The shaman's chant was a sinister cadence, echoing through the stillness of the village. Each syllable carried an unnatural weight, vibrating in the air like the hum of an ancient curse. Wooin stood just outside the chieftain's hut, his sword slick with blood, his breathing labored. The adrenaline of battle coursed through him, dulling the sharp ache of his injuries.
The shaman's hut loomed before him, its crude construction betraying an unsettling aura. Strange glyphs marked the wooden planks, glowing faintly in the darkness. The rhythmic drumming from within matched the tempo of Wooin's pounding heart. He gripped his blade tighter, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. This was it—the culmination of his training, the moment he had prepared for.
Wooin pushed the door open slowly, his eyes narrowing as he stepped inside.
---
The Chieftain's Presence
The interior was suffused with a sickly green light emanating from a cluster of glowing stones on the floor. The air was thick with the stench of incense and decay, and the oppressive heat made it hard to breathe.
At the center of the room stood the shaman, an orc far more imposing than any Wooin had faced thus far. Unlike the others, this one bore intricate tattoos that pulsed with an eerie energy. Draped in animal skins, the shaman clutched a gnarled staff adorned with bones and feathers. Its red eyes burned with a malevolent intelligence, and a cruel grin spread across its face as it noticed Wooin.
"So, the little human dares to challenge me," it hissed in the guttural orcish tongue. The shaman's voice was layered, as though two beings spoke in unison.
Wooin said nothing, stepping forward with measured purpose. His blade gleamed in the dim light, and his stance was low and steady.
The shaman raised its staff, and the room erupted in chaos.
The shaman chanted rapidly, its staff glowing brighter with each word. A wave of dark energy shot toward Wooin, and he barely managed to roll aside. The magic struck the wall behind him, splintering the wood with a deafening crack.
Wooin surged forward, aiming to close the distance. The shaman raised its staff to block, and their weapons clashed with a resounding clang. Sparks flew as Wooin pressed the attack, his blade a blur of motion.
But the shaman was no mere brute. It moved with surprising speed, parrying Wooin's strikes and countering with sweeping blows from its staff. Each impact reverberated through Wooin's arms, testing his grip.
"You're skilled, human," the shaman sneered, "but skill won't save you."
The shaman unleashed another burst of energy, forcing Wooin to leap back. The green light seared the air, leaving a scorch mark on the floor where he had stood moments ago.
Wooin adjusted his stance, his mind racing. The shaman's magic was formidable, but it relied on preparation. If he could disrupt its focus, he might have a chance.
He feinted left, then dashed right, circling the shaman with the fluidity of the First Sword Dance. His movements were unpredictable, designed to confuse and disorient his opponent. The shaman lashed out with its staff, but Wooin evaded with a series of nimble steps.
Seizing an opening, Wooin struck. His blade bit into the shaman's side, drawing dark, ichor-like blood. The creature howled in pain, its tattoos flaring with light.
"You'll regret that!" it bellowed, slamming its staff into the ground.
The room trembled as skeletal hands erupted from the floor, clawing at Wooin's legs. He slashed at them desperately, severing the bony limbs before they could pull him under. The shaman used the distraction to attack, swinging its staff in a wide arc.
The blow caught Wooin's shoulder, sending him sprawling. Pain exploded through his body, but he gritted his teeth and rolled to his feet.
Wooin knew he couldn't outlast the shaman in a prolonged fight. His injuries were mounting, and every second the shaman remained standing, its magic grew stronger. He needed to end this quickly.
He reached into his pouch and retrieved a small vial of oil. Coating his blade, he ignited it with the flint he carried, the flames roaring to life along the sword's edge.
The shaman's eyes widened, its grin replaced by a snarl.
"Fire won't save you!" it spat, hurling another wave of dark energy.
Wooin charged headlong into the attack, the flames on his blade parting the magical wave like a ship cutting through water. The energy crackled around him, but he pressed on, ignoring the searing pain that licked at his skin.
The shaman raised its staff to block, but Wooin was faster. He drove the flaming sword into the creature's chest, the fire consuming its robes and flesh.
The shaman screamed, its voice a mix of rage and anguish. The tattoos on its body flared one last time before dimming, and the creature collapsed to the ground.
Wooin staggered back, his chest heaving. The room was eerily silent, the oppressive energy dissipating like a morning mist. The shaman's lifeless body lay crumpled on the floor, its staff smoldering beside it.
But Wooin's victory was short-lived. The shaman's final spell had taken its toll—his wounds were severe, and his vision blurred. He stumbled toward the exit, each step a monumental effort.
Outside, the village was a smoldering ruin. The fires he had set earlier still burned in places, casting flickering shadows across the carnage. The bodies of orcs littered the ground, a grim testament to the battle that had unfolded.
Wooin leaned against a tree, his strength failing him. He had survived, but just barely. His ribs throbbed with every breath, and the makeshift bandage around his side was soaked through with blood.
He glanced back at the shaman's hut, now a lifeless husk. The village was silent, save for the crackling of flames and the distant cry of a bird.
Wooin closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to breathe. His training had been tested, and though he had emerged victorious, he knew the cost. The shaman's magic had been unlike anything he had faced before, a reminder that the path he had chosen was fraught with peril.
But there was no time for reflection. The dungeon was vast, and the shaman was just one obstacle among many. Wooin's mission was far from over.
Pushing himself to his feet, he began the arduous task of collecting the orcs' magic cores. Each one pulsed faintly with energy, a small reward for his harrowing ordeal.
Wooin tightened his grip on his sword, his resolve hardening because he still had a fight left to fight with the hunter orcs who are on their way back from hunting and they must have caught onto the thick metallic smell of blood in the air which was the result of his fierce battle.