last they pulled themselves over the edge, collapsing flat on their backs, gasping for breath. Their fingers bled, knuckles swollen and joints screaming from being pushed beyond all possible limits.

Mist swallowed the pyramid around them, so thick that even from this height they could barely see beyond a few dozen meters. Yet within that fog, one thing stood clear.

A monolith.

Pitch black, carved from some unyielding granite, its surface alive with flowing red runes interwoven with stark white murals. And at its base—Daemon’s eyes narrowed, heart skipping—sat something he knew. The same Rhodolite Gem once given to him by that grumpy Archmage, the crystal that had made his Soul feel perfectly free, weightless, wrapped in the world’s gentle embrace like a kitten discovering love for the first time.

“What’s that wheel?” Ippo’s voice pulled him back. Of course the clone had access to Daemon’s memories of this Red Gem, but his attention was fixed on something else—the massive wheel now standing beside it, symbols faint but unmistakable.

“Remember to pray to the goddess of luck before you say the ‘magic’ word,” Daemon said, patting his clone’s shoulder. “I’ll be surprised if you top my Asura.”

“Spin!” Ippo grinned, twirling his hand like a wand to conjure the motion.

The wheel whirred violently, colors blurring together, turning so fast it was impossible to tell where it might land.

Daemon’s Asura had belonged to the third-rarest section of the wheel—Fiends.

Ding.

Both pairs of eyes darted to the marker. Ippo deflated instantly. The result was nowhere near as rare.

Humanoids.

But then the letters vanished, replaced by countless faces. Far more than Daemon had seen when he landed on Fiends. The wheel turned on its own, denying them time to memorize the options.

Ding.

“Tharok?” they said together, staring at the black-skinned, white-bearded face that appeared. Neither recognized this Hero. Before they could react further, the wheel dissolved.

Instead of a new path appearing for Ippo’s Daily Roll, a golden Summoning Circle flared to life beside the monolith, marked with the number 1. From its heart, a violet-black Gachapon Vending Machine materialized. A gold coin floated in the air, and within the glass dome lay orbs of many colors: golden, violet, blue, green, yellow, white, and black.

“I guess this is the System’s way of saying sorry for giving me a shitty representative as my Hero. Humph.” Ippo snatched the coin with a scowl and slid it into the slot. “Wish me luck.” He cranked the handle as far as it would go, then released.

“Good luck, bro.” Daemon watched the balls churn inside, studying his clone’s face as anticipation grew.

“Fuck!” Ippo cursed when a black ball rolled into his hand. He raised his foot to kick it away—but before he could, both boys were swallowed by light.

Daemon opened his eyes upon his Iron Throne, the Heroes Altar he had missed so dearly.

To his right, seated on a throne carved from the same stone as the black monolith, was the very Hero summoned. An Orc. Cross-legged, deep black skin, long white beard, bald save for a samurai-knot at the back of his skull. Lean muscles coiled beneath a hide of scars, a patch of brown fur covering his loins, and a massive, straight Blade resting across his knees.

“Status,” Ippo commanded.

A translucent window unfurled before them:

[Tharok: Tier-0]

[Race: Demon-Orc]

[Faction: Horde]

[Hero/Army-Commander/Berserker/Bladebearer]

[Strength: 6.8]

[Agility: 9.5]

[Vitality: 5]

[Endurance: 4.7]

[Intelligence: 3.3]

[Magic: 3.4]

[Health: 180/180]

[Stamina: 160/160]

[Mana: 100/100]

Daemon’s remaining heads turned slowly, surveying the Orc Camp.

This place… it’s changed so much while I was gone.

Orcs bustled everywhere. Dozens of them—smaller than Grunt, yes, but near Runa’s size—ran between rugged, timber-built houses, lounged near the chief’s tent, and snored atop watchtowers.

Animals prowled freely: fur, scales, feathers, hooves, paws, claws, and fangs all moving together in a strange harmony.

Inside her shop, Runa’s swollen belly betrayed her state, but she ignored the mischievous little Orcs clambering across her body as she worked. Her hands stayed focused on the craft, tools clinking as she forged.

The great pile of materials Daemon had once stockpiled was gone, consumed while he was locked out by the submerged path.

And there was Grunt, roaring at a squad of Orcs, supervising their labor as they cleaned and lined massive tree trunks, one after another, building a stronger fence around the camp.

[Demonic Bloodline]

Tharok activates part of his potential to boost his abilities.

Movement Speed+10%/Attack Speed+15%/Reaction-Speed+20%/Evasion+25%

[Demonic Sacrifice]

Tharok exchanges part of his abilities to boost his chances of delivering more damage in the battle.

Damage+30%/Critical Chance+35%/Defense-50%/Movement Speed-5/Attack Speed-10%/Reaction-Speed-15%/Evasion-20%

[Bloodlust]

Tharok's racial-trait is automatically activated once his Health is at 30% and he enters a Berserk state.

Whenever an enemy is killed with his Blade: Damage+1%/Critical Chance+1%/All Speed+1%

[Demon Descent]

Tharok splits his body and separate his Demonic Bloodline from his Orcish Bloodline to win a fight at the cost of long-term penalty.

Dark Clone: Carries the Bloodline of Shadow-Orcs, cruel, ancient, and long forgotten.

Fire Clone: Carries the Bloodline of Demon-Berserkers, battle-maniacs, inferno-dwellers, short tempers.

Cooldown: 24 hours.

[Dark Clone's Skills]

[Ghost Walk]

Hide in the shadows and become invisible to all enemies, first attack delivers a guaranteed boost to Damage and Critical Chance at the cost of terminating the Dark Clone's state of absolute invisibility.

Critical Chance+50%/Damage+35%

[Shadow Storm]

Bladesmanship at its finest display with an additional Damage-Over-Time with every successful slash thanks to the clone's overflowing dark energy.

Corrosion-Damage+10/S

[Fire Clone's Skills]

[Splitting Inferno]

A mighty blow fueled by burning flame and supplemented by a berserker's rage, carrying might great enough to split the ground and alter the shape of the battlefield.

Damage+50%/Fire-Damage+60%

[Volcanic Eruption]

Devastating conclusion to the battle once the clone's Health reach 10%, it sacrifices 9% and cause an explosion with itself in the center.

Damage+100%/Fire-Damage+80%/Knockback Chance+60%/Critical Chance+40%/Stun+3 seconds

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Daemon gawked once he witnessed the list of Skills Ippo's Hero Tharok has.

His clone on the other hand was so excited that he got up from this black throne and held the Blade in both hands then started to swing it around like the best toy he ever had, "Awesome!" an action that caused all the Orcs in the Camp to finally notice that their Lord Asura is no longer slumbering like before, and that there's another mighty figure next to him.

But this one however is... more like themselves in looks, which is kind of more to their liking!

Here's a link to my discord server if you want to talk - .gg/HwHHR6Hds