After making waves in the gossip columns across all of Erian for several months, Mr. Victor's presence had finally begun to fade slightly. That summer, the return of a prodigal son sent shockwaves through Lake Rabe.
Ludwig Springhall, the painter known as the "Orc Graffiti Artist."
People flocked from all directions upon hearing the news, and the area was soon teeming with crowds. Due to the unexpectedly enthusiastic turnout, Lake Rebe had to implement partial traffic restrictions that day. The Valke Artists' Association organized a grand welcome ceremony; people from all walks of life were thrilled to have received invitations, and many of the association's senior members attended the reception, including President Quintina and the elderly founding patron, Lola.
Guards maintained order as crowds lined the streets holding bouquets, everyone craning their necks. "He's here!" someone shouted excitedly. The magical carriage came to a stop at the intersection; the door opened, and the painter, Ludwig, stepped out. The moment his feet touched the ground, he was nearly swept away by the roar of the crowd.
Some onlookers whispered among themselves, puzzled as to why the painter wasn't a beastman—had their voices not been drowned out by the crowd, they would likely have been the butt of jokes. The painter, known as the "Beastman Graffiti Artist," was not a beastman at all; Ludwig was an ordinary human, born and raised in Lake Rebe, and even came from a wealthy family. This prodigal son, who had been away from home for many years, stood frozen for a moment amid the flashes of cameras and the cheers of the crowd before remembering to smile and wave.
President Quintina came out to greet him; they had been friends even before the association was founded. Having served as president for many years, Quintina was long accustomed to such scenes. He led Ludwig toward the venue, as if guiding a bird dazed by the bright lights. It wasn't until they were deep inside the hall that Ludwig finally came to his senses, still feeling a bit dazed.
"How does it feel to be home?" Quintina asked.
"This is pretty overwhelming," Ludwig said with a laugh.
"What, doesn't anyone else welcome you? " Quentina teased, "Your fame had already spread throughout all of Eryan long before the Nightfall Front was dismantled. If those 'unknown orcish painters' had paid you royalties for their compilations of your work, your fortune might well be greater than your brother's."
Ludwig burst out laughing. "Let's not talk about a welcome, Quentina. I'm just glad I'm not running away from everywhere!"
"Then you really shouldn't be surprised by all this fuss," Quintina said. "Your fame is known throughout the country, yet you've been running around with the resistance, coming and going without a trace. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the legendary orc graffiti artist."
"I'm just glad they're seeing me now," Ludwig quipped. "If they'd caught me a few years back, they'd only have been able to see me after I'd been hanged."
The Orc Graffiti Artist wasn't an orc; he simply painted countless propaganda posters about the Orc Revolution. Those vivid, bold-lined works were printed on the "Spring of Nature" leaflets of the Orc Liberation Army and appeared at the scenes of their rallies, shouting out the orcs' demands for freedom and equality in a humorous yet resounding way.
Ludwig had been on the run with the guerrillas for many years. As the Orc Liberation Army continued to challenge imperial authority, his artwork spread throughout the empire. It was reported by imperial media and, after media restrictions were imposed, circulated privately. Those simple, humorous caricatures might not have been fit for polite society, but they spread far and wide, beloved by the people. Images are a universal language. Even when the circulated images had their slogans cropped out, and even when the orcs who saw them were illiterate, they could still hear the deafening cry within them.
At first, Ludwig was called the "Unknown Orc Painter"; later, some dubbed him the "Orc Graffiti Artist," implying that someone who drew such crude little cartoons was unworthy of being called a painter. Ludwig embraced this title wholeheartedly; he didn't mind being counted among the orcs, nor did he mind admitting his work was merely graffiti. What did it matter? Exquisite paintings and street graffiti were merely vessels; in the battle Ludwig was fighting, he chose the latter to serve as his sword.
As the bloody battle raged, the war artist Ludwig wielded his brush like a sword, fighting on a battlefield without gunpowder. His efforts drew the Empire's attention to and prompted reflection on the institution of slavery, while also moving many confused or numb beastmen. Ludwig's work had an unprecedented impact. Amid the standoff between the Human Empire and Tasmalin, and within the historical tide of the orcs' awakening and resistance, his paintings carried the torch of hope, and he himself became a beacon of light.
It had been nearly twenty years since he last returned to Lake Rube.
Before the Nightfall Line was established, Terence led the orc resistance forces out of Lake Rube, beyond the borders of Tasmalin Province, and into the vast and perilous Empire. Ludwig set out with the army at that time. From the initial signing of the tripartite treaty between the orcs, the Empire, and Tasmalin, through the arduous process of reconciliation between the orcs and the Empire following the dismantling of the Nightfall Line, Ludwig continued to shuttle between all parties—only now has he returned in triumph.
