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"Chweeeek. Is this the sixteenth prey?"
The orc warrior Turka forcibly curled his lips. Sharp
tusks were revealed between the curled lips. He turned his head and saw that all his comrades wore the same expression.
In that state, Turka and his group approached the pitiful victim step by step.
His opponent seemed to have forgotten even the thought of fleeing, frozen in place. Watching that sight, Turka's
mind crossed with the thought that this was quite amusing.
"Hunting wandering orcs is quite enjoyable too. Though, of course, we'll just have to discard them after killing them."
The tribe Turka belonged to was the Chugar tribe, which displayed considerable power in the northeastern region of Trubenia.
It was also a tribe that had wisely overcome its food problems, as one of the tribes that had relatively well accepted human civilization.
The chieftain of the Chugar tribe was the warrior Chugar, who could be called a veteran of reversals. Turka's
grandfather, he was the undisputed greatest warrior, possessing not only valor but also outstanding wisdom.
In fact, he had not been chieftain for very long.
"Chweeeek. Abandon any thought of escape."
Watching his comrades approach the prey step by step out of the corner of his eye, Turka recalled events of the past.
Namely, the circumstances by which his grandfather Chugar became chieftain.
The previous chieftain could no longer endure the starvation and resolved to raid a village where human slaves
lived. He was so fixated on the meat before his eyes that he had forgotten everything else.
"Chwik. You must not."
At that time, Chugar had boldly blocked the previous chieftain's path. He had perceived that if they captured and devoured all the human slaves, the future of their race would inevitably grow dark. Subsequently,
a one-on-one battle between the chieftain and Chugar broke out, and the contest ended in Chugar's victory.
Since he had severed the previous chieftain's breath, he became the new chieftain according to tradition. After becoming
chieftain, he gathered all the tribesmen and delivered a lengthy speech.
"Chweeeek. From now on, whoever kills a human slave will die by my hand. They are precious beings who can perform agriculture and animal husbandry for us, so…."
Of course, that did not mean there were no orcs who targeted slaves. Incidents where orcs, unable to endure starvation, attacked slaves who were tilling fields or tending sheep occurred not infrequently, but Chugar responded extremely strictly to such incidents.
He would capture the perpetrators and behead them indiscriminately, regardless of the circumstances.
The severed heads were sent to the human slaves' village to reassure them, and the
bodies were used to fill the tribe's bellies. Having been relieved of their worries, the slaves could literally devote themselves wholeheartedly to farming and herding. As a result, the Chugar tribe was able to resolve its
food problem.
Chugar's outstanding judgment had saved the entire tribe. Therefore, it was difficult to spot any notable hunger in the eyes of the Chugar tribesmen approaching their prey. They knew that the meat of cows or pigs tasted better than the tough meat of their own kind, so….
But it was a settled fact that they had to hunt as scheduled. That was because a few days ago, an edict had been issued by the race ruling over
Trubenia. An edict from their master, the dragon.
"—From this day forth, each tribe shall hunt down all wandering orcs passing nearby."
This was a command issued in the name of the Red Dragon Berkis.
As soon as the command was decreed, nearly all orc tribes accepted it.
They did not possess the courage to dare refuse a dragon's command.
In fact, the Chugar tribesmen had so far completely ignored wandering orcs.
They had sufficient food, so there had been no need to hunt them. The only time they went
hunting was when the coming-of-age ceremony took place.
For young orcs who had reached the age of ten, there was no prey as easy as wandering orcs. Except for that
time, there had been no need to hunt wandering orcs. Of course, Turka and his comrades were still young warriors. The tribe had deliberately dispatched them to build up their
experience.
Sensing that his comrades had approached right next to the prey, Turka readjusted his grip on the glaive in his hand.
True to the warlike nature of orcs, he felt not the slightest sympathy. Having finished his preparations,
he roared like lightning.
"Chweeeek. Attack! Warriors! Let us thoroughly savor the blood of this rare prey!"
But it did not take long before his eyes popped out in shock. It happened after he saw the first two
warriors who charged in collapse powerlessly. And that too, from the fists and kicks of a dwarfish wanderer.
