From the Baptism of Fire (8)
“Sorry. I apologize for picking the fight first.”
Right after the mock battle ended, I got an apology from the orc senior, Darko.
For what had just been a brief spat, his admission of defeat was surprisingly straightforward—enough to leave me feeling dazed instead.
“I accept.”
“...Good. Let's call it done. Any objections?”
“None.”
Of course, I couldn't tell if his inner feelings matched the crispness of his words. An orc's protruding lower jaw always gave the impression of perpetual anger, making it hard for other races to read their expressions.
Sure enough, a faint tremor leaked from Darko's nostrils with his breath—something he couldn't quite hide.
But instead of letting it erupt, he held it back. He glanced once toward the spectator stands, said nothing more, and walked toward his dejected orc group with slumped shoulders.
As his back crossed paths with our approaching margrave...
“Baron!”
The margrave's pale face bore an easy-to-read smile, unlike the orc's—likely relief that nothing else had gone wrong.
“Well done.”
“Well done? I barely did anything—just stepped back from my post. You must've been bored stiff.”
“Bored stiff is a bit...”
Meanwhile, a small fake cough came from beside the margrave.
“I came to cheer too, but you're late on the acknowledgment.”
“...Your Highness? You were here?”
“...A reaction like you didn't expect it at all. Thanks a lot.”
“Ahaha... Well, I didn't see you at first...”
As Princess Charlotte puffed her cheeks just a touch, I couldn't help but shrug awkwardly, same as always.
“...So, did you try hard?”
Her purple eyes swept over me once. She was surely repeating the question I'd noted in my previous report.
I closed my eyes briefly before answering.
“May I give that answer a little later?”
“Why?”
“Because before I can say 'yes' to that, there's still something left undone.”
“Ha...?”
I looked at her, who sounded utterly baffled.
But she quickly composed herself and replied.
“Then you should go do the rest.”
“That's the plan. Then, my lord, Your Highness—see you later.”
“Wait, you don't mean...”
“Might as well tie up loose ends cleanly now that it's come to this.”
I answered my lord, who seemed to catch on, and quickened my steps.
Toward the orcs, who were just leading their group out of the arena.
Toward the man called “Darko, son of Siemobit from the Benet clan.”
“A moment, Senior.”
As I hurried over, the orcs' eyes turned, flashing with surprise.
They paused, and Darko, turning last, furrowed his brows at me.
“Isn't the business done?”
“The mock battle's over. But I have separate business with you.”
“What?”
A gruff tone slipped from his lips.
But since he didn't brush me off as expected, I raised a hand and said,
“Let's talk alone. I have something to say.”
Time had passed, and the spring sun was starting to redden on the horizon.
In such a scene, two men sat facing a park lake, their companions kept apart. With such different races and builds—one had to crane his neck awkwardly—the sight must've looked bizarre to both them and any onlookers.
In my past life, we'd have cracked open cans to wet our throats, but here, without even a proper chair, just perched on a flat rock, that was out of the question.
So despite boldly dragging him here, actually opening my mouth took a bit longer.
“What'd you want to say?”
Darko didn't bother overcoming the height difference—instead, he cast his gaze toward the lake and spoke first.
Naturally, my eyes followed, and without facing each other, I replied.
“What you showed today—is that a sign of what your clan is up to?”
“...Yes. My father's handiwork.”
“The Benet clan's representative patriarch?”
“I'm helping too.”
The orc's heavy head nodded, confirming my guess.
“The Benet father-son duo have big ambitions.”
“...Hm?”
“Nothing requires more effort than changing the system. You wouldn't do it without need. ...Especially what you showed today—it was completely different from the norm. Almost like the Empire's.”
I still didn't turn my head, just lifted my gaze upward.
“The Benet clan—your father, Senior—wants to build not just a clan, but a 'nation.'”
A low breath sounded.
“...What makes you say that?”
“The current clan structure makes it hard to use the formation you showed efficiently.”
Of course, orc clans had their own military traditions and structures.
But they were just extensions of racial instincts.
Why did orcs run these massive family clans? Paradoxically, because they were the most fractious race.
Lower individuals submitted to higher ones, who submitted to even higher. But instinct-based hierarchy could flip anytime, and equals had no natural basis for alliance.
Knowing constant infighting meant no survival, they invented “clans”—fictive kinship among equals.
