Praise the Orc

Chapter 113: The Cruel March (1)

Crockta was able to return safely thanks to the powers of Pumpkin Without Borders.

Tiyo and Anor were shocked when Crockta fell from the sky out of nowhere.

Crockta’s friends and the dark elf unit led by Caska had departed from Yekatoru and were on their way to Juolaideh, a city in direct confrontation with the orcs. They had all decided to wait until daytime for Crockta to return before officially heading to Juolaideh. If he didn’t return by then, they would leave without him. Despite their concerns, Crockta returned immediately once the clock struck midnight.

“Wow, that’s an impressive pumpkin,” exclaimed Tiyo. He didn’t seem to mind the sight of Crockta squirming on the ground.

“Shouldn’t you be worried about me first?” asked Crockta as he pointed at his wounded body.

“You’re not dead, so what’s the problem?” replied Tiyo with a grin.

Crockta looked terrible. He was covered in blood and the flesh of others from head to toe. His neck was still bruised from Calmahart’s intense chokehold. All of the cuts and injuries made it clear that the battle that had just ended wasn’t an easy one.

“I haven’t seen Crockta get beaten up so badly in a while,” laughed Tiyo. With the exception of when Crockta had been beaten up by the Behemoth and Xantimur, this was the first time. “How was your opponent? Considering you are in this state, is the chieftain dead or alive?”

“Tiyo is so uncaring. Crockta, grab my hand first,” said Anor as he shook his head and extended his hand. Crockta grabbed his hand and tried to stand up, but Anor screamed and immediately let go of Crockta’s hand when he felt the blood and pieces of flesh on it.

“Ugh!”

Crockta fell to the ground.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I was surprised. You should wash your hands first,” said Anor.

“...” Crockta was hurt. contemporary romance

Caska had been waiting for Crockta, and she approached him with visible relief on her face. Most of the dark elves were asleep except for her and Crockta’s friends. The soldiers patrolling the area also saw that Crockta had returned and waved at him. Crockta waved back.

“Are you okay?” Caska asked him.

“As you can see,” he replied.

“You don’t seem okay.”

After Crockta washed off the blood staining him, a medic sanitized and bandaged his wounds. Crockta didn’t really have any problems getting around despite his injuries.

“How was the chieftain?”

Everyone looked at Crockta. Although the chieftain was notorious in the north, no one had seen him in person before.

There were rampant rumors that the chieftain was a monster twice the size of a regular orc that could rip apart and kill an ogre with his bare hands. He was known as the crazy chieftain of the chiefdom.

“He is strong,” said Crockta, carefully choosing his words.

The chieftain was definitely strong, but not the kind of strong one would normally imagine. He was a warrior who had reached the Pinnacle. And yet, Driden, the dual sword wielder, had sharper instincts and more energy than him.

Although Calmahart had immense strength, it wasn’t comparable to that of giant monsters like ogres and cyclops. Crockta also probably surpassed him in terms of combat skills and battle instinct. But that only mattered before the chieftain was engulfed in that red energy...

Despite Calmahart’s stature and strength, Crockta felt like he had a chance of victory after he pierced the chieftain’s stomach.

But once the symbol on Calmahart’s forehead flashed red and he was swept up in madness, he turned into an unstoppable monster. The sight of Calmahart’s muscles grabbing onto the greatsword that had pierced his stomach and him crushing blades with his bare hands lived up to his reputation of a crazy chieftain. Once he got into that state, he would be difficult to defeat.

“We have to make thorough preparations. He used unknown powers, and once he was wrapped up in red energy, he displayed unbelievable strength,” said Crokta with a solemn face.

Caska’s expression grew heavy. Crockta was a warrior who had handled the orc army on his own. He was stronger than anyone she had ever seen. But if someone like him was giving such a serious warning...

“I did manage to wound him, but he would heal in no time because of that unknown energy... In any case, I managed to put a sword through his gut.”

“You stabbed him!” exclaimed Tiyo.

“Hahaha, of course.” Crockta tapped on his greatsword.

Caska let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness. He would slow down a bit since he’s injured.”

It would’ve been safe to assume that even a monster like him would take a break after his stomach had been stabbed, but Crockta disagreed.

