The Savage Land of Greenfall
It went without saying that traveling alongside an armored orc did not mean I could simply stroll into the city unchallenged.
The orc in full plate armor strode through without so much as a second glance, while I had to state my purpose for coming and sign a document swearing that, should any trouble arise, I would submit to the orcs’ laws.
“Hmm…”
I finally stepped inside the walls and looked around.
Just as the first orcs I had met suggested, the city’s level of development was not so different from a human settlement. What stood out were the decorations fashioned from monster remains. Some buildings had outer walls stacked high with pure white bones; others displayed broad stretches of monster hide painted with bold red characters.
“Whoa…”
Prrrh—
The street food, of course, was not so different from what humans ate either—except that the portions were enormous and nearly every dish was built around meat.
I was still browsing the stalls when a fight suddenly broke out a short distance away.
A bare-handed duel. Heavy fists flew and hammered into faces. Blood sprayed; teeth cracked and flew. It was a brutal spectacle, yet the other orcs merely folded their arms and watched as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Even the city guards simply stood by and observed.
The Savage Land of Greenfall.
Only then did I understand why the country carried that epithet. Anyone who watched orcs fight would naturally think of savagery.
Muscles swollen with battle-fury served as both the deadliest offense and the finest defense. Necks as thick as their massive forearms absorbed blunt-force punches to the face without so much as a stagger.
They traded blows for a long while until a winner and a loser finally emerged. The slightly smaller orc ducked under a swing as though hunting a counter, then drove a colossal fist straight into his opponent’s face. The punch carried the full rotation of his hips and the weight of his entire body. The orc who took the blow dropped to his knees as if his legs had given out.
The victor stood panting hard, trying to cool the fire of combat. His swollen chest rose and fell like a bellows.
Then the fallen orc began to push himself up. For a moment I thought the fight would resume, but the loser simply brushed himself off, rose, gave a slight bow to the one who had beaten him, and turned away. Blood still soaked the ground and broken teeth lay scattered across it; no one paid them any mind.
Apparently that was simply orc culture.
I approached a nearby adventurer who, like me, had been watching the orcs. He was human as well.
“Excuse me.”
“Uh—yeah?”
“Do you know why those orcs were fighting?”
The woman adventurer turned to look at me, then nodded in belated understanding.
“First time here?”
“Yes.”
“When they have a difference of opinion, they settle right and wrong by the outcome of a fight.”
“That’s a rather… barbaric method.”
“I suppose it can look that way.”
She gave me the brief explanation with the ease of someone long accustomed to life here, smiled faintly, and walked off. I stared after her, thinking I really ought to learn more about orc customs.
Leading Nightmare, I headed for a general store and bought a slim booklet on orc culture along with a souvenir necklace made from a monster’s claw. Then I found a decent inn, took a room, and began to read.
The Orc Culture of Maku-tus
Named after Makura, the orc god of war, Maku-tus is the sacred one-on-one duel by which orcs resolve conflicting opinions and confrontations.
Combatants must face each other under equal arms, and the fight continues until one of them is slain. Through victory or defeat, right and wrong are decided—an expression of the orcs’ innate fighting spirit.
Yet even Maku-tus has changed with the ages. In the present day the duel is fought with bare flesh alone, without weapons, and the practice of taking the loser’s life has vanished. Some tribes still call this the “abbreviated Maku-tus” and cling to the original, traditional form.
The next morning I left the inn and wandered the city alone.
I had not noticed it on the first day, but today the difference was clear. The atmosphere hung strangely heavy. Beneath the quiet ran a subtle tension; the orcs’ eyes glittered as though they were waiting for something.
I was still sightseeing when I unexpectedly ran into a familiar face.
A man who carried both human and orc features—Agul.
“Oh.”
“Oh…”
This made the third time our paths had crossed. He spotted me and gave an awkward smile; I returned one just as awkward.
So this was his hometown, after all—half-orc that he was.
“It’s been a while, Agul.”
“Quite the coincidence.”
“Is this where you’re from?”
“You could say that.”
