Oliver stood his ground as the first wave of the Orc legion crested the hill. The air was thick with the smell of wet fur and rusted iron. To the Orcs, he was a lone, strangely dressed boy. To Oliver, this was a massive "Mob Infestation."
The Orcs didn't wait. With a collective, guttural roar that shook the leaves from the trees, the vanguard charged. Their jagged scimitars swung in wide, murderous arcs.
He leveled the Ice Staff. As he channeled his intent through the blue gem, the cold energy gathered with a chilling, hollow sound.
Wheeze!
A beam of frost energy hissed from the staff. The lead Orcs didn't just slow down—they turned into solid blocks of rime mid-stride. Their momentum carried them forward, and when they hit the ground, they didn't fall; they shattered like dropped glass, their frozen armor and limbs bursting into a thousand brittle shards.
A group of smaller Orcs managed to flank him, their blades slamming into his chest. Oliver felt the impact, but the Log Suit absorbed the brunt of the force, the magically reinforced timber groaning but reducing the damage significantly.
Suddenly, the Orcs nearest to him began to shiver. Their movements became sluggish, their skin turning a pale, sickly blue. The Chilled Amulet around Oliver's neck pulsed with a cold, protective light, sapping the heat from anyone who dared to stand too close and freezing those who lingered.
{Swinging his spear} You're too slow.
He didn't even need to strike hard. A simple tap of his flint-tipped spear against a "Chilled" Orc caused the brittle creature to crack and crumble into pieces. He was a whirlwind of winter in the middle of a summer forest, a single human turning a legion's charge into a graveyard of ice.
******
In the rear of the war-party, perched on a massive, scarred Warg, the Orc Captain—a towering Uruk with a white hand painted across his face—watched the slaughter in disbelief.
He watched as another dozen of his best warriors were reduced to glittering dust by the boy's staff. This wasn't a fight; it was a meat-grinder. If he kept throwing his infantry at the "Master of Shadows," he would have no army left to take Rivendell.
The Orcs began to fall back, forming a wide semi-circle around the clearing. They were no longer charging; they were hunting.
******
The sky darkened as the Orc archers leveled their bows. A rain of black-feathered arrows and sputtering fire-pots hissed through the air, aimed directly at the boy in the wooden suit.
Oliver slammed the butt of his Ice Staff into the soft earth.
Wheeze!
Instead of a single beam, a wave of frost erupted from the blue gem, flash-freezing the moisture in the air and the moisture in the ground. A jagged wall of thick, translucent ice surged upward, forming a crystalline barrier. The arrows clattered harmlessly against the frozen surface, and the fire-pots shattered, their flames quenched by the unnatural cold before they could even spread.
Safe behind his cover, Oliver opened the Codex Umbra. His face was pale, his eyes reflecting the purple glow of the nightmare fuel pulsing in his veins.
The shadows beneath the ice wall stretched and tore. Dozens of Shadow Duelists rose from the ink, their forms more stable and terrifying than ever before.
Half of the shadow army, wielding jagged Shadow Swords, charged through the ice wall with ghostly speed. They didn't make a sound as they carved through the Orc infantry, their blades bypassing physical armor to strike at the soul. The remaining shadows stayed behind Oliver, manifesting Shadow Bows. They loosed a volley of arrows made of pure void that hissed through the air, seeking out the Orc archers with unerring accuracy.
It was a massacre. The Orcs, used to fighting flesh and blood, found their weapons passing through the Duelists while the shadows' blades bit deep.
******
From the rear, the Orc Captain watched his legion crumble. His eyes burned with a desperate, cunning malice. He leaned down to a wiry, black-clad figure crouched beside his Warg—an Orc Assassin from the pits of Isengard.
The assassin melted into the tall grass, moving with a supernatural silence that even Oliver's "Pro" senses didn't immediately catch. Oliver was focused on the front line, directing his shadows like a grandmaster on a chessboard.
He never felt the blade.
The assassin lunged from the shadows behind him, driving a jagged, poisoned dagger through a gap in the Log Suit. Oliver's breath hitched. The world turned grey. He felt his heart stop as he slumped to his knees, the Ice Staff falling from his hand.
But the shadows didn't fade. They stayed, their red eyes glowing brighter.
Suddenly, the Life Giving Amulet around Oliver's neck shattered with a sound like a tolling bell. A burst of blinding crimson light erupted from his chest. The wound in his back closed instantly, the poison purged by the amulet's sacrifice.
Oliver snapped his eyes open, his hand catching the assassin's throat before the creature could even recoil in horror.
With a sharp twist, he finished the assassin. He stood up, his gaze locking onto the Orc Captain across the battlefield. He didn't need the amulet anymore; he had the momentum.