The group slowed as the larger village came into view, the silhouettes of its palisades rising from the plains like jagged teeth. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the heavy tread of guards approaching. Five of them, each armored in rough iron and bearing spears etched with battle scars. Their presence alone radiated danger.
Abbot's hand twitched toward his dagger. Texan's fins flared, sword half-drawn. But Himmel raised his palm sharply, halting them. He didn't even glance back—he didn't need to. The weight of his voice was enough.
"Don't. Even if we fight, we lose."
Five level 3 Orcs. Hardened veterans. Even with the herd, the blood price would be too steep.
One guard leveled his spear, the tip gleaming with dried blood. His tusks jutted from a face Himmel recognized but couldn't yet place. "You. Tiny Orc. Chief wants to see you."
There was no choice. Himmel nodded. He noticed Texan tense at the word "tiny," but he ignored it. His own curiosity burned brighter: the guard's face nagged at his memory, though he couldn't yet draw the line.
The guards ushered them into the largest tent in the village. The air inside was thick with incense smoke and the heavy musk of warriors. Torchlight flickered across walls decorated with bones, war trophies, and crude banners painted in blood.
At the far end sat the chief, broad-shouldered, scarred, radiating raw strength. Beside him, flanked by guards, was a shaman—her presence unmistakable. Himmel's heart stilled.
Madam Kimpa.
And then it clicked. The guard's familiar face. The posture of the chief.
"Not so long ago," the chief rumbled, his voice like thunder rolling across stone, "you were in my village. Trained by my shaman."
Himmel's eyes flicked to Kimpa, who said nothing, her gaze heavy with both recognition and warning. That left only one possibility.
Rumbleback.
The orc who had once led the expedition where Kimpa's son died. A level 4 warrior back then. Now? He radiated a presence only Himmel's father had carried. Level 5. A veteran. A monster among monsters.
"You said you came from villages north," Rumbleback continued. His tusks gleamed as he leaned forward. "By chance… was it the next one over?"
The air turned suffocating. One wrong word and death would fall swift. Himmel's gut knotted.
He chose caution. "May I ask why, Chief Rumbleback?"
The chief gestured. Kimpa crushed bones into a small bowl, whispering curses. The air tightened, magic coiling like serpents around Himmel's throat. Truth. A curse that strangled liars.
"Not long ago," Rumbleback growled, "we found a dungeon. A promising one. At first, a few items in a room—insignificant. We planned to take them after clearing the rest. But the dungeon was empty. No monsters, no loot. When we returned, the room was ransacked. Bookshelf toppled. Items missing. Tracks? None."
He stood, closing the distance with heavy, deliberate steps. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath his weight. Himmel tilted his chin upward, staring into eyes that brimmed with cold suspicion.
"So I ask you, Himmel. Where were you born? And did your people have anything to do with this?"
For a heartbeat, Himmel froze. The malice in Rumbleback's stare was worse than anything his father had ever wielded.
But lying was an old art. He steadied his voice, even as the curse wound tighter around his neck.
"Yes," he said. "I was born in the village you speak of. And yes, the culprit was likely from there. I was banished, and before I left, two guards gave me strange looks. Perhaps they followed me. Perhaps they saw your armored force and decided to follow you. If you wish to know for certain… you must speak to them."
No lie. The curse loosened, confirming it.
Rumbleback's gaze lingered, then he eased back into his seat. He barked an order. Three soldiers left at once to investigate. Himmel's group turned to leave—only for Rumbleback's voice to snap through the air like a whip.
"Stop. You don't leave until they return."
The group stiffened. Texan spoke, uncertain. "Where'll we be staying, then?"
Rumbleback smirked. "Since Himmel loves his horses so much, you'll stay inside the fences. Make a stable for yourselves."
It wasn't a punishment—just dismissal. Himmel felt no shame. He'd rather sleep among the herd anyway. Texan and Abbot didn't complain either; poverty had taught them to accept worse.
That night, under the stars and the soft warmth of Riaz's body, unease lingered.
"Dude, Himmel," Texan muttered, staring at the sky. "The fuck, man. Do we ever get a day of peace?"
Himmel folded his arms. "Listen. This might be good. I don't care for my village or most Orcs. If we play this right, my village wins—and gains a level 4 shaman. We're weak now. Our best plan is simple: wait out the war. When it's over… take loot and leave."
For once, Abbot and Texan agreed. Let the Orcs butcher each other while they slipped away richer. And with that shared plan, they found a rare, fleeting peace in sleep.
Morning shattered with a scream.
An Orc stumbled to the gates, bloody and broken, one arm gone. His steps left scarlet streaks in the dirt. His voice was ragged, desperate.
"They… killed the others! They started the war!"
The inevitable had arrived. Orcs never settled things with words. The dying warrior was dragged toward the healer's tent as the village erupted in preparation.
Himmel squared his shoulders and approached the chief. His voice was steady, formal. "Since you have your answer, Chief, I assume my party has the right to leave?"
Rumbleback's stare was cold as stone. He rose, towering, and grabbed Himmel by the shirt, hauling him close. His breath stank of iron and smoke.
"No. You're too intelligent for a child. Too sharp. You must have come from a well-off family. You'll be our commander. You'll make strategies. You'll set the battlefield."
Before Himmel could protest, he was dragged into the war tent.
Inside, a crude wooden board showed two villages marked with bone tokens. Kimpa stood silently at the side, her eyes on Himmel. Guards loomed in every corner.
Rumbleback shoved him forward. "Plan."
Himmel studied the board. He let instinct guide him. "By Orc law, the battle takes place in the middle ground. Since we know their path, we prepare ambushes. Chief, how many soldiers do we have?"
Rumbleback bared his tusks in a grin. "One hundred now. In a week, four hundred more. That'll give us two level 5s, fifty level 4s, the rest level 3s."
Texan leaned in, voice sharp. "And them?"
"About 450. Spread the same."
Texan's eyes narrowed. "Then… build siege ladders. Abbot and I will take fifty through the western forest. When the enemy leaves their village, we strike. Kill guards, bind civilians, then flank their army. They'll collapse from both sides. Victory guaranteed."
The room fell silent. Even Rumbleback's grin widened. Either Texan had lived war before… or he was a natural.
That night, as the firelight licked the dark sky, Himmel spoke. His voice was quiet but carried weight.
"I know I said we'd loot and leave. But I want to fight. I want to win this war."
Texan frowned. "Dude, we're level 1 and 2. No way we hit 3 in a week. This is suicide."
"You're right," Himmel admitted. "But I have to fight. I'm an Orc. My pride demands it. And if we win… the gods may bless us."
Texan's fins flicked. "Himmel, I know you follow the god of the hunt. But that can come later."
Himmel shook his head. "No. My father is the hunt. To leave now is shame. If we flank them, we win. My mother will stay high-ranking in Rumbleback's army. My father… he'll die. But it'll be in battle—the only death an Orc can honor."
Texan and Abbot exchanged looks. They hated it—hated Orc pride, hated tradition—but Himmel's conviction was a fire that pulled them in.
At last, Texan smirked. "Fine. You stubborn bastard. We'll back you."
Abbot sighed, but nodded. "We're with you."
Himmel's lips curled into a rare smile. "Thank you."