I had been growing frustrated by the language barrier with the other orcs; meeting someone I could actually talk to was a relief. I trailed after him, peppering him with every question that had been on my mind. He answered them all with surprising patience—what food was good, which tribes were friendly toward humans, and so on.
Along the way one particular curiosity surfaced. It might have been a rude question, but it had been nagging at me ever since I arrived.
“Agul.”
“Yeah?”
“Um… I haven’t seen any other half-bloods besides you. Why is that?”
“Ah…”
He glanced around and laughed awkwardly.
“Orc standards of beauty are different from humans’.”
“That different?”
“Humans don’t exactly fall in love with dogs, do they?”
“It’s that extreme…?”
“Just a figure of speech. My mother simply had… unusual tastes.”
“W-which of your parents is the orc?”
“My mother.”
“Hah…”
Even among orcs, Agul seemed a rather alien presence. Passersby glanced at him now and then, yet none looked at him with contempt or disgust. They simply looked, and that was all.
“No discrimination, then?”
“There was, at first. Not anymore.”
He answered with a light laugh—open and easy, yet paired with the massive battleaxe on his back it gave him an oddly intimidating air. I took a half-step back and smiled awkwardly.
Then Agul’s gaze drifted into the distance.
“I’d better be going. You should leave this city soon too.”
“Why?”
“War’s about to break out.”
“Is that true? When?”
War? Between the races?
He shook his head; he did not know the exact day. He even offered the hopeful possibility that it might not happen at all—but that sounded more like wishful thinking on his part.
I had considered resting a few more days, but clearly there was no time for leisure. I bought a large stock of provisions, returned to the inn, and collected Nightmare.
The horse had clearly enjoyed the rare rest. Once again he sprawled on his belly and protested that he did not want to leave.
Prrrh—
“Come on, we have to go. They say it’s dangerous here.”
Prrrh—
I felt sorry for him, but there was no choice. I climbed onto the stubborn horse’s back and shook the reins hard. After a long, frozen moment he finally gave in and shuffled out of the stable with reluctant, dragging steps.
“Let’s go!”
Clip-clop, clip-clop. Nightmare left the city at a listless trot, clearly displeased with the tight travel schedule.
“I’ll let you rest longer next time.”
Prrrh—
“I mean it.”
Whiiih—
I stroked his neck and coaxed him until his mood lightened and he gave a soft little laugh of a whinny. Only then did he pick up speed. Red dust rose behind him as his crystal hooves struck the cracked earth and carried us swiftly away.
Foldrin, aspirant holy knight of the Oblein Holy Kingdom, trained and trained again.
The side effects of the highly addictive drug made his hands tremble and his focus waver; he could no longer fight at his former level. Still he forced down every craving.
In the past he would have seized any quiet moment during a monster subjugation to take the drug. This time he did not. The words a certain girl had spoken before he left the city were burned into his mind.
If you keep that up, you’ll ruin yourself.
The girl who had taken root in his heart had worried for him. Holding the image of Ceris before him, Foldrin crushed his desire. Like an ascetic sealed in silent penance he kept his mouth shut and swung his sword without rest.
Monsters came in waves; Foldrin always fought at the front. Only that way could he forget, even a little, the hunger for the drug.
Ceris—
The resonance in the young man’s heart grew louder with every passing day. The craving for the drug transformed into a longing to see the girl’s face again. That longing became a chance to examine his own path.
As he turned his gaze inward, Foldrin’s holy power deepened; the soft radiance that once clung to him blazed into brilliant light. Fellow holy knights congratulated him on his breakthrough, but Foldrin himself paid them no mind. Only one girl’s smile filled his thoughts.
Ceris—
After roughly two weeks the monster subjugation ended. Adventurers and holy knights returned to the city amid blessings and praise for their great deeds. Foldrin remained indifferent to it all.
The moment the welcome ceremony finished he sprinted into the alleys. The farther he wound through the maze-like streets, the harder his heart pounded. Once he had come here for the drug; now the place held an entirely different meaning.
He reached the wide open lot and waited for Ceris. Beneath the soft moonlight he waited for hours.
She never appeared.
Nor the next day.
Nor the day after that.
Nor the day after that.
Foldrin wept.
And with tears in his eyes, he swung his sword.