Translator: CinderTL
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On the vast grasslands, by the shores of the Holy Lake, where the chief's tent was stationed, the orcs' camp had been abruptly set up. Bright campfires illuminated the area as if it were midday.
At the center of the large camp, the orc chieftain Abal, the ruler of the chief's tent, sat upright on the black iron throne shaped like a beast's head.
Any creature that had ever faced the great chieftain had felt a sense of awe. His powerful physique represented the peak of what intelligent beings could achieve. His bronze-colored skin glowed with a metallic cold light under the torches. The bulging muscles around his neck twisted like ancient vines, and his head, with protruding tusks, was held up by a battle helmet made of rhino horn, engraved with tribal totems.
He wore dark red leather armor that covered his boulder-like muscles. His deep brown cloak cascaded along the edge of the throne, and the unknown material of the cloak glittered like stars.
Abal's rough palm rested immovably on the armrest, with three copper rings on his wrist pressing into his bulging muscles, leaving shallow indentations. His calloused fingers bore grayish scars from years of gripping an axe. These features constantly reminded people that the great chieftain was not just a ruler but also a powerful warrior.
Anyone who knew Abal's history would have never thought of challenging him. At the age of fourteen, he had already hunted alone on horseback, and the game he had brought back were not the usual small prey, like rabbits or foxes, that other orc youths hunted. Instead, he had returned with fierce, large carnivores such as tigers, leopards, and bears.
Even more astonishing was that he had never been defeated in the enclosure fights, a popular competitive event on the grasslands. In these fights, the competitors entered a ten-meter square enclosure and battled without restrictions. Although it was called a competition, it felt more like a life-or-death duel, as it often ended with one side killing the other. This was because the combatants were usually evenly matched, and one had to seize every opportunity to strike decisively in order to win. Furthermore, according to orc tradition, the loser's head served as the victor's trophy.
But Abal had not only remained undefeated—he had also created a miracle. He had repeatedly managed to suppress his opponents without taking their lives. His glorious record had earned him the admiration of countless orcs on the grasslands, and the warriors he had defeated in the enclosure fights had been grateful for his mercy, choosing to serve him loyally.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The sound of deep, thunder-like drums echoed through the camp, spreading across the grasslands.
This was the signal for the great chieftain to summon his people. As the drums echoed, the camp soon became lively, with countless figures gathering from all directions to surround the roaring campfire in front of the king's throne. All eyes were focused on Abal, the figure high above them.
Since Abal had become the ruler of the Zarg tribe, after more than a decade of military campaigns, he had united countless orc clans under his banner. His army now consisted of the bravest and strongest warriors from each tribe.
For months, the chief's tent had sent out cavalry to summon the warlords of each clan to the shores of the Holy Lake.
In orc legend, the Holy Lake was the easiest place to commune with the spirits of the grasslands they worshipped. There, a special plant called stargrass grew. Shamans who ate this grass would enter a trance-like state, during which their souls could connect with the pure spiritual world and communicate with the sacred spirits of the grasslands.
Abal had gathered the tribes loyal to him in this special location to announce an important matter.
As he gazed at the passionate warlords before him, Abal's heart swelled with ambition. It was because his army consisted of the best warriors of the grasslands that they had been able to repeatedly strike powerful blows against the human world. The past humiliation, when the orcs had been suppressed by humans and could only raid in retaliation when humans grew complacent, was now a thing of the past.
Now, whether in the eastern Gabella Empire or the western Aldor Kingdom, both were under immense pressure from the orc army. Gabella had been forced to negotiate peace, and Aldor had even ceded large, fertile lands—though, in the orcs' eyes, even the Yellow Earth lands were considered fertile.
Now, the time had come to lead the orcs to a higher level.
Abal looked at the crowd, his brow casting a shadow over his amber eyes, which were wide open.
"My strong and loyal warriors, children of the grassland spirits!" His voice rumbled like a lion's growl, causing his graying mane under his jaw to tremble slightly.
His broad hand slammed onto the throne's armrest, the clash of the copper rings against the black iron resounding so loudly that the flames of the nearby torches flickered.
The great chieftain's deep voice rang out like a horn:
"I have called you here to announce that the chief's tent has found new prey!"
A wave of excited chatter erupted from below, as the warlords eagerly discussed the upcoming hunt.
Abal raised his hand, and the noise died down immediately. All eyes returned to him.
"In three months, on the Day of Blood, the flag of Aldor will burn once more." Abal's eyes suddenly flashed with molten gold, as if they were ablaze with fire.
"Aldor? That's a perfect piece of fat meat!"
The leader of the Broken Bone tribe's wolf cavalry bared his tusks and licked his crimson tongue, looking like a predator ready to pounce.
"Yes, it's Aldor!" Abal nodded heavily. He slowly stood, his towering figure casting a shadow that enveloped everyone beneath the throne.
With a swish, he unfurled his cloak, and under the light of the campfires, everyone could clearly see the map of the Aldor Kingdom drawn on the fabric.
"But we signed a peace treaty with Aldor!"
Abal frowned and quickly identified the speaker: it was his trusted warrior, Calum, which surprised him.
He explained to everyone:
"In the Yellow Earth lands, we have already witnessed their weakness. Although we signed a peace treaty, I have thought over this period, and I believe that if we do not seize their land—the very land on which they rely to turn the tides—while they are weak, then once they regain strength, they will threaten the grasslands once again and bring us back to the old days!"
The great chieftain's words caused everyone to pause, and memories of the past, when human armies raided the grasslands each year and set fires, flooded back.
His next words spurred them even further:
"And do you know? Right now, on the Blackstone Plains of the human kingdom, which lies to the west of our new territory, countless human armies are gathering and training. Do any of you think they are there just to put on a show?"
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the ranks:
"Take their land!"
This cry ignited the crowd's emotions.
The orcs roared in unison, their voices rising to a volume that could shatter wine jars.
"Decorate the war drums with the skulls of human kings!"
"For the grasslands!"
(End of the Chapter)
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