"Kekeke, such lowly things…."
Damon snorted as he saw two glaives thrusting toward his solar plexus. Having already
adapted to his new body as much as possible, Damon was capable of utilizing about 70% of the physical martial arts he had learned in the past.
To him, roughly ten orcs were nothing more than post-meal exercise. And these were inexperienced
young ones at that? Furthermore, the fact that he had the appearance of an orc could also be seen as a great
advantage.
The small, stocky orc physique closely resembled his past appearance. Therefore, it was undeniable that he could move even more naturally than in a newly
acquired body.
As the glaive blades approached close enough to touch his body, Damon subtly twisted his body sideways. By a hair's
breadth, the glaive brushed past his chest; grabbing it with his right hand, Damon thrust his elbow straight out in that same
position.
"?"
With a sound exactly like a pig being slaughtered, one orc clutched its throat and staggered,
falling away. The attack was reinforced by the momentum of its charge, so the orc's face was blackened and already dead. Without stopping there, Damon spun his body around and kicked the second orc's philtrum.
It was an attack delivered right before its nose, so there was no avoiding it.
Thwack.
With a desperate scream, the struck orc sprayed blood profusely from its nose and mouth and rolled backward. Though he hadn't struck very hard, because he had accurately hit vital points, the two
orcs lost their combat power in an instant. Damon quickly picked up the two glaives the orcs had dropped.
Crack.
He stomped on them, crushing the bladed parts, and the glaives became nothing more than two staves. One was a short staff, and one was a slightly longer staff. Grasping the two staves, Damon twirled them like a windmill.
Swish-swish-swack!
As the staves ruthlessly cleaved the air, horrifying sonic booms burst forth.
"Shall I use the staff arts I secretly learned at the Shaolin Temple after such a long time?"
Having used physical martial arts for the first time in so long, Damon was currently in an extremely excited state. When had he ever tried using physical martial arts during the 500 years he spent as a Lich? Having escaped from the stiff and awkward body of a Lich and gained a young, fresh new body, his movements were more natural than ever.
All the principles of the staff arts he had mastered at the Shaolin Temple in his youth were still remembered in his mind. While working as a laborer, or sweeping snow from the training grounds, Damon had secretly learned bit by bit as the martial monks practiced their martial arts.
"You bastards."
As if he had nothing more to think about, he charged at the hesitating orcs. The orc at the very front
hastily thrust out its glaive. But the short staff knocked it aside, and the long staff struck the orc's jaw upward—it happened in an instant.
Crack—thwack.
After one was sent flying, the orcs fell like autumn leaves before a gale. The attacks targeted only vital points with precision, and it was a foregone conclusion that their crude skills could not withstand the ancient staff arts of Shaolin. Of course, had their weapons been swords, Damon could not have defended so unhesitatingly. One cannot block sharp, gleaming blades with wooden staves. But since the glaives' hafts were made of wood, Damon could attack to his heart's content without burden of defense.
As a result, the dozen or so orcs were reduced to rags and strewn about in all directions. It happened in less time than it takes for half an incense stick to burn. Damon looked at the fallen orcs and growled ferociously.
"I'd like to kill every last one of you, but I shall hold back. Blame your damn dog eyes for choosing the wrong opponent…."
With no attachment whatsoever, Damon threw the two staves, which had demonstrated fearsome power, to the ground. He could have killed them, but Damon did not think there was any need to do so. Because unnecessary killing could result in his location being discovered by Berkis. He did not yet possess the power to handle a dragon, so he had to be careful in any circumstance. For that reason, Damon had not completely cut off the orcs' breath.
Huff, huff.
Though his entire body was drenched in sweat and his breathing grew ragged from deploying the staff arts, Damon was rather pleased by that fact. Because it gave him the feeling that he was truly alive. Then, sudden hunger surged upon Damon.
"How delightful."
Damon brightened at that fact. And for good reason—during the 500 years he had spent as a Lich, he had never once
tasted food. Of course, he hadn't needed to eat, but for Damon, who had been a gourmand, it had undoubtedly been considerable agony. He cast his gaze at the sprawled orcs.
