Chapter 590: The Ogres' Discord
Along the Bindler River, a scattered cluster of command tents and makeshift bivouacs stood haphazardly, now serving as the temporary base of the Crimson Blood Tribe.
After the battle’s end, Soro Blooddrinker—the former Orc Vanguard—had taken over as the tribe’s interim chieftain in place of Batu. But this seat of power was far from secure.
Inside the command tent, oil lamps burned fiercely, casting flickering shadows across the grim faces of the Ogres. Anger boiled beneath their grunts and snarls.
“Soro!” roared an Ogre general, raising his spear. “You coward! The Father God said that the weak must be pierced through the chest! You don’t deserve to lead us!”
“The Dwarf slaughtered our chieftain! And now, in the face of this sea of blood, you speak only of rest and recovery?”
A spear tip jabbed at the skull throne where Soro sat, his head barely above the bone.
“Where is your promise of revenge, Soro? For months now, we’ve been fleeing like rabbits on the grassland, hunted by Dwarf patrol units!”
A massive, broad-shouldered Ogre spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. “Remember, Soro—you only became chieftain by luck. If you keep failing, we won’t hesitate to replace you.”
Crack!
Soro rose from the bony throne in a flash, slamming his fist down and shattering the wooden table before him. He scanned the room, his eyes blazing, then pointed toward the south.
“Batu is dead. The Old Shaman is dead. What do we have left to avenge the High Mountain Kingdom? Just these scattered remnants? You call yourselves warriors—then go take on that Golden-Scaled Crawler yourself! He’s destroyed twelve of our bases this month alone!”
Silence fell like a tomb. The Ogres stood frozen, breathless. Even the air seemed to freeze.
For months, their suffering had been unbearable. With food supplies dwindling, the once-mighty Orc army had splintered into small bands, scattering across the land. They had reverted to their old, disorganized ways.
Elves and Dwarves from the High Mountain Kingdom now roamed the vast Ugo Grasslands in relentless patrols, hunting down lone Ogres like prey.
And the Golden Dragon—light to the Dwarves, a beacon of hope—was a nightmare to the Ogres. To them, he was a Reaper, a Devil of Purgatory, a being they feared so much they called him The Punisher.
He soared through the sky, wings beating like war drums, breathing torrents of intense heat and searing dragonfire. No base was safe. He reduced entire encampments to charred ruins, leaving behind nothing but smoldering wreckage and corpses scattered across the ash.
“I admit,” Soro growled, “I’m no match for Batu, or Kok—heroes favored by the Father God. But you? You’re nothing but a bunch of useless trash. You dare sit on my head? Our failure is your fault! Batu gave everything, and you stood by, doing nothing!”
He stepped forward, voice rising like thunder. “If anyone wants the chieftain’s position, come and take it. I fear no challenger!”
His words echoed through the tent. The once-ferocious Ogres, who had stood so boldly moments ago, now fell silent—humbled, shaken.
Because Soro was right.
Batu Skullcrusher’s strength had been undeniable. Even in battle, they had been powerless to interfere. And after the “Eye of Ghush” had all sacrificed themselves, Soro Blooddrinker—renowned for drinking the blood of giants—was indeed the most capable among them.
The first general who had spoken stepped forward, attempting to calm the storm. “Soro… perhaps—”
But before he could finish, a sharp, spine-tingling shriek tore through the air.
An arrow shot through the woolen curtain of the tent, piercing the air with a deadly whoosh—and struck Soro’s chest.
Thwip!
Every Ogre in the room knew that sound—the whisper of an arrow cutting through the wind.
“Enemy ambush!” Soro roared, twisting aside with lightning speed. The arrow whistled past him, grazing his shoulder.
Crack!
The arrow sank deep into the bone throne, its shaft quivering. Outside, elite Ogres surged toward the tent, weapons drawn, scanning for the attacker.
“Damn it… how?” Soro gasped, clutching his chest. He stared at the arrow embedded in the skull throne. The force was immense. Thick, black venom dripped from the tip.
This was no ordinary assassination attempt. The objective was clear: kill Soro Blooddrinker.
And then he noticed the feather.
His eyes narrowed. His breath caught.
