Chapter 590: The Orcs' Conflict
Along the Bindler River, tents large and small were pitched—this was now the temporary stronghold of the Redblood Tribe.
After the war ended, the former orc vanguard Soro Blooddrinker replaced Batu as the tribe's acting chieftain. However... the position was not easy to sit on.
Inside the tent, lights blazed as fury filled the air. Orcs snarled, spittle flying. "Soro, you coward!"
An orc commander raised his spear and roared, "The Father God said cowards should be pierced through the chest with sharp spears—you are unworthy to be our chieftain!"
"The dwarves killed our chieftain! And faced with such a blood feud, you tell us to recuperate and rest?"
Someone pointed a spear tip at Soro's head, who sat atop the Bone Throne. "Soro, what happened to the vengeance you promised? These past months, we orcs have been hiding and running, hunted like prairie rabbits by dwarven patrols!"
A burly orc spoke coldly, "Remember this, Soro—you only became chieftain by luck. If this keeps up, we won't hesitate to choose someone else."
"Crack!"
Soro stood from the Bone Throne and slammed the table before him, shattering it.
He scanned the orcs' faces and pointed southward, shouting in fury, "Batu is dead, the old shaman is dead—what do we have left to avenge the Highland Kingdom? You, a bunch of broken, defeated soldiers? You so-called warriors—then go and intercept that golden-scaled lizard yourselves! He's already destroyed twelve of our outposts this month alone!"
Instantly, the tent fell silent. The orcs were speechless. Even the air seemed to freeze.
Lately, the orcs had endured only misery. With scarce food supplies, their massive army had broken into scattered nomadic groups, returning to their previous disorganized state.
Elven and dwarven patrols from the Highland Kingdom now roamed the vast Ugo Prairie, hunting down lone orcs.
To the dwarves, the gold dragon was their dawn. But to the orcs, he was death incarnate—a devil bringing hell. They even called him "The Punisher" in fear.
The gold dragon would often soar overhead, unleashing blazing dragonfire to obliterate orc outposts, leaving behind only scorched ruins and mountains of corpses.
"I admit, I'm not like Batu or Kork—heroes blessed by the Father God. But you useless fools think you can step over my head?
Our failure is your fault, you incompetent cowards! Lord Batu gave his all—while you stood idle!
Anyone who wants the Redblood chieftain's seat—come take it. I fear no challenger!"
Soro's angry voice echoed through the tent. The previously furious orc commanders were now mute.
Because Soro was right—Batu Skullcrusher's power was obvious. They couldn't even join his battles.
And now that all members of the tribe's "Eyes of Gruumsh" were dead, Soro Blooddrinker—known for drinking giant blood—was the tribe's finest warrior.
The orc commander who'd spoken first stepped forward, trying to ease tensions. He muttered, "Soro, perhaps—"
But just then, disaster struck. A piercing screech cut the air, and an arrow tore through the woolen tent wall—heading straight for Soro's chest.
"Whoosh—"
Every orc recognized the sound of an arrow tearing through the air.
"Ambush!" Soro shouted, twisting his body at high speed—barely dodging the deadly shot.
"Crack!"
The arrow embedded deep into the Bone Throne. At once, elite orc warriors stormed in, standing guard and scanning for the attacker.
"Damn it, how\..." Soro clutched his chest, gasping, staring at the arrow. It had pierced bone and was dripping with deadly poison.
This ambush was cruel and precise—clearly aiming to kill him, Soro Blooddrinker, outright!
But what caught Soro's eye was the arrow's fletching. He squinted at the brown feathers, voice hoarse. "Feathers of a Highland vulture."
Only orcs bred those savage, ugly birds—only orcs crafted arrows like this.
Soro's heart trembled—maybe this assassination hadn't come from the Highland Kingdom... but from within the orc ranks!
He grabbed his spear and charged from the tent, eyes locked on the arrow's origin. Once a master hunter, he instantly spotted movement in a pile of dried grass a hundred meters away.
Messy footprints, overturned soil, scattered vulture feathers—
Soro was certain—it wasn't just the wind. Someone was hiding there!
But he didn't alert the foe. Instead, he held his breath, tensed every muscle, gripped his sharp spear tight—and hurled it.
"Shhhk—"
The spear tore through the air and struck the dried grass. Blood splattered. The pile shook violently, a howl of pain followed.
Soro mounted his dire wolf and roared, "The enemy's there! Capture him alive! Don't let him escape!"
Wolf-mounted cavalry surged forward in coordinated groups of three to four, flanking the grass pile from all sides.
Soro approached and finally saw the attacker's face—an emaciated orc in tattered brown robes.
The orc was pinned to the ground by the spear, blood gushing from his wounds. Nearby cavalry glared at him murderously.
One of them raised his spear with a sneer. "Lord Soro, this bastard tried to assassinate you! Shall we torture him—"
Soro raised a hand. "Wait. I still have questions."
The dying orc raised his head, eyes filled with hatred, and sneered at Soro. "Kill me, you Redblood bastard. Cowardly liar."
Soro looked down at him, frowning. "Why would you do this? We orcs are all one—followers of the Father God."
"Lord Batu said no matter what clan we come from, we must stand united—to slay dwarves and elves and reclaim our stolen lands."
"Enough!"
The orc roared in rage, bloodied spittle flying. "I'm sick of the Redblood Tribe's fake nobility! You talk about unity, but you seized the land of our Coldcrow Clan—land my ancestors fought a hundred years to win—leaving us homeless!"
Soro couldn't help but argue, "It was only a temporary station. The orc army will rise again. We'll avenge Batu and destroy the Highland Kingdom, take Avenderdan—"
The assassin's face twisted in fury, mockery in every word. "Soro, stop feeding us Redblood lies!"
"Without Batu, how will the orcs break Avenderdan? You?"
For a moment, Soro was speechless. He had to admit he'd selfishly given Redbloods the best pastures—not quite the noble truth he claimed.
"You arrogant fools of the Redfang Tribe tricked our chieftain—now we're like stray dogs, our clan annihilated!" The orc used his final strength to hurl a poison-coated dagger at Soro.
"You dare!"
"Vile traitor!"
Nearby orc soldiers surged forward, slicing the Coldcrow assassin into pieces with spears and blades.
Soro stared at the mangled remains in silence.
Moments later, a dire wolf's howl came from afar. A scout from the west arrived with news: "Lord Soro! Days ago, the Coldcrow Clan was struck by a massive dwarven offensive. They've been—"
"I know."
Soro turned his head toward the distant Blackstone Mountains—home to the Shield Dwarves. The wall the orcs had failed to cross for thousands of years.
Those endless peaks kept the orcs trapped in this barren, lifeless land—fighting each other over scraps.
Batu, you were the orcs' hero. But what am I supposed to do now? Must we repeat the history of orcs slaughtering orcs?
Soro sighed deeply. That scarred, ugly face now wore rare helplessness.
Orcs—synonymous with brutality and savagery—rarely thought deeply. But now, Soro felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness.
He didn't notice that the orc corpses floating in the Bindler River trembled slightly, as an inky blackness rose in the water—dark enough to swallow all light.