Orc Tyrant

As the deep night enveloped the earth, the flames of war gradually cooled down.

But in the depths of the advance camp, the flame has never been extinguished.

The blue fire of molten iron continued to gush out, and when the liquid metal hissed into the furnace, the spout burned.

The heavy hammer rises and falls on the anvil made of alloy, and the whine of the conveyor belt. Only the steel-like will and physique of the casting kid in the sleeveless craftsmanship can work in this extremely harsh environment. Can only fight from a distance.

Ouke doesn't have a concept of rear. Wherever he attacks, the camp is built. Even during the day when the battle is still anxious, the mechanics have established their workshops only a few hundred meters away from the front line.

Recycling, casting, exporting, re-recycling, re-casting, re-exporting.

This is the rhythm of their war.

"Step aside!"

Viken squeezed past the noisy boy and walked towards his goal with the sole purpose.

The guard mechanic who belonged directly to Guk, glaring at a row of nearly black scarred old armor, was standing in front of an open furnace waiting for him.

"How long do I still want to wait."

The mechanic guard said so, his face hidden behind an obliquely grilled electric welding protective mask.

"I'm looking for the white helmet mechanic they said."

Wiken said in a muffled voice, his voice being distorted by the metal, making it very unique.

"Here, we all call that. But you have found what you are looking for, and he already knows what you want."

Viken looked up at Knife Breaker Hawke's towering robotic arm, which was shiny and still carrying fragments of his recent work.

"I need a big fist."

Hawke smiled, his voice as dry as coals.

"The overlord likes you, I was told that he personally sent you."

He got closer, and Wiken could smell the pungent smell of smoke from him.

"But it won't do you any good. Even if you are scrap metal, you have to wait in line."

Wiken raised his left arm, and at the end of it was a twisted and broken metal fist.

Since he lost his hand, he has never had the opportunity to build a prosthesis as a substitute, and his last battle with Xiami has left the rest incomplete.

"I can't fight like this,"

Viken said, turning the remnants of the prosthesis in the flames.

"Never again."

"I heard you did a good job."

"I need to hold the axe again."

The guard mechanic laughed for the second time.

"Want to hold an axe?"

"I used this hand before."

"Then it's better to learn to use the other arm."

Viken immediately set up his posture to face Hawke.

"Don't joke with me, take a wrench."

"Do you think I'm joking? Look around you. I have hundreds of warriors to be armed. Every few minutes, I will get another set of **** armor and blades! In order to satisfy the thirst for iron, I let my mechanics work till they die. As long as the shrimps are not dead, this kind of thing is gone...you can still see it, you can go, you can still make a big click, you are lucky enough ."

"It's not enough!"

Bjorn growled.

"I need a big fist!"

Hawk propped up his waist and lowered his white helmet until it was only a palm width from Viken's head.

"Line, line, go!"

For a while, Wiken remained motionless.

He clenched his right hand and considered coercive measures. It was possible. Hawke was big, but Viken was bigger than him.

But then, reluctantly, he gave in.

Fighting with the same kind does not bring any benefits at present.

"I will return."

Viken said vowedly, stomping away from Hawke.

"You won't refuse me then."

The Guards mechanic just shrugged, and then continued his work, the mechanical arm on his back shoulders rotated, and the fire ignited again.

Viken strode past the rows of hardworking mechanics, barely noticing the flicker on the welder's heavy mask.

Every nerve of his was irritated, and he would have to join the battle again as a cumbersome and crippled identity. He was not afraid of his own death, but his blood was full of sorrow and sorrow at the thought of dragging down the entire battle.

Then, in the last section of the casting workshop, he saw it.

It hung on an iron chain, half disappeared into the darkness, gleaming in the reflected light of the furnace, with complete, primitive, wild beauty.

"you."

Wiken said, pointing to a fart.

"Who is this for?"

The fart spirit bowed awkwardly in his thick uniform.

"I, I don't know, do you need me to find the boss?"

Viken glanced again, and the item was perfect.

This is a peculiar thing, a masterpiece of a genius, and the people who carry it will continue to kill until everything is gone.

"Can you fit it?"

Viken asked, stretching out his mutilated arm.

"Yes, but—"

The fart answered hesitantly.

"Do as I said."

As Viken spoke, he reached the hanging chain, and his pulse had accelerated.

"Do it now."

Under the gaze of the giant machine, the fart spirit finally chose to surrender. He called his companion to install the tool originally prepared for the repair of the Maoge warlord to Viken's arm.

Until dawn, the war on the ground has not yet begun, and the fighting in the tunnel has gradually reached a climax...

"Go on!"

Viken roared and issued a death curse, and rushed out to the enemy.

His four adamantine claws roared into an energy-shrouded state, emitting a dazzling green in the surrounding darkness. This was originally just a grabbing tool, but now it has become his killing hand.

The tunnel is spacious enough, but it can only accommodate a piece of scrap iron through it.

In the darkness, a wolf-filled warrior dressed in blue armor and covered in a white mask swooped at him, the giant sword in his hand trembling amid **** screams.

The two warriors collided, and Viken felt the sharp pain when the sword bit into the gap in his shoulder armor.

He immediately turned, jabbed, and twisted his body to stay close to the enemy.

At the same time, he stretched out his mechanical claws and grabbed the face under the helmet.

Its decomposition force field shines with dark green light, tearing apart the steel protective gear, sliding through the flesh and blood, and cutting through the tendons, muscles and bones.

Fiery blood gushes out along the claws of the adamantine claws, hissing as the edges boil.

The wolverine warrior swayed and his neck was nailed.

Wiken twisted the claw blade, the enemy fell, his throat was torn out, and he fell to the ground with the final heavy impact of the armor.

"Waaaagh!!!"

Viken howled at his victory, spreading his paws, spraying blood in the hallway.

Followed by a team of guards, they opened fire freely, locked the surviving soldiers, and drove them back to the depths of the tunnel.

"Kill them!"

Viken roared.

"Kill them all!"

Then, with the rubbing of the armor and the cracking of the decomposition force field, he strode out meteorically, and once again, stepped into the shadows.