Compared to the life of luxury he enjoyed before leaving home, these nearly twenty years of sleeping under the stars and fleeing from place to place felt like a completely different life. Yet Ludwig did not look frail; on the contrary, he appeared much more robust. His once-pale skin had darkened in the sun, and his hands had grown rough. Over the years, he had painted using stones, twigs, and the simplest, cheapest brushes. The young master, who had grown up in his hometown until his twenties, had left the sheltered life behind and weathered the storms, thriving like a resilient tree.
"What about the orcs?" Quintina asked. "Weren't you welcomed like this on their territory either?"
"There was both welcome and criticism; after all, I am human," Ludwig said candidly. "Fortunately, in the end, the welcome always outweighed the curses."
In the eyes of the Empire, Ludwig was a beastman painter; among the beastmen, however, he was first and foremost a human. The beastman leader, Terence, recognized the intangible influence he brought to the beastman revolution and prioritized protecting this defenseless painter in every difficult situation. Yet among the beastmen, members who were short-sighted and filled with hatred were a dime a dozen. They questioned Terence's decision to bring along such a weakling and a burden, resenting Ludwig for his human identity—even though he had voluntarily stepped onto the battlefield to fight for the rights of the non-human races.
"That must have been incredibly difficult," Quintina said sympathetically.
"Yes," Ludwig sighed. "But things will always change—isn't that why we're fighting?"
The beginning was always rough. Ludwig had been attacked by orcs, and while staying temporarily in an orc tribe, he'd been pelted with stones and spat upon. Many orc warriors initially rejected him as a non-combatant, until he gritted his teeth and shared their hardships, until his persistence and his artwork truly began to yield results. Ludwig once risked his life by waiting until just five minutes before the imperial army arrived to evacuate, all to finish a massive propaganda painting. The orc who eventually hoisted him onto his shoulders and carried him away changed his previously critical attitude toward Ludwig after that battle. This warrior admitted that although Ludwig was not a warrior, he was indeed a brave soul.
At first, Ludwig's departure was driven by a desire to escape, but eventually, he truly began to enjoy the journey. Having traveled to countless places and encountered all manner of people and orcs, his attitude toward the Orc Revolution finally shifted from lofty pity to genuine understanding and empathy. The naive idealism he had once wielded so freely in his studio quickly faded. Ludwig realized that orcs were neither pitiful slaves nor the mythical creatures of legend; they were simply people of another race.
And so, in this struggle, he found his place and the meaning of his life.
Ludwig painted many pictures, leaving his mark on the battlefield, spreading his art behind enemy lines, and drawing for children in the tribes while teaching those willing to learn. Ludwig brought fighting spirit and awakening, as well as joy and hope. When he left, he was the youngest son of the Springhall family, fleeing in disarray; when he returned, he was Ludwig, the Orc Graffiti Artist.
As for the once-illustrious Springhall family, their inflexible, old-fashioned management style had left them increasingly vulnerable to the aggressive expansion of the Southeast Merchants' Guild. They had gone from a colossus to just another ordinary merchant among many. Ludwig, who had once both relied on and fled from his family, would never again be shrouded by their protective wings or their shadow.
"Let's go; everyone's waiting for us." Quintina cut short their small talk and quickened her pace. "Everyone's been safe and sound these past years, and there are many new members in the Guild now. They'll surely be delighted to see you back."
"I'm also happy to see everyone again," Ludwig paused and said. "After the party is over, I'd like to pay my respects to Valk."
Quentina paused in her stride, turned to look at Ludwig, and said with a smile, "Let's wait until tomorrow morning. We'll go together."
The founding of the Valke Association and the emergence of the beastman graffiti artist Ludwig both stemmed from the death of that idealistic painter, Valke. His close friend, who had watched him die with his own eyes, was consumed by rage; he laid down his brush and resolved to fight for the preservation of free will. Meanwhile, the friend who, for various reasons, had not shared in Valke's hardships felt profound shame, exiled himself, and followed the beastman resistance army away from his safe homeland. Stories rarely begin on a happy note, but as Ludwig said, things can always improve through effort—and that is why so many people strive for it.
Resentment and guilt will eventually fade away. Those who rise after weeping can face life with a clear conscience, and even with gratitude.
The next day, Quintina and Ludwig paid their respects to Valke. It wasn't a holiday, yet a few fresh flowers had been placed by Valke's headstone. Later that day, they visited the Nightfall Front Memorial Park. The paintings that had cost Valke his life, along with many works from the "Call of the Wild" series—restored and repainted after being burned—were also on display there.
Seeing those works from twenty years ago displayed alongside newer pieces commemorating the dismantling of the Nightfall Line suddenly reminded Ludwig of Valke's grave. Beside the graves of the ancestors, new flowers and grass thrived.
