Chapter 677: Clan's Rebellion
North of the Black Stone Mountains, southern Ugo Great Plain, beside the Bindler River.
"Ow... it hurts..."
"Ahhh!"
"Damn Empire scum! Father God Gwush above, my leg—!"
"Help me, sir! Please, save me! Don’t leave me here!"
Along the gurgling riverbank, wounded Ogres writhed in agony, their blood turning the water crimson once more. Some had lost legs to artillery fire, others were burned beyond recognition by flames, while others still—half their bodies charred—dragged themselves through the mud, trapped in endless suffering.
Shamans of the tribes moved among the wounded, tending to the lightly injured with herbal poultices and spore magic. But the gravely wounded? They were left to die. When an Ogre finally expired, its corpse was callously cast into the river—another body to feed the Bindler. Even those still breathing, barely conscious, were shoved into the water, left to drown.
This was the Covenant of Gush Doctrine: Ogres were eternal warriors. The sick, the weak, the lame, the unfit—these had no place in the tribe. They must be purged.
"Father God above..."
"Are we doomed to die here?"
Watching kin—alive or dead—thrown into the river, the Ogres felt a deep, instinctive dread. The air grew thick with oppression, despair. The valley seemed to suffocate under silence.
In a hidden corner of the valley, chieftains of the Black Raven, Frost Wolf, Rock Lizard, and other clans gathered in secret.
"Are we really doing this?" The Rock Lizard Clan's chieftain hesitated. He had seen Soro's strength with his own eyes. After receiving the mysterious Bestowal, Soro now stood equal to the ancient Great Chieftain Batu.
"Who cares?" the Black Raven Clan's chieftain sneered. "What could he do? Kill us all? He dares not defy the entire clan!"
The Frost Wolf Clan's chieftain stepped forward, voice sharp and clear:
"We must leave the Crimson Blood Tribe! If we stay, our elite warriors will be wasted! Batu is dead—this tribe is already dead! Only he can lead us Ogres to conquer the world!"
Though the Frost Wolf and Black Raven clans had long-standing blood feuds, they stood united now—on the same front.
Soro’s cultivation of low-class Ogres, allowing those madmen to plunder the resources of the Ugo Great Plain, had angered every clan chieftain. At first, they had held hope—perhaps Soro would lead them to glory. They had endured, for the sake of the Ogres' future.
But now, after the war ended in total rout, after the low-class Ogres were massacred by the Ashen Empire, the chieftains could no longer bear it. The Crimson Blood Tribe—especially Soro—had gone too far.
They would reclaim their clans’ autonomy.
They would return to the Ugo Great Plain.
They would kill every greedy, worthless low-class Ogre.
They would reclaim their pastures, their hunting grounds.
"Yes! Soro has been corrupted by the strength of those low-class monsters! He no longer deserves to be our chieftain!"
"I even suspect... that power—this unnatural strength—is not a gift from Father God. It was born from Soro’s sacrifice of his own people, made through a pact with foreign abominations!"
"He blasphemes Father God! He insults the great Ogres!"
"Before Batu’s sacrifice, Soro was just a mere commander in the Crimson Blood Tribe. Who does he think he is to command us?"
"He is unworthy! He has drained the entire plain of resources, bred millions of trash—what have we gained? We didn’t even touch the walls of Aivendeldan!"
"Soro is no longer an Ogre! He is the chieftain of low-class mongrels—not ours!"
The twenty-odd chieftains erupted in fury. They pounded their chests, screaming in rage, cursing Soro with every breath. They wanted him dead—torn apart, piece by piece.
Among the Ogres, there existed a primal democracy. Only an Ogre recognized by all clan chieftains could become a co-ruler—known as the Great Chieftain. Centuries ago, one such chieftain had been voted out by the clans, exiled into the wilderness, and frozen to death.
Now, though they could not exile Soro, they could leave him—abandon him, leaving him with nothing but his own kind. A hollow title, a powerless king.
Frost Wolf Clan’s chieftain Sak raised his weapon, voice low and firm:
"Brothers, return to your clans tonight. In three days’ time, at dawn, we rise in rebellion. Split into dozens of groups, flee in different directions—make it impossible for him to trap us. When it’s over, the Crimson Blood Tribe? Let it be his and his mongrel offspring’s prison."
The Earth Beast Clan’s chieftain clapped in approval:
"Exactly! I’ve said it before—those greedy, stupid bastards don’t belong with us!"
"Hahaha! If Soro and Mok love low-class Ogres so much, let them live with them forever!"
The chieftains roared with laughter—long overdue. They were tired of hiding, tired of Soro’s insults, tired of being treated like cattle.
Sak scanned the valley, eyes gleaming with cold fury:
"And remember—this stays secret. If anyone betrays us to Soro... I’ll make them wish they’d never been born."
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Suddenly, applause echoed from above.
A familiar voice—cold, mocking, then boiling with venomous hatred—spoke:
"You really surprised me."
The chieftains froze. Their laughter died instantly.
"Traitors... of the Ogres."
Sak’s face drained of color. He slowly looked up, lips trembling.
"...Soro? What... what are you doing here?"
"What?"
"Damn it! When did he get here?"
"You—look up! He’s been watching us the whole time!"
The chieftains turned their heads, and there he stood—Soro, towering atop the cliff, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the valley. His face was twisted, veins bulging on his forehead, eyes clouded with murderous intent. At six meters tall, he looked like a mountain come to life.
