Translator: CinderTL
Inside the large tent made of animal hides, Abal sat upright on a bone throne covered with wolf pelts, a bronze battle axe resting across his knees.
When Viscount Acosta was brought in, dozens of Orc eyes fixed on the small human.
"G-Great Chieftain," Acosta's knees weakened, nearly causing him to kneel at the entrance of the tent.
He recognized several renowned Orc generals—Calem was coldly scrutinizing him with his single eye; the young Ajil toyed with a dagger, a disdainful smirk playing at the corner of his mouth; Old Shaman Otasi's bone staff tapped lightly against the ground, producing a disquieting sound.
Abal raised his hand, signaling him to approach. This simple gesture drenched the viscount's silk shirt with cold sweat. Trembling, he presented a scroll: "Duke Lamost Bradley has commanded me to prepare the supply list."
Old Orc Yujin took it from his hands, unfolded it, and glanced over it briefly before suddenly scoffing, "Is this all? Not even enough to feed the vanguard!" His broken tusks glimmered yellow in the firelight.
Arroya slammed his hand on the table, startling Acosta into retreating two steps. "Humans are all miserly! I say we should send my warriors to their granaries to take what they need!"
A burst of coarse laughter erupted within the tent.
Acosta, trembling, lifted his gaze, only to meet Abal's inscrutable stare—though the Great Chieftain appeared calm, the viscount clearly saw the edge of the battle axe pointed directly at his throat.
Abal leaned slightly forward, the blade of the bronze axe subtly shifting away, his rough fingers tapping gently on the armrest of the bone throne, producing a dull sound.
"Your Excellency, you need not be so tense." Abal's voice was deep and steady, as if soothing a startled colt, "My army has come here to rescue the people of the Yellow Earth from Aldor's tyranny."
He gestured for a servant to bring a cup of mare milk wine, personally handing it to Acosta.
"The supplies you gathered are merely a temporary requisition, a necessary measure for a longer-lasting peace."
Acosta trembled as he accepted the gilded silver cup, the liquid inside creating tiny ripples.
He noticed the varied expressions of the generals in the tent—Calem coldly polishing his battle axe; Ajil playing with a dagger; Old Yujin squinting as he continued to examine the numbers in the supply ledger.
"T-Thank you, Great Chieftain, for your concern," Acosta stammered, taking a sip, the sourness of the mare milk wine nearly choking him.
When Abal waved his hand, signaling that he could leave, Acosta hesitated, not appearing to want to depart.
Abal's brow furrowed like a storm cloud, the bronze axe trembling slightly on his knees.
"Human, you wander in my tent like a frightened rabbit." His voice rumbled like thunder within the animal hide tent, "Speak quickly, what else is there?"
He had abandoned his earlier gentle tone, for the Great Chieftain despised such indecisiveness.
Viscount Acosta's knuckles turned white from gripping tightly, and he finally pulled out a yellowed letter from his silk lining. The letter was soaked with cold sweat, its edges curling like withered leaves.
"G-Great Chieftain," his voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz, "This is from Duke Bradley. I'm not speaking of Duke Lamost Bradley, but the former Duke Dusan Bradley, who had someone secretly deliver this letter to me."
Abal's rough fingers slowly unfolded the damp letter. As his single eye scanned the trembling script, a sharp glint flashed deep within his pupil. "Gathering at Stonebridge Town, Laos City is empty." He read aloud the fragments, his deep voice resonating like distant thunder, each syllable sending chills down Acosta's spine.
However, the contents of the letter also indicated that this was false.
Viscount Acosta trembled as he explained, "This is false intelligence that Dusan Bradley had me deliver to the Great Chieftain."
Ajil's dagger traced a silver arc in the firelight. "Father, the cunning human has set a trap! By the way, that old fox has already escaped to Alden Town! The true mastermind must be that Paul Grayman fellow."
At the mention of this name, Calem's eyes suddenly narrowed into slits, the humiliating memory of being defeated by Alden's army in the Blackstone Pass resurfacing, their commander being none other than Paul Grayman.
A sinister smile crept across his face. "It seems Grayman wants to lure us to Rao City, to bleed us dry in his trap."
Abal brought the letter close to the fire pit, the paper curling into ash in the flames, his face hard as granite amidst the rising smoke.
The Great Chieftain's bronze fingers tapped against the armrest of the bone throne, producing a dull sound. "Interesting," his voice rasped like gravel, "Why did Old Bradley choose you to deliver this letter?"
Acosta's cheeks flushed crimson, as if burned by the heat of the fire pit. He fidgeted with the hem of his clothing, the silk fabric making a faint tearing sound between his rough fingers. "Because… because," his voice was as faint as a fly, "I am his illegitimate son."
Suddenly, a burst of coarse laughter erupted in the tent. Calem slapped his knee, a mocking glint flashing in his single eye; Ajil continued to toy with his dagger, the tip tracing back and forth over Acosta's shadow.
"Even stranger!" Abal leaned forward, the edge of the axe reflecting a dangerous light, "Since you share blood, why would you betray him?"
Acosta suddenly fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the cold, muddy ground. "Great Chieftain!" His voice twisted with fear, "My loyalty to you is as steadfast as the stars of the North—"
"You lie!" Old Shaman Otasi's bone staff struck heavily against the ground, the runes at its tip glowing ominously, "I should rephrase that; you are not entirely motivated by loyalty to the Great Chieftain!"
Acosta trembled all over, finally lifting his head, genuine fear flickering in his eyes. "I-I am afraid… Lamost will kill Joan. After my father fled, I will be next. He had me gather supplies with ill intentions! I seek your protection!"
Abal suddenly burst into laughter, the sound shaking the snow from the tent's roof.
"By the gods!" he wiped away tears from the corners of his eyes.
The words he left unspoken were, "What kind of offspring does Old Bradley produce? A treacherous parricide, a cowardly informant."
A rare glimmer of pity flashed in the Great Chieftain's single eye, "Only that Joan can be considered a man."
The crackling of the coals in the fire pit illuminated Acosta's flushed face.
The Orc Great Chieftain suddenly drove the bronze axe heavily into the ground. "You did well this time. As a reward, I will protect you; Lamost Bradley will not harm you."
"Go back and find a way to inform Dusan Bradley that I have already come to believe what he wants me to believe!"
(End of the Chapter)
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