The Baron of Stony Fortress
Amidst the sheer, precipitous cliffs rose a magnificent fortress. Built from massive, unyielding stone, the mountain stronghold stood in grim readiness, its guards watching the lands beyond with unwavering vigilance. Their weapons gleamed without a single blemish, every edge honed to perfection and ready for battle at a moment’s notice.
Save for their green skin and the lower tusks that jutted past their lips, the figures looked little different from the massive Demanians. The Humians called them “ugly, pig-faced giants,” yet in truth their features were neither porcine nor grotesque, and they differed little from Humians in form. Still, their verdant skin and prominent tusks marked them as strange by Terraris’s prevailing standards of beauty, and their towering frames—averaging two to three hundred mentols—were undeniably imposing. Because of this, they had grown accustomed to being labeled hideous by other races and rarely took offense. Even so, they sometimes intermarried with outsiders who found themselves drawn to them despite the differences. A proud people who carved out their own lives amid misunderstanding and prejudice, they were known as the Orcs.
Following the surprisingly well-maintained mountain path, Neromeltia’s party—accompanied by Oun and Moka—arrived before the colossal gates set into the fortress wall, each portal easily exceeding a thousand mentols in height.
“Do you know who stands before you?! Open the gates at once and show proper respect!”
“We believe you, Chief, but without the real authority’s permission we can’t let even the Demon Lord pass. We’ve already rushed a report to the Baron, so please just wait a little longer… and could you please lower that battle-axe?!”
Oun, enraged by what he saw as the Orcs’ insolence, brandished his five-hundred-mentol battle-axe as though he meant to split the mighty gates then and there. The sheer force of his presence would have sent ordinary folk fleeing, yet the Orc sentries merely tried to soothe him with the weary patience of those long accustomed to such outbursts. Their expressions suggested they found the situation more troublesome than terrifying—like grandchildren gently placating a hot-tempered grandfather.
“Oun, stand down. They have their own ways, and I would respect them. Besides, requiring the proper authority’s permission before admitting outsiders is only natural.”
“Yes, my lord!”
At Neromeltia’s calm words the Ogre chief’s fury vanished instantly; he bowed with utmost deference. The Orcs murmured among themselves at the astonishing sight. The neighboring Orc fortress and Ogre village were hardly strangers to one another, and dealing with a blustering Ogre chief was nothing new to the sentries. No matter how fearsome Oun’s aura became, they remained unmoved—though that very familiarity also told them just how fiery his temper and stubborn his will could be. Seeing the usually intractable “angry buffalo” of an Ogre chief meekly lower his head at a few quiet words from the Demon Lord, they felt a renewed sense of awe toward the beautiful Demanian who claimed that title.
With a grinding roar the massive gates swung open. Orc soldiers who had rushed out from within formed two orderly lines, creating a path down the center. Through that corridor strode an especially massive Orc.
He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and a slender goatee, and his attire was a tailcoat that would not have looked out of place in any royal court. In one hand he carried a walking stick—the very emblem of nobility—and atop his head sat a perfectly creased top hat. His shoes, polished to a mirror sheen, completed the picture of an old-fashioned gentleman. Yet his enormous frame utterly betrayed the refined image he sought to project. The black tailcoat embroidered with gold thread strained dangerously across his three-hundred-mentol height and heavily muscled body. The black stick, its handle crowned with a golden lion’s head, looked less like a noble accessory and more like a two-hundred-mentol mace. His grizzled beard, square jaw, and completely bald head shattered whatever gentlemanly impression the costume might have created.
“The Demon Lord whom all followers of Luina must revere—the Goddess of Luina, Neromeltia di Isis! I offer my heartfelt congratulations upon Your return!”
The tailcoat-clad Orc dropped to one knee, planting his stick upright and bowing his head. Neromeltia had said nothing, and even Oun—who had announced the Demon Lord’s arrival—had never spoken her name, yet the Orc already knew it precisely. Intrigued, Neromeltia approached him with a faint smile.
“You already knew my name.”
“Of course! I have long studied every historical record left by our ancestors. A noble who claims to rule could never face the Demon Lord—whose return we have awaited for centuries—without knowing Her name!”
The Orc rose lightly, his voice ringing with excitement, yet every word remained steeped in perfect etiquette. It was clear that not only his appearance but his knowledge and bearing were truly those of a noble. Lusteria’s eyes sparkled with interest, while Beatrice gave a quiet, satisfied nod at his impeccable manners. Only Oun snorted and turned his head away in open displeasure.
Composing himself, the Orc placed a hand over his heart and bowed once more before introducing himself.
“My name is Veryberry Beck Begrit. I hold the position of Orc Lord and style myself a baron. I apologize for the late introduction; as a gentleman, I am ashamed.”
Far more composed than the boorish, tactless Oun, the Orc Lord nevertheless shattered the dignified atmosphere with his absurdly comical name. No one voiced their thoughts aloud—doing so would have been rude—but every face froze in shared bewilderment.
“Ah… yes… Veryberry…”
“Please feel free to call me simply Veryberry, without the surname. Close friends sometimes shorten it to ‘BBBB.’”
“Not BBB…?”
“Because I am a Baron. Hehehe.”
Three B’s from “Veryberry Beck Begrit,” plus the B of “Baron,” made four—hence his claim to the full title. Though no one commented on another’s name, Neromeltia’s entire party shared the same silent thought: Who on earth gave him that name?
“Very well, Veryberry. This is quite an impressive fortress. Even in the height of Hemonigent a thousand years ago, there were few strongholds so grand. To have raised such a majestic structure amid the world’s ruin—I commend both your talent and your diligence.”
“Your Majesty’s praise leaves me at a loss for words! While I designed it, the people themselves quarried the stone and raised the walls. If it would not displease you, I would be grateful if you could acknowledge their efforts as well.”
“Heh. You truly think like a noble. Once arrangements are made, I shall do so.”
Who had granted him the title during the thousand years the Demon Lord had been absent mattered little. Even if he had merely styled himself a baron, his conduct was the very model of nobility—free of empty vanity or self-aggrandizement. He governed so that his people might live safely and always placed their welfare first; that sincerity made his self-proclaimed rank oddly endearing.
“I have already ordered a celebratory banquet prepared. Please, come inside. The accommodations are humble, but we shall strive to ensure Your Majesty suffers no discomfort.”