The village seemed lifeless as Wooin crept through its outskirts, his blade drawn and his senses sharp. Each step he took was deliberate, his movements blending seamlessly into the natural rhythm of the dungeon's environment. The orcs' guttural voices had long faded, replaced by the occasional crackle of a fire or the faint rustle of wind through the crude wooden barricades.
Wooin paused behind a stack of logs, scanning the area. The hut of the shaman orc which was the chief was his destination, but he couldn't afford to alert the village to his presence. His training had prepared him for this: precision, patience, and a willingness to strike without hesitation.
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The First Strike
His first target was a solitary orc elder tending to a cauldron near one of the huts. The creature's hunched form and slow movements made it an easy mark. Wooin closed the distance in a low crouch, his breathing steady as he raised his sword. The blade flashed once in the dim light, and the orc slumped forward, lifeless.
Wooin dragged the body into the shadows, wiping his blade clean on a patch of grass. The coppery tang of blood lingered in the air, but he couldn't let it distract him. This was only the beginning.
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Clearing the Path
The next two kills came quickly. An orc female carrying firewood and another preparing a meal near the center of the village fell silently under Wooin's blade. His attacks were swift and lethal, each strike guided by the First Sword Dance's principles. His heart pounded with adrenaline, but his mind remained cold and focused.
He moved methodically, ensuring that the bodies were hidden before pressing deeper into the village. The shaman's chanting grew louder as he approached the central hut, its ominous cadence sending shivers down his spine.
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An Unexpected Turn
Wooin was nearly at the entrance to the shaman's dwelling when his plans took a sudden turn. A low growl reached his ears, and he turned to see a massive orc warrior standing guard outside the chieftain's tent. The creature's nostrils flared, and its eyes narrowed as it caught the scent of blood lingering on Wooin's clothing.
The orc roared, raising an enormous club as it charged. Wooin barely had time to react, ducking beneath the first swing and countering with a slash across the orc's chest. The blade bit deep, but the creature was far from defeated.
They clashed in a flurry of blows, Wooin's agility and technique pitted against the orc's raw strength. The First Sword Dance flowed through him, guiding his movements as he dodged, parried, and struck back.
But the commotion had drawn attention. More orcs emerged from nearby huts, their guttural cries filling the air as they surrounded him.
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A Desperate Retreat
Wooin's breathing was labored as he fought to keep the attackers at bay. He delivered a series of precise strikes, cutting down two more orcs, but their numbers were overwhelming. A heavy blow from a club glanced off his ribs, sending a sharp pain coursing through his body.
Realizing he couldn't win this fight head-on, Wooin made a split-second decision. He broke through a gap in the encirclement, sprinting toward the nearest structure. He ducked into a tent, slashing the support beams behind him to collapse the entrance and buy himself time.
Inside, Wooin leaned against a wooden crate, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side. Blood seeped through his tunic, and his ribs throbbed with each breath. He tore a strip of fabric from his clothing and wrapped it tightly around his injuries, stifling a groan as he secured the makeshift bandage. He was not even thinking about the magic cores of the orcs he had killed, each magic core of monsters brought a sum of money no matter how small or big. But that was nowhere near his original goals, all he wanted was to know if his training paid off. He could collect the cores on his way out.
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A New Strategy
As Wooin's breathing steadied, he scanned the tent's interior. Several large crates were stacked against the walls, and a pile of hay sat in the corner. An idea began to take shape in his mind. The orcs were simple-minded creatures, prone to panic in the face of chaos. If he could create a distraction, he might regain the upper hand.
Wooin rummaged through the crates, finding dry kindling and a flint. He piled the hay in the center of the tent and struck a spark. The fire roared to life, quickly consuming the dry materials and spreading to the wooden crates.
Smoke billowed out of the tent, drawing the orcs' attention. Their cries turned to panicked shouts as they scrambled to contain the flames.
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Chaos and Precision
Amidst the chaos, Wooin struck. Emerging from the shadows, he moved like a phantom, his blade flashing in the flickering firelight. The First Sword Dance guided his every movement, each strike a calculated blow aimed to incapacitate or kill.
The orcs, disoriented by the fire and the sudden attack, fell one by one. Wooin ducked under a clumsy swing, driving his blade into an orc's chest before spinning to block another's strike.
The battle was brutal and unrelenting. Wooin's body bore the marks of the fight—a fractured rib, deep bruises, and countless scrapes—but he refused to falter.
By the time the fire burned itself out, the village was silent once more. The village was in dead silence only the sound of the shaman's chanting and wooin's heavy breathing could be heard in that silence.