Chapter 6: Pointing Fingers
Day 2
Nation: Cilldean Kingdom
Ruler: Queen Hawise Salman
Government: Feudal Monarchy
Dominant Race: Humans
Population: 49,273,554
Territory: Thann's End (Moongret Fiefdom)
City: Thann's End (Capital)
Thann's End was a bastion of old high elven-style architecture and human opulence, a metropolis of wide stone avenues, pristine white plazas, and hidden, ivy-choked courtyards where the wealthy sat to drink spiced wines and watch the world go by. At the city's heart loomed architectural behemoths carved from seamless grey granite: the sprawling, multi-towered Moongret Castle, the roaring Grand Arena, and the high-roofed Auction House.
Surrounding them lay the fortified estates of High Human nobles and merchant princes, interspersed with manicured groves and private, spell-bound gardens designed for tranquil meditation or the quiet cultivation of mana.
It was a sanctuary built strictly for the rich and powerful. Yet its crown jewel was the Great River, a sweeping, sapphire ribbon of water cutting straight through the stone city. Every day, citizens paused on the high, arched stone bridges just to gaze down at the majestic currents, lost in the scenic splendor.
To walk those streets, one would never guess a brutal war of attrition was raging fiercely along the kingdom's borders. For a Border territory, the populace remained blissfully blind, thoroughly intoxicated by luxury, pleasure, and the decadent philosophies that insulated their minds from the harsh reality of the world.
Traveling merchants across the continent had a name for it: The City of Passion.
But within the high walls of Moongret Castle, the air carried no such warmth. In a vaulted, sunless study lined with thousands of leather-bound grimoires, a gloomy, oppressive silence hung heavy in the air.
A middle-aged man draped in sweeping, ash-black robes stood silently by the tall, arched window, staring out over his domain. A green, diamond-shaped arcane crystal was seamlessly embedded directly into the center of his forehead—the unmistakable biological mark of a High Human. The deep, emerald resonance of the gem hummed with immense power, signaling his status as a master wind mage who had long since transcended the threshold of the Grand Order.
He stood there, a living monolith of ancient power, waiting with icy patience.
Knock! Knock!
"Come in," the Patriarch commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a cold blade. He turned away from the window, revealing a sharp, scholarly face etched with aristocratic arrogance.
The heavy oak door groaned inward. "Greetings, Patriarch!"
Another middle-aged man, clad from head to toe in polished, heavy silver plate mail, stepped hastily into the room and bowed his head.
Charles Moongret, the High Human Patriarch, offered him only a chilling, dismissive glance before turning his back to look out the window once more. "Skip the trivial formalities, Frank. Tell me how the vanguard fared. Is the Gric girl alive?"
"Yes, Patriarch. Lady Suffia has been recovered."
"Good. She is only useful to us breathing. At least the political alliance between our houses will still hold..." Charles paused, his voice dipping into a dangerous, quiet murmur. "Is there anything else to report?"
"Yes, Patriarch. We lost two knights from the branch family during the night's retreat. One of them was a highly promising vanguard elite."
"Hmph! Why do you waste my breath with the losses of common branch-blood?" Charles waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. "Simply compensate their families from the lower treasury. It is of no consequence."
Suddenly, a memory flickered in his mind, and the Patriarch stiffened. "Wait. Where is Jethro? That boy is an exceptional seed. His power rating is among the highest of his generation."
The captain in silver armor fell instantly silent. The only sound in the room was the low, whistling wind outside the glass.
"Well?" Charles pressed, his voice dropping an octave as the emerald diamond on his forehead pulsed with a sudden, violent light.
"We... we have not heard from Sir Jethro since the mages unleashed the meteor spell last night, Patriarch."
"..."
The temperature in the massive study instantly plummeted, a frost-like mist gathering along the edges of the bookshelves.
"What do you mean you have not heard from him?" Charles turned slowly, his aristocratic composure cracking as a suffocating, threatening pressure filled the room, forcing the armored captain to drop to one knee under the sheer weight of his aura. "Explain the vanguard's movement. From the absolute beginning."
