The 'Extra' Lord - A Plundering Kingdom Building LitRPG

Owen was given no time to relish his new first, organically gained Skill as the Orcen Lord began his onslaught.

Dodging out of the way of each axe strike by a hair's breadth, Owen realised the orc was still looking down on him. The terrifying creature of raw muscle could have ended the fight if he had decided to grapple him. Instead, perhaps it was his own pride that made him resolutely rely on his axe. Maybe the orcs would look down on him if he didn’t kill Owen with his weapon. Maybe it was some other reason. Whatever it was, Owen was thankful for it. It gave him an opportunity.

Pressed backwards, Owen’s sword danced with more finesse than before. Although he didn’t have the techniques or experience to contend against the orc directly, the Skill he had gained improved his odds ever so slightly. Blade biting into green flesh, the orcen Lord increased his speed even more.

Owen stepped to the side, seeing the attack before the orc had even made it. But because of the sudden enhanced speed, the edge of the axe caught his shoulder. Pain gnawed into his bone and his blade threatened to leap from his hand.

Gritting his teeth, Owen demanded his Fragment to remain in his grasp. His back struck the wall, finally. Ducking under another wide swing from the orc, the blade crashing into the wall, exploding part of it into projectiled shrapnel. Owen dashed into the castle. Orcen laughs rang out. Owen ignored the mocking. He didn’t care, as long as he lived through today.

The fight became chaotic. Owen used the narrower surroundings to his advantage. The orc, who relied on his hulking axe, couldn’t use his weapon to his advantage. Here, in the castle walls, it hindered him.

Owen used the situation as much as he could, drawing blood strike-after-strike. But without an attacking Skill, there was only so much he could do. Still, he carved the orcs flesh; like a kid lashing lines through sand. Blood seeped and splashed, covering the walls, consuming the floor. Mixed with Owen’s own, it was a grim sight. Owen was barely holding on. He was reaching his limit. But he had a few things still up his sleeve.

The sand from outside that had swept across the floor, provided his chance. Using Sandstorm Fury, Owen kicked up a cloud of dust. It wasn't a lot, but it was just enough to obscure vision. Then, a small, round object spawned from Owen’s palm. The orcen Lord looked at it mid swing, but it was too late to react as Owen had already thrown it at the green beast. The ball, heavy metal that wasn’t entirely solid, struck the orc’s chest. An explosion rang out. The stench of charred flesh and gunpowder wafted through the halls.

Owen didn’t stop there. One more appeared, then another, until 6 of them in total were already flying through the air at the orc, smothered in smoke and dust. All of the explosions rang out one after the other; the accumulation of Owen’s exorbitant expenditure within the Lord’s Shop.

Not stopping there, Owen dashed beyond a doorway, spun around, and took out a crossbow. It was black, with golden inscriptions carved throughout. Together with the bombs, a couple bolts had resulted in him spending all of his credits. The orc had been here longer, had spent who knows how many days grinding the hounds from the rift--accumulating experience with every passing moment. If he wanted to live today, it was a necessity.

The orcen lord, a visage of wrath and fury, charged out of the smoke, green flesh burnt black and scarlet. Blood spilled from the gnarly wound branded into his skin. No longer did he have the axe in his hands. He lunged at him, fingers threatening to break his body like a twig.

Owen pulled the trigger, releasing a thick bolt from the crossbow's body. It streaked through the air like shifting darkness and blasted into the already wounded orc. His massive body was launched backwards, moving with the force of the bolt. Not surprised, Owen quickly placed the tip of the bow on the floor, placed his foot into a foothold, and then with all his System enhanced might, pulled the string back, locking it into place.

The orc roared and as if he was a streak of lightning, thundered through the castle passageway—straight for Owen.

Pulling the trigger for a second time, the bolt launched towards the orc. But this time the Lord was ready. Eyes stuck to the approaching projectile, the orc grabbed it out of the air, spun round, then threw it right back at Owen.

Eyes widening, Owen rolled on the floor as the bolt smashed into the wall behind him. Owen knew he had to move, but it was too late. Something in the orc changed, his hands already wrapping around Owen’s throat.

He couldn't breathe. He struggled and thrashed and sliced into the orcs body with his Fragment, fire spurting from the Runes of his armour, yet reality remained harsh. Owen couldn’t escape. He kicked and kneed and punched to no avail.

Blood seeped from the orcs eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. His eyes had transformed from a scarlet rage, to a calm of the storm.

“You spent everything to stop me,” the orcen Lord said through bloodied teeth. “And for what?” He tightened his fist. It bulged with veins. He threw it into Owen’s stomach. Ribs cracked. Owen puked out whatever was in his stomach, mixed with blood, right onto the Lord’s chest. The orc didn’t care.

“Do you know what my Lord Emblem is?” He waited for no answer as he slammed another fist into Owen’s gut. Pain lanced through his body as his internal organs were being destroyed. “Overwhelming Strength. I've killed, murdered, and fought through wars by the time you were still suckling on your mother. Filthy human.”