Crockta remembered the chieftain’s rage toward him. It wouldn’t be odd for him to immediately start running north, considering his boiling anger and madness.

The chieftain wasn’t someone one could apply normal standards to and make assumptions about. He was an absolute lunatic, living up to his nickname.

“Probably not. The chieftain is...” began Crockta.

“Let’s rest first since you are injured. It’s nighttime,” interrupted Caska as she pointed at the sky.

The same moon from when he was among the orc army was still up. Crockta nodded.

“But it’d be best to start moving early tomorrow.”

“Understood,” replied Caska.

Crockta responded with another nod.

Tiyo and Anor both approached Crockta to help him get moving. Although he could walk on his own, he decided to lean on them. Even if they exchanged harsh words, they still genuinely cared for one another. There was a reason male friendships and camaraderie were referred to as ‘brotherly bond.’

“Ah, you smell like blood. Crockta, you should have done a better job cleaning yourself,” commented Anor.

“Stop pressing down on my shoulders, Crockta! I’m gonna get shorter!” yelled Tiyo.

Crockta took back his thoughts after hearing their complaints. Bul’tar. Life was a lonely journey.

***

The sun was up, and they were still marching.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I can keep going.”

“Stay strong.”

“Yes,” the orc soldier replied, but from his expression and voice, it was obvious that he was worn out.

The Great Warrior Shireuga’s face turned serious as he assessed the state of his soldiers. There had been an infiltration last night—an orc called Crockta. After Crockta disappeared at midnight, the chieftain was in utter rage. He ordered them to pack up their tents and to start marching, and their night march continued even when the sun came up.

Shireuga tried to raise the soldiers’ morale, but even though their unsteady steps never stopped, they looked like they would collapse any second.

“Whew...” Shireuga sighed when he discovered a familiar face. He approached him and struck up a conversation.

“Hammerchwi,” he called out.

“Oh, Great Warrior Shieruga. How is your unit?”

“Many are injured,” replied Shireuga.

Last night, Crockta had infiltrated among them. Shireuga saw him for the first time. He was facing off against the chieftain with unwavering determination. He had driven his greatsword through the chieftain’s stomach and slashed the chieftain’s fist. He had even gotten past the orcs and disappeared in a strange way. As rumored, his skills were remarkable.

The chieftain went on a rampage after Crockta disappeared safely in the middle of chasing him. He ripped apart several orcs around him. His madness only settled after much bloodshed.

Then, the cruel march began. There wasn’t any consideration of the injured. The soldiers wounded by Crockta as well as those on the brink of death had to keep on marching because of Calmahart’s order.

Those who refused to walk faced immediate death, and the injured were abandoned. The orcs who were unable to abandon their comrades carried the injured on the march, but this only exacerbated the state of the army.

The march wasn’t a rational decision, but the chieftain only had thoughts of inciting war and seeing bloodshed.

“What about Great Warrior Kellug?” asked Hammerchwi.

“He’s dead,” replied Shieruga.

Hammerchwi closed his eyes. “May he rest in peace.”

They didn’t speak any further. Kellug was one of the chiefdom warriors who had been caught up in the rampage yesterday. He ran to wake up his comrades when a collapsing tent fell on him and crushed his spine.

“Hammerchwi,” said Shireuga.

Hammerchwi was an old and wise warrior. For a chiefdom warrior to reach his age meant that he had survived countless battles.

Hammerchwi looked him in the eye, and Shireuga asked a question he had been holding in for a while.

“Hammmerchwi, is the chieftain...” It was a question that was dangerous to say out loud. “Is that chieftain okay?”

Shireuga looked away and saw the chieftain’s huge palanquin carried on the slaves’ shoulders.

Not all of the slaves were dark elves. Their own kind, orcs, were chained up and holding the palanquin up in pitiful states. They had become slaves just because they didn’t obey the chiefdom. Each time the slaves stopped, the chiefdom warriors behind them whipped them with a lash embedded with pieces of steel, and blood and flesh splattered onto the ground. The chieftain smirked at the sound of the whip.

The orc slaves tried to maintain the balance of the palanquin even as they struggled to walk straight because a single mistake would result in the death of all the slaves and not just their own. It was a pitiful sight.