Brown feathers…
“High Mountain Vulture,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Only the Ogres bred those brutal, ugly birds. Only they crafted such venomous arrows.
A chill ran through him.
This wasn’t from the High Mountain Kingdom.
It was an internal attack.
The Ogres leapt to their feet, spears raised, charging out of the tent. Soro turned, scanning the direction from which the arrow had come.
As a former hunting party leader, his instincts were sharp. He spotted movement—faint, hidden—among the withered grasses a hundred paces away.
Footprints. Disturbed soil. Scattered eagle feathers.
This wasn’t the wind. There was someone hiding in that patch of dry grass.
But he didn’t move. He held his breath. His muscles tensed. His grip tightened on his spear.
Then—he hurled it.
Whoosh!
The spear screamed through the air, plunging into the grass with a violent thud. Blood sprayed. The grass writhed. A scream—raw, agonized—ripped through the air.
Soro leapt onto his Dire Wolf, bellowing, “The enemy is there! Capture him alive! Do not let him escape!”
The Wolf Cavalry surged forward, forming small, coordinated groups of three or four, closing in from all sides, surrounding the patch of dry grass.
Soro dismounted, drawing closer. At last, he saw the face of the assassin.
A thin, gaunt Ogre, clad in tattered brown robes, pinned to the ground by the spear. Blood welled from his wounds. The nearby cavalry loomed, grinning savagely.
“Lord Soro,” one of them growled, raising his spear. “This damned traitor tried to assassinate you! Shall we torture him?”
Soro raised a hand. “Wait. I have questions.”
The dying Ogre lifted his head, his eyes filled with hatred. He spat blood, then laughed—a cruel, mocking laugh.
“Kill me, you Crimson Blood mongrel. Coward. Liar.”
Soro stared down at him, his expression dark. “Why? We are Ogres of the Father God’s will. We are one tribe. Batu taught us: no matter our clan, we must stand united—kill the Dwarves, destroy the Elves, reclaim our land.”
“Enough!” The Ogre roared, eyes bloodshot, saliva flecked with blood. “I’ve had enough of your fake unity! You claim to stand together, yet you seized our Raven Clan’s land—our ancestors’ conquest—and drove us from our homes!”
Soro flinched. “It’s only temporary! The Orc army will rise again. We will avenge Batu. We will destroy the High Mountain Kingdom. We will conquer Aivendeldan.”
The Ogre’s face twisted into a sneer. “Don’t feed us your lies, Soro! Without Batu, how can the Ogres break through Aivendeldan? You?”
Soro fell silent.
He had to admit it—yes, he had wanted the best pastures for the Crimson Blood. Not for the tribe. For himself.
“You Redfang Clan fools,” the Ogre snarled, summoning his last strength. “You tricked our chieftain. You turned us into dogs without a home—until we’re finished.”
With a final, guttural cry, he hurled his poisoned dagger at Soro.
“You dare!”
“Scum!”
The Ogres surged forward, spears and curved blades flashing. In moments, the assassin was torn to pieces—flesh and bone scattered across the ground.
Soro stood motionless, staring at the mangled remains.
A distant, mournful howl echoed from the west.
A scout arrived on a Dire Wolf, breathless. “Lord Soro… the Raven Clan was attacked in force by Dwarf troops just days ago. They’re… gone.”
“I know.”
Soro turned, gazing toward the Blackstone Mountains in the distance—the home of the Shield Dwarves, the unbreachable wall that had imprisoned the Ogres for centuries.
The mountains had kept them trapped in barren, lifeless land. Forced to fight each other over scraps of survival.
Batu… you were our hero. But now… what do I do?
Can I let history repeat itself? Let Ogres slaughter each other?
Soro exhaled deeply. On his scarred, grotesque face, for the first time, there was a rare expression—quiet, profound helplessness.
Ogres—brutal, wild, uncivilized—rarely reflected. But in this moment, Soro felt it: the crushing weight of futility.
He didn’t notice… floating in the river, a dead Ogre’s corpse trembled slightly.
And in the water, a ripple spread—dark, thick, as if the very shadows were breathing.
A darkness so dense, so hungry, it seemed ready to consume everything.
(End of Chapter)
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