The Blood Alliance's Tradition (3)
The ruling class of the Blood Alliance was decided with brutal simplicity. Regardless of background, only the strongest orc in the tribe could become chieftain. Of course, there were certain advantages. Most chieftains raised their own sons with special care, often entrusting them to the tribe's strongest warriors. It was undeniable that their starting line was far more generous than that of other orcs. Yet that alone did not guarantee victory. There were always those who awakened their own talent without a master. Gartan, chieftain of the Blood Alliance, was one such orc.
The orc physique, often called a combat species, was truly optimized for battle. Thick hide, rapid recovery, and the ability to survive anything short of a fatal blow to a vital point. But even among orcs, Gartan's innate body stood in a league of its own. A golden physique that possessed both overwhelming power and speed. That was the chieftain's true talent. It was extremely simple. And precisely because of that simplicity, it became the ultimate spear and shield. With that power, Gartan had claimed the seat of chieftain.
Using his seemingly bottomless stamina, he turned the fight into a muddy brawl. His relentless assault came like a storm, leaving no openings. Wolfgang was instantly pushed onto the defensive, able only to block. The first strike had clearly been a fluke. If things continued like this, the chieftain would win. At least, that was how it looked to the watching orcs.
Though Gartan's ferocious offensive seemed to have seized the momentum in an instant, Wolfgang could have counterattacked whenever she wanted. She simply feared the aftermath that would follow.
'People look like tofu. I can't hit them with full strength.'
It was an absurdly leisurely thought for someone standing directly in the path of Gartan's savage, almost demonic onslaught. At the same time, it was her honest truth. The life Wolfgang longed for was one of peace and comfort. More specifically, she wanted to wake up at her leisure, eat meals prepared by servants, take peaceful strolls through town, and live without financial worries. Fighting orcs on a battlefield was most definitely not part of that dream.
Of course, even a rotten fish is still a fish. Her opponent was the pinnacle of the orc race. His body was hardly as fragile as actual tofu. But that only made it worse for Wolfgang. Unlike ordinary people, it was difficult to gauge exactly how much power to use against someone of ambiguous strength. One way was to strike wildly and adjust on the fly, but what if she failed to control her strength? He would simply die with a single squish.
But killing the chieftain? That would be a grave offense on the level of assassinating the emperor back in the empire. The orcs, enraged by the loss of their leader, would undoubtedly declare war on the empire. As an imperial soldier and the very cause of the conflict, she would have no choice but to join the war. And that was the furthest thing possible from the honorable discharge and peaceful retirement she so desperately desired.
The mere thought of rolling around battlefields with orcs for years made her want to vomit. That was why she stubbornly stuck to defense. Because of that, not only the orcs but even Vendetta, who had accompanied Wolfgang, witnessed her being pushed back.
"Looks like the captain is enjoying herself."
"Captain not using flames."
"To think she can match an orc using only pure physical ability... At this point, I'm starting to wonder if big sis is even human."
Yet none of them doubted Wolfgang's strength. Ten years. A full ten years. In that hellish Winter War, they had charged forward with their eyes fixed only on the back of the captain they followed. In that white hell, there had been no room to look anywhere else. If they had dared to glance away even slightly, even monsters like them would have had their minds shattered.
Certainly, as they said, simply enduring the attacks of an orc, let alone the chieftain who stood at their peak, was an incredible feat for a human body. She could endure it. But the uniform she wore could not.
Strictly speaking, her uniform was a masterpiece enchanted with countless protective spells, making it far sturdier than ordinary armor. However, when it came to raw destructive power, withstanding Gartan's onslaught, which surpassed even that of a wendigo, was nearly impossible for the uniform's enchantments.
That was when she noticed the anomaly.
Rip. Riiiip.
She thought the sound of fabric tearing had never sounded so horrifying. Wolfgang's anxious gaze snapped downward, more precisely toward the uniform she wore. Like an old castle wall that had never been maintained, the uniform was torn in multiple places and looked ready to lose all function at any moment. Naturally, the compression magic over her chest had also been destroyed, no longer able to conceal her ample bosom. But that was not the problem right now.
If she took any more hits, her clothes would completely rip apart. That was the truth she had arrived at.
Of course, unless one was unusually sensitive about exposure, most men had probably taken off their shirts at least once during an intense sport like soccer. Naturally, she had once fallen into that category as well. The problem was that had been in her previous life. And right now, she was, above all else, a woman.
The soul could not completely deny the vessel of the body it inhabited; it inevitably followed it to some degree. Even though she had only imagined it, her mind was instantly flooded with shame and embarrassment.
Because of that, without even realizing it, strength unconsciously flowed into Wolfgang's hands.
And most unfortunately, Gartan chose that exact moment to close in, launching another ferocious assault. Perhaps he had instinctively sensed her agitation. In battle, seizing the moment when your opponent weakens was nothing to be ashamed of. The only problem this time was that the opponent was simply too terrible.
Wolfgang instinctively swung her hand in a wide arc. To an outside observer, it would have looked like a casual slap, the kind one might use to swat a fly. The problem was that, in her panic, she had swung with full force.
Shhhhhhhheeeeek!!!
The palm she had unconsciously swung at full power moved at nearly the speed of sound. Unlike a normal sound, it produced a tearing roar like a massive arrow slicing through the air.
BAM!!
"Ah."
Gartan, unable to dodge the full-powered slap, was slammed straight into the ground once more. The difference this time was that he did not get back up.
"Th-the chieftain has been defeated!"
"What happens to us now?"
"According to orc law, the strongest becomes the leader..."
"......"
As the orcs watching the duel from the checkpoint fell into panic over their chieftain's defeat, Wolfgang was battling a storm of anguish inside her head.
What the hell did I just do? I slapped him because I was scared my clothes would rip? And that so-called chieftain actually got knocked out from it?
Wolfgang quietly reached into the inner pocket of her uniform and pulled out a cigarette.
Ah, I just want to retire.
Today, an especially intense wave of emptiness washed over her.
The moment she received confirmation that undead had appeared at the checkpoint, Jeanne was already moving. Her instincts were screaming that this was no mere trivial incident. And perhaps, she thought, this could become an opportunity. A chance to show the battle-obsessed, simple-minded chieftain of the Blood Alliance exactly what he desired. By personally exterminating the undead.
There was a clear reason behind her confidence. Because Jeanne could read the desires of others. It was not some grand divine power granted by a god. If I had to describe it, I suppose it would be closer to experience.
Reading the desires of others and taking on the form that matched those desires. That had been her only means of survival. And now, it had become a splendid blade that went far beyond mere survival. Life was ultimately about survival and competition. To survive, one had no choice but to make full use of every weapon available. Others might call it hypocrisy, but to Jeanne, it was a weapon for survival.
However, to her great misfortune, there was no place to use that excellent weapon this time. From what Jeanne could see by reading his desires, the woman Gartan, chieftain of the Blood Alliance, wanted was a strong and spirited female. In simple terms, the archetype of a heroic woman.
Yet the moment Jeanne arrived at the checkpoint walls, what greeted her was not the majestic sight of the chieftain crushing the undead. Instead, it was the figure of Gartan, defeated by a single strike.