___________________
Torug's POV
Meanwhile, miles away across the rugged borderlands, the pale morning sun broke through the heavy forest canopy, illuminating the smoking ruins of our settlement.
I stretched my massive frame and walked into the clearing. The remaining orcs were already awake, moving about with a frantic, primitive energy. Some were roaring and chest-thumping, talking excitedly about the identical crouching tiger tattoos that had manifested on their green hides, while others were already locked in brutal, dust-kicking brawls to test their newly boosted stats.
Near the edge of the camp, Dabok, the elderly, grey-bearded orc, was crouched over my biological brother, Urim. He was crushing foul-smelling, glowing swamp herbs between his calloused palms and pressing the pulp into the deep sword wound on Urim's hand.
The old shaman didn't even look up as my massive shadow fell over them. It was Urim who spotted me first, his tusks baring in a proud, dynamic grin. "Brother!"
"..."
I managed a stiff, awkward nod. To be entirely honest, my human mind still had absolutely no idea how to interact with this fiercely loyal, deeply expressive orc brother, and my hesitation caused Urim's smile to falter into a confused, tilting squint. Desperate for a distraction, I quickly locked my eyes onto the old shaman and triggered his status screen.
Name: Dabok Blackmoon
Race: Orc (Elder Shaman-line)
Level: 9 (-)
Power Rating: 1090
Relationship: Clan Member / Co-Conspirator
'If I had to guess, the vast majority of his hidden attribute points are packed into Intelligence', I analyzed silently. Looking around the camp, I realized nearly every surviving male here sat at Level 9. They must have been grinding experience points heavily in these borderlands before I arrived.
"How is his hand?" I asked, my deep, rocky baritone slicing through the noise of the camp.
"He live. Small scratch for an orc of the Black Moon," Dabok grunted, a sudden, teasing smirk splitting his wrinkled green face.
I blinked, momentarily thrown off. 'The old bastard is actually joking with me?' First Urim, now him... why the hell were these two so vastly different from the mindless, grunting brutes I expected orcs to be?
I decided it was time to probe the old shaman, to see exactly what kind of history he shared with the original owner of this body. "Dabok... can you read the human tongue? Can you write?"
Dabok didn't even flinch at the fact that I knew his name without him introducing himself—a clear confirmation that we were well-acquainted. He stopped rubbing the herbs, slowly wiping his green, blood-stained hands on his leather loincloth as he rose to his full, slightly slouched height. He scanned me from head to toe, his ancient eyes lingering on my increased height and the massive battle axe on my shoulder.
"Why ask silly things, Torug? You know what I know," Dabok responded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I am only glad our secret plans finally bore fruit... though the blood-evolution has changed you fiercely, Chieftain."
"Brother strong! Brother smartest!" Urim chimed in from the dirt, nodding his heavy head like a proud pup.
I kept my face entirely expressionless, but inside, my mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. 'A secret plan? A coup?' It all clicked. The original Torug and this old shaman had been plotting to overthrow Olog from the very beginning. But the original owner must have been fatally struck down during the opening duel, allowing my human soul to transmigrate into the empty, high-foundation corpse right before the evolution quest triggered.
Realizing the danger of breaking character, I chose to play it completely safe. I gave a low, rumbling grunt of agreement, letting them interpret it however they pleased.
"This new you... it is good. Very good. Hahaha!" Dabok cackled, seemingly satisfied with my silence. He turned back around, continuing to bind Urim's bleeding palm with strips of cured hide.
"We leave this valley in a few minutes," I commanded.
I turned away and walked toward the edge of the clearing where Jethro's mangled corpse lay rotting in the mud. I grabbed the dead knight by his silver hair, dragging his heavy armor across the dirt toward a massive, sharpened wooden stake I had spent the early dawn preparing. With a surge of raw, First Circle strength, I lifted the dead nobleman high and impaled his corpse firmly upon the pike, driving the wood deep into the earth. The wet, tearing sounds of flesh and bone sliding down the timber made my human stomach churn, but I kept my face hard as stone.