"I'm terribly hungry—shall I catch one and eat it now?"
Hearing those words, every one of the orcs shuddered. Born into the affluent Chugar tribe,
they had never eaten their own kind, nor had they ever been eaten. No matter that they were orcs, being caught and eaten was by no means agreeable. Therefore, Turka, who could be called their leader, mustered his courage and raised himself up.
"Chweeeek. Just what the hell are you?"
Turka had spoken in the common tongue used only among orcs. But Damon could now
understand the orc language. Having interacted with numerous races during the 500 years he served as Berkis's Guardian, Damon knew quite a few racial languages. Of course,
he had also thoroughly mastered the orc language. Seeing the young orc glaring at him with a swollen face, as if refusing to back down, Damon smiled broadly.
Thwack.
The price of recklessness—Turka ended up clutching his face and flopping over backward. At least
when it came to handling orcs, Damon could be said to have reached the pinnacle. What he had realized was that there was no race as faithful to the logic of power as orcs. He had figured this out during his time as a Guardian.
As he expected, Turka's gaze had become considerably obedient. He hadn't thought being hit by an ogre would hurt this much, so his face was deathly pale.
"Wh-who are you? Chweeeek."
"Now that's more pleasant to hear. Can't you tell by looking?"
A strange expression rose on Turka's face.
"Chweeeek. A wandering orc?"
Thwack.
This blow seemed to have hurt quite a bit, for Turka could only get up after quite a while.
Damon grabbed Turka by the scruff and growled ferociously. Since he had the appearance of a ferocious orc, the intimidation was more than effective. Furthermore, the sight of him grabbing the scruff of an orc one and a half times larger than himself could be seen as quite grotesque.
"Why, you damned bastard…. What do you mean, 'wandering orc,' so impudently?"
An expression of utter incomprehension rose on Turka's face. As far as he knew, he had never experienced such treatment from a wandering orc.
No matter how he looked at it, his opponent was merely a wretched wandering orc.
"Chwik. Th-then what are you?"
Damon, who had been thinking for a moment, smiled as if a good idea had occurred to him. Of course, nobody would know that Turka shuddered because of that
smile.
"Call me the Outlaw of the Wasteland."
"Is that your name?"
Damon nodded with a full smile. As if he was quite pleased with the newly coined orc-style name….
"Y-your name is that long?"
"Of course! I am more than worthy of such a name…. Anyway,"
Damon narrowed his eyes and looked around at the fallen orcs. Receiving his gaze,
every one of the orcs felt as if their flesh were trembling.
"You lot made me exercise, so you must pay the price accordingly. Let's see. Which one has put on the most appetizing fat?"
The poor orcs could do nothing but tremble, hunching their bodies to look as small as possible. Unable to bear watching his comrades, Turka sprang to his feet.
"Chwik. If you need food, we will give it to you. Just don't take the warriors."
At those words, Damon's eyes blazed with fury.
"Food? You expect me to eat the filthy things you eat?"
But when Damon saw the meat Turka unfastened from his waist, he could only close his mouth.
It was unmistakably lamb meat at a glance. Because it looked nothing like what orcs would eat, Damon's eyes went wide.
"How do you have such meat…?"
"Human slaves manage the farms. That is why our Chugar tribe rarely eats orc
meat."
Turka puffed out his chest as if proud to be a member of the tribe. But what flew at him was a ruthless fist.
Thwack.
Damon stood on the sprawled Turka and threatened the orcs as they hurriedly got up.
"Quite the talkative one. So, what meat do you lot intend to hand over?"
Bewildered expressions rose on the staggering orcs' faces.
"Ch-chwik. What do you mean?"
"Will you hand over the meat at your waists? Or will you hand over the meat on your bodies?
Choose one."
Of course, in that situation, the orcs' choice was obvious. Damon took the meat they eagerly thrust forward and hastily stuffed it into his backpack. To travel far to the north, he needed quite a lot of food. Having dumped all the portable rations seized from the orcs into his backpack, Damon stood up as if his business was concluded.