The fact that Ludwig could return home in triumph was proof enough that the reconciliation between the Beastmen and the Empire had gradually entered a more stable phase. The looming pressure of the Abyss's approach had accelerated this process of integration. Even though many orcs and humans still harbored irreconcilable hatred toward one another, both sides were at least able to tolerate each other for the time being, joining forces temporarily in the face of the impending great war.
The guerrilla units, the pride of the Orc Liberation Army, were retained. This highly mobile force remained a separate unit, capable of playing a significant role in mountainous and forested terrain. Using the Tasmalin army as a bridge, some skilled Orcs have been selected and integrated into the new allied forces.
Orcs like Marion, who can rely on their bloodline to fight after reverting to their ancestral form, are, after all, few and far between. Most members with only minor non-human traits are a chaotic mix of bloodlines; setting aside factors like social and cultural identity, they are actually quite similar to ordinary humans in Eryan. They rely on long-term training and combat experience, and the most outstanding among them have advanced to become professionals. Strategically, the role of these orcs is clearly defined more by their status as "professionals" than by their "orc" attributes.
For example, an orc shaman's healing abilities are comparable to those of a priest, while their abilities to inspire and cast voodoo spells allow them to temporarily serve as mages. Orc archers have a longer range than orc warriors; in large-scale battles, they should clearly be positioned alongside other archers to maximize their effectiveness.
The army of Tasmalin Province has already set an example of a mixed force. The orcs who remained in Tasmalin have largely integrated into the regular army; aside from minor issues like "don't give your sheep-herder soldiers meat pies as rations," there haven't been many problems. Jacob, who possesses Mountain Lion Orc blood, is the captain of a ranger squad. People don't call him Mountain Lion Jacob; they call him Ranger Jacob.
A well-organized mixed coalition will yield greater efficiency—provided they coordinate seamlessly and don't hinder one another. The process of disbanding and reorganizing units is quite arduous, and racial differences can give every commander a headache.
The solution: high-intensity training and a slew of military exercises.
Their bodies are so exhausted that they collapse the moment they return, leaving no energy for brawls; their minds are so drained that they go blank, leaving absolutely no time to dwell on love, hate, or personal grudges. The higher-ups provide the most nutritionally balanced food, the healthiest and most reasonable schedules, and convenient living facilities. The coalition soldiers are like ingredients simmering in a single giant pot, busy every day like hamsters on a wheel. Everyone has mastered the ability to fall asleep the moment they close their eyes, too busy catching up on sleep to worry about details like "my roommate used to be my enemy."
As for the military exercises—well, this time they're the real deal, not some protest march against anyone.
There have been numerous large-scale military exercises jointly organized by Tasmalin, the Empire, and the Orcs, and even more instances where Tasmalin has released a group of pseudo-little devils to cause chaos. These simulated enemies appeared near major garrisons and human settlements, honing the allied forces' combat coordination, testing the urban authorities' evacuation and emergency response capabilities, assessing the general public's understanding of the Abyss, and tempering people's courage in the face of Abyssal monsters. It was truly a win-win situation, making them the most cost-effective and dedicated sparring partners one could ask for.
The appearance of these red-skinned "vanguard forces of the Abyss," combined with high-intensity training, has effectively eased racial tensions. When comrades-in-arms have collapsed from exhaustion during the same training regimen, covered each other's backs in the face of the enemy, and fought bravely side by side through danger—sharing hardships and trials—it becomes difficult for them to continue harboring deep-seated hatred toward one another. Many were surprised to discover that even those they disliked had reliable and admirable qualities; sharp hostility gradually gave way to healthy competition. Fighting side by side has always been the best way to foster friendship.
"So, the Abyss has always been the Peace Ambassador of the Material Plane," Victor said with a grin, though it was hard to tell if he was mocking the denizens of the ground or just making fun of himself. "When it comes to reducing internal conflicts among mortals, the influence of angels can't hold a candle to the outbreak of a demonic plague."
These battles and drills, of course, did more than just ease racial tensions; the entire combat strength of Eryan was being intensively prepared for future wars.
The newly hatched griffins had already matured. Their growth period—part magical, part natural—was extremely brief; a one-year-old griffin was already capable of carrying a rider into battle. Devoted griffin enthusiasts have gradually earned the creatures' trust, becoming griffin riders—their numbers now sufficient to form a small army. The Griffin Legion, which the people of the Empire associate with the ancient Golden Age, has finally been reborn.
The training of dragon riders and griffin riders shares many commonalities. As the backbone of the Erian Air Force, they, alongside large airships and small mechanical birds/drones, dominate the skies. People have grown accustomed to the dark shadows passing overhead and no longer make a fuss over them; children even play a game of "Guess What That Shadow Is."