Like how humans invented nations.
And in the flow of eras, someone decided clans alone couldn't secure the future.
I figured that someone was Darko's father.
“...I don't know that far. But Father is pursuing something beyond the old ways—that much is true.”
“In any case, your father thinks differently from other orcs.”
Let's go back to the past.
When I burned thirty-odd patriarchs from the Bend and Sorb clans alive, why did Benet stay silent instead of howling for revenge and agree to negotiations?
More than that—why stay in the Empire, effectively abandoning their allied clans?
Most of it was this senior's father, current Benet representative patriarch Siemobit's decision.
Early after becoming patriarch, he'd been pushed toward war by ousted rivals' agitation.
Instead of falling for it, he restrained military action, focused on defense and talks, and used the chance to purge patriarchs who'd started unauthorized wars against imperial forces.
He'd seized the opportunity when rival-friendly allied clans got swept in my flames.
My near-disaster of arson didn't ripple much partly because our margrave covered it up—but also because it oddly benefited both sides' leadership, letting it slide “just enough.”
Of course, resentment lingered, explaining their reactions.
“Frankly, our territory's peace depends entirely on your father, Senior.”
“Mm.”
“If he dismantles the clan to forge a nation, it'd be scary, but we'd have to accept it. Ah, assuming peace is guaranteed, of course.”
“...Is that so?”
He sounded genuinely surprised.
“We've negotiated with the Benet clan so far. But if Benet becomes a real nation, we negotiate with a nation.”
“What's the difference?”
“Whether talks hinge on your mood today, or on a nation's circumstances?”
Darko made a slightly displeased noise but seemed to get it.
“Someday, when you return and become patriarch, we might oppose each other. At least then, not everything rides on your mood—that's good for us.”
Of course, a group that could turn enemy anytime organizing and advancing wasn't exactly welcome.
Once structured efficiently with growing power, it'd expand again.
The resulting war would dwarf past ones.
Still, if picking a positive, I'd say transcending instinct for organization was better.
On the surface, they were under imperial rule. We couldn't preemptively exterminate them.
So if coexisting, better to tame them.
History showed barbarian conflicts ended not by annihilation, but when they curbed war needs.
“...Actually, Father said this.”
“What?”
“If someone brings up non-military talk right after showing today's formation, watch them warily.”
“...Oops, my mistake.”
“...And befriend them. Dangerous ones make the best allies.”
“Tricky.”
“Yeah. Especially since you're Ruticia's vassal.”
“...If it were someone far away, fine—but a neighbor spotting your situation is trouble?”
“Wouldn't it be?”
I lifted my head briefly, tilting it at his vague conditional reply.
“Your father hasn't explained everything to you, has he, Senior?”
“...What?”
Whoosh—the orc's head finally snapped toward me.
I met his face with my tilted one.
“You've been answering with vague inferences. You know Father has plans, but not the full picture.”
“You...”
The orc's face twisted sharply, lips baring threateningly.
“...How do you see all that from one match?”
“Call it intuition. But during the mock battle, I kept sensing something off. Like you were following orders you didn't fully grasp.”
His missteps, the legion's futile rout—it all screamed mismatch.
“The clincher was the end, and right after.”
“What?”
He truly seemed clueless—understandable, since I'd puzzled it out myself.
“You met death like a proper orc, but bowed quickly before your group unlike one. Mixing orcish and un-orcish actions, just like today's battle.”
“So?”
“I see you as an orc bound by clan, yet influenced by your father to align somewhat with the Empire.”
Living differently shapes you inevitably. Imperial education would've seeped in subconsciously.
Training clashing with instinct made him a perfect go-between—and a bundle of contradictions.
Studying empire ways yet instinctively hostile; loyal to clan tradition yet trying clashing commands; blind to the conflict.
“...So, what're you getting at?”
“...”
After a silent lake-gaze, I turned and spoke.
“That day, I ordered the burning of those thirty-odd Bend and Sorb patriarchs.”
“...!!”
As expected, fury bloomed on the orc's face. Without the calm buildup, he'd have grabbed my collar.
“But your father used that to build his position and pursue his ambitions.”
“So you're claiming it was justified now?!”
“Never said that. Just stating facts. Think about it—Siemobit didn't press hard on it.”
Simple, really.
“Your father's ambitions had no room for those barbaric clans.”