Beside him stood two towering green-skinned Ogres—nearly five meters high—wearing heavy armor made of scavenged parts, claws of steel gleaming on their hands, grins frozen on their faces like predators.
They stood at the peak, casting long, oppressive shadows over the chieftains.
"Soro Chieftain!"
"You must be mistaken!"
"No! You misheard! We’re not traitors!"
A clatter. Weapons fell from their hands. Faces turned pale. Shock, panic, disbelief.
In the instant Soro appeared, the air itself seemed to crackle with intimidation. The chieftains—once roaring with fury—were reduced to trembling wrecks, spineless, unable to stand.
Only Sak remained standing, though his face was deathly white, his body shaking. He raised his spear, voice strained:
"Soro... you have no right to be Great Chieftain! You’ve ravaged the entire Ugo Plain, bred millions of low-class monsters, and yet you’ve been driven back—again and again! You’re not worthy—!"
Whoosh—
A deafening rip in the air. Then—thwack!—a wet, snapping sound, like flesh and bone tearing apart.
Sako’s words struck a nerve. In a rage, Soro hurled his spear—still embedded in the ground—like a javelin.
The spear pierced Sak’s skull, exited through his lower back, and impaled him into the rock behind. Blood gushed. Brain matter splattered.
The Frost Wolf Clan’s chieftain—renowned warrior, Sak—was dead. His eyes wide open, frozen in disbelief. Even in death, he stared at Soro, as if unable to believe he had truly been killed.
Silence. Utter silence.
Then, a whisper:
"Sak... is dead."
"He’s gone."
"Still pinned to the rock..."
He was a chieftain. His subordinates commanded over a thousand Wolf Cavalry. Even Batu had treated him with respect.
And Soro had killed him—like killing a chicken.
The other chieftains felt their hearts freeze. The ancient traditions—so sacred, so unbroken—now seemed to crumble before them.
"Great Chieftain, I’m innocent! I was corrupted by them!"
"I never wanted to rebel! It was Sak! The dead man started it! Please, see the truth—I’ve fought for the Ogres!"
"Great Chieftain, spare me! My Raven Clan will serve you with all our might!"
Pleading. Screaming. Tears. The chieftains, once proud, now begged like dogs. They trembled, crawled, sobbed—anything to stay alive.
The Rock Lizard Clan’s chieftain buried his face in the dirt, pounding his forehead against the ground, blood streaming down his face, yet he didn’t stop.
Soro looked down upon them, his gaze filled with disgust, contempt.
The more they begged, the more he despised them. The more he wanted to erase them.
"Earlier, Sak asked me why I deserve to be Great Chieftain," Soro said, voice icy. "Now I think the answer is clear."
He flexed his massive fist—larger than a normal Ogre’s skull—his grin fierce.
"Because I can kill you all. Is that not enough?"
"Enough... yes. More than enough."
The chieftains nodded frantically, faces twisted with submission, desperate to keep their lives.
Sak’s corpse still steamed, blood still pooling.
But Soro didn’t care.
"The great Father God Gwush said: If you wish to die quickly, show weakness. For the weak—do not deserve to live."
Boom!
Soro leapt from the cliff’s edge, shaking the ground, sending dust flying. The chieftains froze, paralyzed.
He gripped the spear embedded in Sak’s skull and pulled—hard.
Warm blood and brain matter erupted like a fountain, splattering across Soro’s face, his chest. He didn’t flinch. He just stared at the trembling chieftains.
Soro surveyed the valley. Blood ran down his face like a ritual tattoo—sinister, ancient, terrifying.
"You have the strength... yet you flee. When caught, you don’t rebel. You kneel. You beg. So tell me—do you deserve to live?"
"What?!"
"You can’t kill us all!"
"Soro, you’re going too far! Kill us, and the Crimson Blood Tribe will fall apart!"
"Sak is dead. We can pretend this never happened! Don’t force us to the edge!"
The valley erupted in panic. Despair. Rage. One chieftain screamed a curse:
"Soro! If all clans unite, even a Divine Chosen One like you will die!"
Soro didn’t turn back. He simply spoke, voice calm:
"Clear these traitors."
"Yes, Great Chieftain!"
"I love this job!"
Above, the two green-skinned Ogres—Galong and Mond—laughed maniacally as they leapt from the cliff.
"Wait! What are you doing?!"
"Filthy beasts! How dare you betray your master? By pure-blooded Ogres, I command you—leave now!"
"Stay back!"
The chieftains tried to stand, to shout, to project authority—but the Ogres paid no mind. With grins like devils, they swung their steel claws.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
White light. Blood. Limbs flying.
In moments, the valley became a slaughterhouse. Blood soaked the rock walls. Chieftains lay dead, limbs torn, bodies broken.
The two Ogres stood half-kneeling behind Soro, drenched in blood, grinning.
"Great Chieftain, we’ve cleared the old trash."
"Perfect."
Soro nodded, as if this were nothing more than a minor chore.
"Decapitate them. Hang their heads outside the command tent. See how the warriors react. If anyone shows signs of rebellion—kill them all. They’re just relics of the old era."
The two Ogres grinned wider.
"Love it."
Soro turned, looking at the corpses.
"And throw their bodies into the Mother River. They’re weak, yes—but stronger than common Ogres. Let their flesh nourish the next generation. Perhaps we’ll breed something greater. Something bigger."
"Yes, Great Chieftain!"
They saluted, then rushed off—eager for the next feast.
Soro looked south, eyes burning with hatred.
"Wait for me, Empire of Ashen. That day... is coming."
(End of Chapter)
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