I hadn't done this on a primitive whim. Back on Earth, I had read Salvation in Pride cover to cover. This horrific display was the traditional, sacred declaration of war used by the Great Orcs of the distant Degr Heraldic Kingdom—a fierce empire composed entirely of organized, high-tier monstrous races. By leaving Jethro's body impaled in the specific manner of the Degr military, I hoped to completely misdirect the Moongret Duke's investigations. If the human kingdom believed a rogue war-band from the sovereign northern empire had crossed the borders, they would deploy their grand legions there, buying me the crucial time I needed to grow my power rating in secret.
Dabok's ancient eyes went wide as he watched me secure the pike. A wide, twisted, thoroughly amused orc smile split his face. He spun around, raising his staff, and bellowed to the rest of the tribe, "Help the Chieftain! Leave our marks upon the flesh of the weak!"
"""Ooooh!"""
The dozen orcs roared with sudden, sadistic vigor. They found the display absolutely magnificent, charging forward with their daggers and hatchets to defile the remaining human corpses, eager to mimic my grand disrespect.
I stood back, narrowing my blood-red eyes at the suspicious elder shaman. I only planned to do this to Jethro because he was an important asset to the High Humans, I thought, a cold sweat breaking out under my armor. Watching the orcs gleefully mutilate the rest of the vanguard, a sudden, dark memory from my gang days on Earth flashed before my eyes.
We had been locked in a vicious turf war over a newly established shipping dock at the edge of the city. To end the dispute, I had personally delivered a gift to the rival boss's front door—a hundred reinforced shipping crates containing the severed heads of every single one of his dock workers.
I looked down at my massive, green knuckles, a dark realization settling over my soul. Right. This is a real war. I don't need to do all the dirty work by myself anymore... But this Dabok... he is definitely not a simple primitive.
An hour later, the valley was empty. The Black Moon Clan marched north into the shadows of the forest.
____________________
Frank's POV
Thann's End
Moongret Castle
"You deeply disappoint me, Frank. Gather the blood-legion. I want you to march back into the borderlands, wipe those green filth from the face of Luegad, and bring back the bodies of our fallen kin," Charles Moongret said, his voice entirely devoid of human emotion as the emerald diamond on his forehead flashed with an ominous, swirling gale.
"Yes, Patriarch. Your will shall be done," I accepted the command solemnly. My shoulders slumped slightly, my eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but I didn't dare protest against the high leader of our clan.
Just as I turned my heavy boots to exit the majestic study, Charles's voice echoed out one last time, dripping with icy malice. "And captain? You had best not return in failure. Sir Alan is always in desperate need of fresh, living specimens for his arcane flesh-stitching experiments. I am certain you would not want to accidentally find yourself strapped to one of his laboratory tables."
"..."
I didn't answer. I silently stepped out of the study, the heavy oak doors sealing shut behind me.
As I walked down the dimly lit, torch-fired stone hallway of the castle, a horrific, liquid distortion rippled within the darkness of my own shadow. A mass of pure, sentient black sludge slowly rose from the stone, molding itself into the eerie, floating silhouette of a slender human male. I didn't even turn my head; I wasn't the least bit surprised by its presence.
"Unreasonable as always, aren't they?" the dark shadow-creature whispered, its voice sounding like grinding teeth. "Hey... why don't we go all out this time, Frank? Why don't we let the darkness feed?"
I paused my rhythmic steps within the cold hallway for a single, heavy heartbeat. My dark brown hair swayed ever so lightly in the drafty corridor as I stared blankly into the shadows ahead.
"Sure," I murmured flatly.
I resumed my march, my armor clanking loudly against the stone as I walked away. Behind me, the shadow-creature let out a high-pitched, echoing cackle before melting seamlessly back into my heels.
"Hihihihihkikikhihihi..."