However, very few people get excited enough to chase after these aerial shadows anymore. For one thing, wild griffins are birds of prey; if you encounter one in the wild, you must be careful and avoid provoking it. For another, unlike the magical pseudo-dragons created by Tarsha, griffins are living, breathing creatures—they need to eat, drink, and relieve themselves just like any other animal… Imagine what it feels like to have bird droppings fall on your head from the sky, then scale up the size of that "bird" to that of a lion.
A fixed amount is automatically deducted from the Griffin Corps' pay to compensate for public and private property destroyed or consumed by runaway griffins, as well as to clean up debris left behind by griffins that mar the cityscape. The brave and fearless griffin riders endure this pain with a smile, taking pride in their dashing appearance even today.
The Dragon Knights, fellow members of the Air Force, get along well with the Gryphon Riders, but due to their incompatible mounts, the two cannot deploy simultaneously. A dragon's majestic presence is enough to send a gryphon into a panic, while encountering a pseudo-dragon is like facing a rival—the gryphon will try to claw this similarly sized competitor out of the sky. Compared to the Air Force, which relies on coordinated attacks from the front and rear, the Army's coordination is far more seamless.
Rangers and the orc guerrilla units, native to the mountains and forests, excel at open-field combat. Druids not only amplify their strengths but can sometimes expand the terrain where they hold the advantage. The formation of various warriors and archers resembles Earth's age of cold weapons, but due to the extraordinary power possessed by the professionals, the actual combat effectiveness far surpasses that of the true age of cold weapons. Behind the front-line professionals, priests and white-robed mages provide battlefield support. Other melee fighters protect the spellcasters in the rear ranks, while some black-robed mages—who have benefited greatly from ancient mage towers—are expected to become formidable offensive assets in the future.
Beyond the professional fighters lies a far larger number of ordinary soldiers, yet they are not mere cannon fodder on the battlefield. Equipped with arcane weapons, they wield immense power despite their flesh-and-blood forms.
Following the completion of the Empire's new magical core, arcane weapons have finally become widespread throughout the lower ranks of the military. Factories churn out weapons day and night, and through the collaboration of craftsmen and technicians, non-combat golems have been successfully recreated. These precision-engineered steel workers labor tirelessly, requiring neither food nor drink, and have successfully freed vast numbers of people from repetitive labor—doubling efficiency, if not more.
The construction of the dungeons has also been a great help. These specialized structures can be expanded wherever there is space—no one in Eryan currently stands in the way of Tasa's underground expansion; there are no limits to how large or how many rooms they can build. The kitchens continue to convert magic into food in an almost unthinkable manner, steadily increasing military supplies; various medicinal herbs in the herb gardens are thriving, and Mavis, the druids, and the witches are preparing large quantities of wartime potions in the apothecary; The unorthodox forges and workshops are operating at full capacity, where the development of various new weapons and prototypes is underway; the training grounds feature self-regenerating training equipment, now benefiting the entire Erian army.
Tasha's dungeons have spread like a chain of stores beneath most of Erian's training grounds.
Both above and below ground, everything is running at full speed in preparation for war.
The magical energy flowing from slime-made magic stones and magic cores is like blood in veins, keeping the vast realm of Erian alive. The pace of development is soaring—a feat likely achievable only in a fantasy world brimming with magic. Sometimes, when Tasa watches the magic coursing through various magical devices, she glimpses an alternative "electrical age."
The debate between black-robed mages and druids over "pesticides and environmental protection" has continued on and off over the years. While they haven't had a major blowout, the arguments have never ceased. Beyond the disputes lies cooperation; today, the two sides have largely achieved a balance. Biodegradable materials, easily decomposable pesticides, and the druids' biological formulations work in tandem, resulting in Erian's current crop yields per acre being quite astonishing.
Agricultural researchers have long been dedicated to feeding the largest possible population with the least amount of land, the highest efficiency, and the fewest hands. Since the entire region of Eryan began cooperating, abundant resources and macroeconomic regulation have yielded tremendous results. With the help of Dwarven artisans and Imperial mage-engineers, agriculture has made rapid strides, even taking on the rudimentary form of semi-mechanization.
"What's wrong?" Victor asked. "Is something amiss?"
Mr. Victor was accompanying the Lady Regent to an agricultural demonstration. As he spoke, he had his arm around Tasa's waist. Even though they could converse via the link, he insisted on leaning in to whisper in her ear, prompting a swarm of reporters to frantically snap photos. The former Archdemon was a man of the world; the latest magical technologies demonstrated moments ago had merely elicited a curious raise of his eyebrow. Clearly, he found Tasa's unusual expression far more intriguing.
Tasa opened her mouth, but couldn't quite find the words to explain to him the complex mix of emotions she'd felt when she'd seen airplanes spraying pesticides and what appeared to be tractor-like magical machines back in Eryan.