“Shireuga...” Hammerchwi sighed. Shireuga wasn’t the only one who had such doubts. Hammerchwi was in the same boat, but the chieftain was the law of the chiefdom. Everything he said was the will of the entire chiefdom. It was the tenet of the chiefdom to obey the strongest warrior.

“I saw the orc called Crockta yesterday,” said Shireuga.

“Hmm...” Hammerchwi remembered Crockta, the orc from the continent. He had defeated the chiefdom at Mount Luclan, Nuridot, and Nameragon, and he had now joined forces with the dark elves. He was a clear enemy of the chiefdom. He was strong, lethal, and impossible to ignore.

“He was strong,” continued Shireuga.

Hammerchwi, who had fought with Crockta, knew it better than anyone. He had fought against Crockta with warriors under his command, but all of them had been defeated.

“He’s a very strong warrior.”

“Yesterday...” Shireuga thought about the moment Crockta faced Calmahart. The chieftain, swept up in his wave of madness, became terror itself, but Crockta from the continent was smiling in the face of this terror. Shireuga knew what that expression meant.

“His expression was as if...”

“As if?”

Shireuga was unable to continue. He remembered the time he used to make the same face. The chiefdom warriors had been greatly feared everywhere when the chieftain before Calmahart led them.

They were strong, and they didn’t retreat no matter who they faced. Orcs from other villages, dark elves inciting conflict, wandering gnomes, and monsters were all afraid of them and never dared to refuse to give up their possessions under the axeblade of the Great Warriors.

They had overwhelming power, and they took pride in the chiefdom and their status as warriors. They never showed their backs, even if they were outnumbered or cornered. They fought bravely with determination in battles where death was right around the corner, and they grinned ferociously at the strongest opponents because they were the chiefdom’s warriors who represented the orcs of the north.

During that time, he had felt honor under the name of the chiefdom.

“...It’s nothing,” said Shireuga as he shook his head.

Hammerchwi placed a hand on his shoulder with eyes filled with empathy. He understood how Shireuga felt as a warrior who had carried the chiefdom’s flag for the two previous generations of chieftains.

“Don’t worry about it. The dice has already been tossed.”

Shireuga dropped his head.

“Raise your head. You are the Great Warrior Shireuga.” Hammerchwi tapped on his shoulder and went past him.

As he watched Hammerchwi marching forward to his unit, Shireuga wanted to ask, ‘Can you walk with your head high, Hammerchwi?’

He instead sighed and looked forward again as the march continued. The chiefdom was still a source of terror, and they were known to be cruel and merciless. The entire north was scared of them.

They were enjoying greater fame than before. ‘But why?’

Shireuga looked up at the sky. Why was he not proud of the chiefdom’s flag anymore? Why was he filled with greater embarrassment as the battles filled with death and the massacre continued?

He forced himself to smile. There was a time when he swung his axe with a smile on his face in the face of countless arrows raining down on the battlefield. He was one of the victors who used to roar ferociously as they stepped on the corpses of his enemies.

Back then, he was an orc who knew how to laugh fiercely, but he could no longer laugh like back then. That smile was no longer theirs.

Shireuga was envious of the smile he’d seen the previous night on the face of the orc called Crockta, with the heavy sword.

He looked at the flag of the chiefdom fluttering in the wind next to the chieftain. He used to be proud of that flag. freewebno(v)el

A new flag-bearer was carrying the long flagpole upright, and next to the flag-bearer was a strange orc following the chieftain. The sorcerer—the actual head of the chiefdom. He planned all of the battles and encouraged the chieftain.

‘Perhaps...’

Suddenly, the sorcerer turned and looked behind him, meeting Shireuga’s eyes. Shireuga casually looked away as if he had his mind somewhere else. The sorcerer looked away.

The sorcerer had appeared out of nowhere one day.

‘Perhaps...’

The moment he had that thought, the sorcerer abruptly turned his head once more, and his red eyes met Shireuga’s. Shireuga froze up.

The sorcerer stared at Shireuga and smirked. He then turned his head forward again. Shireuga held his breath for a while, feeling the sorcerer’s unnerving presence.

The chieftain stood up on his palanquin and looked around at the army. He raised his double-headed axe high up in the air and shouted, “Stay strong! Keep marching! We will continue walking! Hahahahahaha!”

The flag fluttered. The cruel march continued.