One builds beyond frames; others cling to revenge. Paths diverged.
I'd scorched the latter; Siemobit turned the pain to his path.
Not everyone could. I remembered bone-deep why I'd chosen then.
So I poured out events leading to that day on the raging man.
Some he'd reject; some might resonate.
“...Funny as it sounds, when you charged after I snapped that day, something stung inside me.”
“...And yet you bet on the mock battle to force an apology?”
“Hey, you started it. That's that; this is this.”
I cut it short, then smiled bitterly.
“Will you follow your father, Senior—or carve your own path?”
“...That's.”
Now I read the emotions clear on his face: rage at me, doubt of his father, self-reflection, rumination—all tangled in turmoil.
“We've got decades ahead, Senior—no war means decades rubbing shoulders. We're active now; you'll inherit and be too. What can we achieve in this awkward standoff?”
Imperial prosperity or war—what else could he choose?
“...So tell us to forget that vile act.”
“Not at all. No forcing forgiveness or forgetting. You feel that way about me; I do about you. Can't change that. But if we can agree beyond it, isn't letting it fester a waste?”
I exhaled shortly. Separating understanding, empathy, forgiveness was this hard.
That day, my ploy was cowardly, whatever reasons or ties. Betraying “trust” to deceive and kill isn't justified.
What could orcs trust in us for future ties?
My vague unease stemmed here: if they see us as mood-swing negotiators like we see them, it'll loop forever.
Unspoken, it'd return as tragedy—revisiting that baptism of fire.
“No regrets, but I feel responsibility. For maybe making us untrustworthy in your eyes.”
“...No regrets?”
“Because that day, I couldn't devise any other way to protect my mother. Even looking back now.”
“...Ha!”
“What about you, Senior? If humans dared insult your mother?”
“No forgiveness. I'd kill them by any means.”
“Finally, a common ground.”
I chuckled. He cracked a strained smile amid complexity.
“We both—you and us—have paths to choose. I just don't want us narrowing them ourselves. So...”
I rose slowly. Neck ached, and sunset neared.
“Whatever cursing or whatever, just don't say 'hope we never cross paths.'”
“Sharp tongue.”
“What, mock battles enough for our fights? I can die for you till your anger cools, if you want.”
“Damn it. Don't spout empty crap.”
“Busted.”
Pfft—laughter burst; this time, we both laughed.
“...A few days back, sorry for snapping.”
“Hmph. Big fight over that, you win, and now apologize?”
“That's that; this is this.”
“Hilarious.”
Something shed inside? No weight lifted from my back, but my heart eased.
And he said,
“Truth is, Baron von Hebel, I can't fully like you. I'll keep feeling wary.”
I just shrugged silently.
“But you shouldn't be an enemy. You stand out. Piercing our side with a few words.”
“Maybe overestimating?”
“Orcs don't lie.”
He stated firmly, stepping ahead first.
“To keep you from enemy, I'll mull those words. ...I respect Father.”
“Thanks.”
“But don't expect other clans to understand you.”
“Wasn't.”
I spread my arms.
And the man declaring he'd follow his father to transcend “orc limits” instead of racial bounds—surprisingly didn't leave right away, but thoughtfully lowered his chin.
Then,
“...Not sure if I can ask, but.”
“Yes?”
“Baron von Hebel's mother.”
At his strained face, I dropped my smile and looked skyward.
“...Got a letter a few days ago.”
“Ah...”
“A long one nagging me to train my body this year, not just read books, and eat balanced meals.”
“...”
I grinned again. His blank orc face was comical.
“No need to worry—she's so healthy it's excessive.”
“I see...”
Ahem—the orc cleared his throat.
“Guess I should write Father too. New-model troops need more tweaks—not battle-ready yet.”
“Show us next time?”
“You mad?”
Thus, I bantered awkwardly with that orc senior, walking the lengthening shadows.
Not full reconciliation, not pure friendship.
But coexistence securing territory peace.
Not asking much—just hoping for peace in our era.
Well, not for anyone else—for me and ours.
And that hope shattered in a day.
Because my peace broke over our lord's family matters.
“Hey── you bastard──.”
His fiancée barged at me.
“Wh-what's wrong?”
“Who the hell are you to keep pairing the margrave with other women besides me? Huh?”
With some massively misunderstood outburst.