The Orcen Lord tightened his grip before hurling Owen against the wall as if he were a sack of potatoes. Owen hit it with such force that his body shattered the stone, crashing through it and rolling to a stop in the centre of his people and the remaining orcs.

Owen glanced at Draed and the others. They gripped their weapons tightly, knuckles white with rage, trembling with anger. Then he shifted his gaze to where his troops had fallen, spotting Cedric’s lifeless body among them.

Just a week ago, Owen's life had been a mundane routine: waking up, going to work, coming home to dinner, and watching an episode or two of a TV show before bed. It was the same cycle, repeating day after day, until the inevitable end—whether by old age or something else.

With trembling legs, and a body that held nothing left inside to give, Owen somehow found himself standing up. Despite his beaten and broken body, his heart was screaming out with something that he couldn’t describe. He roared, blood spittle ejecting out of his mouth. The orcs fist arrived, but he was too injured, too tired to move out of the way. The fist descended on him, slamming him to the ground.

Owen stood up again. Another fist assaulted his jaw, sending stars spiralling into his vision, yet he stood up again, and again. After the 6th time struck to the floor, the jeering from orcs was cut into silence. An eerie quiet took hold of the desert, the only sound was fist meeting flesh, and the cracking of bone.

The orcen Lord roared and kicked Owen’s leg, snapping it. Owen couldn't even muster a murmur of pain. The orc kicked his chest, sending him sliding across the sand.

“Stay down,” the orc said, panting. He didn’t look any better. Whatever Skill he was using, was taxing his body beyond what it was capable of resisting.

Owen, planted into the sand, twitched his fingers. Then, he barely raised his arm, then planted his bloodied palm on the floor. He strained his neck, looking up at the Orc.

“My Lord…” Draed stepped forwards, his voice quivering.

Owen signalled him away. With a strained wheeze leaving his throat, Owen slowly rose to his feet. It felt like an eternity before he stood, short and crooked. With a mighty struggle, he raised his sword once again. The orcs flashed him looks of awe and respect. One of them placed his fist on his heart, and soon, all the others followed.

The orcen Lord roared in anger and smashed one of the orcs into the ground with his fist, exploding his head with a stomp of his foot. The orcen troops trembled, yet they didn’t halt their salute.

Without turning back, Owen said to his people. “I’m sorry… I failed you…” So many times he had given up in his old life. Given up friends, given up hobbies, given up on striving for more. From holding his blade horizontally, to vertically, Owen continued with a smile steeped with blood, “But... I think... I bought... enough time.”

Raging toward Owen, Owen closed his eyes and listened to the stomps of the monster’s feet. It was time. The moment he had been waiting for all along. He just didn’t know who would come out on the other end alive…

He activated Unlimited Plunder and ignoring the flesh eating pain stabbing his heart, dropped his blade and pushed his palm forwards… only for it not to hit anything—his Skill cancelled. Shocked gasps erupted. Owen snapped his eyes open, only for his heart to lurch.

A tall woman, six-feet tall with lean muscles, beautiful pale skin, and… tall pointed rabbit ears, stood in front of him. In front of her, laying on the ground, was the orcen Lord, staring up at her in abject shock. She opened her palm and a spiralling universe spawned within. Then, it moved from her palm, circled round to her fists, and formed into knuckle-dusters.

She glanced back, her eyes as gorgeous as the milky way. Those beautiful eyes lay on his wounded and broken body. His left arm was shattered, most of his ribs were only pieces, and his left leg lay at an awkward angle. Not to mention his skull, or all the other injuries marring him. A flight of madness took hold of her gaze.

“P—pyris?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, either,” She said, turning around to face the rising orcen Lord. “Trust in me, my Lord. I will not fail. I will not forget.”

Pyris launched forwards at blazing speed and slammed her fist into the orcs skull. The impact of the strike sent his body flying through the air, crashing through numerous walls.

Twinkling stars like luminous snowflakes sprinkled from her fist as she sauntered towards the broken wall.

The orc, dazed, stumbled back out, flexing his iron-like muscles. He snarled and glanced at Owen. “This is not the strength of a Lord.”

Pyris paused, glancing over her shoulder at Owen, who managed a weak grin despite his exhaustion.

"She’s my Spectre," he whispered hoarsely, "She is my strength."

Their eyes met, and Owen gave her a slight nod. Pyris returned it, her gaze hardening with fierce determination as she turned back to face the towering orc. She wasn’t just his Spectre—she was a part of him, his unwavering strength. The orc seemed to sense that and readied himself for battle.

Owen’s heart clenched with worry. Despite her 7-Star rank, Pyris was still only Level 1. But he had no choice. He could only hope that she had the Skills to turn the tide. The orc was weakened. He had done his part.

You’ve got this, he thought, his eyelids growing heavy. Darkness overtook him as his body finally gave in.