Underground Ruins (9)
The passage they'd used to descend was likely already blocked.
Owen decided to head for the visible exit, utilizing Grenville's unique abilities. And it turned out to be an excellent choice.
"Eung!"
Grenville deftly dodged the falling rocks and made its way to the exit leading to the surface.
Rumble rumble rumble!
Luck was on their side too.
The ground collapsed again, widening the exit several times over.
"Hurry!"
At Owen's command, Grenville clung upside down to the ceiling and raced forward, finally succeeding in escaping to the surface.
"Eung!"
As they emerged into the sunlight, Grenville's dilated pupils contracted into long, vertical slits.
Owen, unable to adjust his pupils as quickly as a dragon, couldn't see properly.
His vision was a blinding white.
But the shouts and screams erupting from all around made it clear this was utter chaos.
Whoosh!
Something whizzed past him—a projectile—and a startled Owen ducked instinctively.
Once his vision cleared moments later, he realized they were right in the middle of a battlefield.
The human-dark elf alliance was pouring out from the inner fortress, attacking the orcs at the outer walls.
"It's Lord Leire!"
"Woooaaah! It's the red dragon!"
People spotted Owen and Grenville, crying out in surprise.
From the looks of it, the orcs were getting thoroughly thrashed.
And for good reason—the collapse of the underground cavern had wrecked the outer fortress area where they'd been stationed.
From the hole Owen had just burst out of to various sinkholes like antlions' traps, the damage was widespread.
To the orcs, it was a bolt from the blue.
Their carefully constructed defensive lines had crumbled.
Already, several orcs had tumbled into pits, buried under dirt and building debris.
"Help!"
"Damn it! Get us some ropes!"
Those still alive and screaming were the lucky ones.
Owen could see others completely buried, with only a hand protruding.
In this mess, with humans and dark elves pounding them from afar, the orcs couldn't hold out.
Boom!
A dark elf cannon roared, sending everyone scrambling in panic.
The reinforcements had brought plenty of gunpowder, allowing them to fire at will now.
"Cowardly bastards! Hiding behind walls and lobbing iron balls!"
"Duck, you idiot! More importantly, where the hell is the great chieftain?!"
The worst possible situation, and no great chieftain in sight.
In the end, they began retreating from the outer fortress.
At first, it looked somewhat orderly, but soon they were dropping weapons and fleeing for their lives.
"Woooaaah!"
The humans and dark elves cheered wildly at the sight.
They had finally recaptured the lost outer fortress area.
Owen watched the fleeing orcs and headed toward the inner fortress.
A quick scan of the battlefield suggested no pursuit would happen.
That's when one figure rushed toward him, subordinates in tow.
It was Arwen.
Her face was drenched in sweat from drawing her bow countless times.
"Hoo, hoo."
Panting heavily from exhaustion, she brushed sweat-matted hair from her face and approached.
"You did great."
Owen dismounted Grenville and flashed her a close, intimate smile.
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Things had grown much closer lately with this prickly dark elf noblewoman.
They'd bickered constantly at first, but fighting side-by-side to defend the fortress had sparked camaraderie.
Owen figured she'd tease him about slacking off somewhere and only now showing up.
He used to bristle at that attitude, but now it didn't faze him.
She knew full well he'd just returned from a dangerous underground mission, after all.
But Arwen's reaction was something Owen hadn't anticipated at all.
She dropped to one knee and bowed her head.
"Heroicus."
Her voice was calm and solemn.
Immediately after, the dozens of dark elves following her knelt in unison, paying their respects to Owen.
"Wh-what?"
Owen had no idea how to respond to Arwen.
The other dark elves had acknowledged him as Heroicus from the start and acted accordingly.
Arwen alone had resisted, harboring defiance toward him.
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just... weird."
Owen teased her lightly, feeling awkward about the situation.
"Talk like you usually do. Being a wildcat suits you way better."
But Arwen just smiled softly.
"How could I."
"Because it's you."
"No. From now on, I sincerely acknowledge you."
Owen wondered if this was really the same woman who'd always spoken sharply with an air of superiority.
Hands on hips, looking down at him coldly—that was her usual style.
But Arwen was dead serious.
This proud heir of a prestigious house had come to truly recognize Owen, beyond racial lines.
"Congratulations on your victory, Heroicus."
In that moment, Owen felt it for real.
Like he'd finally become a true Heroicus to the dark elves.
"Ah... right. Thanks, Arwen."
They'd reclaimed the outer fortress, but the orcs weren't fully driven off the island yet.
No pursuit of the fleeing orcs was possible due to the wrecked outer area.
To chase them, they'd have to pass through it themselves, but collapse risks everywhere made it too dangerous.
Forcing it could leave them open to a counterattack.
"Where are the orcs now?"
That evening, a meeting was held.
Dark elf scouts reported back to Owen's question.
"They're holding a makeshift defensive line by the coast. No will to fight left—they're salvaging the wrecked bridge-ships to prepare for evacuation."
The hot-blooded Betshel slammed the table and stood.
"Lord Leire! We should wipe them out in one go. Perfect chance for a massacre!"
Arwen, more cautious, countered.
"Even cornered rats bite cats. And they're still more numerous than us. Better to negotiate."
"Call that a plan?!"
Betshel opposed it.
But Arwen calmly held her ground, arguing point by point.
Owen listened to the debate, organizing his thoughts.
The expressions on the faces of the others watching were quite amusing.
Dazed and baffled, they just blinked in confusion.
These were the reinforcement count, barons, high knights, and mercenary captains—seeing them like this was bizarre.
Betshel was a Bris elder and the Suffolk Duke's cousin, a heavyweight.
Yet why did his actions seem to seek Owen's approval?
Someone of his rank could just command outright.
Even the highest-ranking reinforcement, Count Garten, was ready to obey Betshel unquestioningly.
And Arwen was equally puzzling.
They all knew how prideful dark elves were from recent experience.
The queen's faction had sky-high noses despite being exiles.
Yet here was the family heir treating Owen like a superior.
"What in the world...?"
"Beats me...? The queen's favorite or something?"
"Hmm... even so, not to that extent."
They whispered in confusion.
Of course, Owen overheard roughly.
He knew he'd risen to Heroicus through communing with the turtle dragon.
But Heroicus must be a big deal.
Dark elves passing by were constantly saluting him—ones who ignored Bris nobles like they were dogs or chickens.
"Lord Leire looks just like the expedition's supreme commander."
"I agree."
As curiosity mounted, Owen reached a decision.
"We'll negotiate first. They're still more numerous. We could attack, but it'd cost us dearly."
"You! Such weak words! Argh!"
Betshel twisted his beard in dissatisfaction.
Owen soothed him gently.
"Elder, this battle isn't the end. To block their gunpowder trade going forward, we must hold Margel Island. So avoid fights we can."
The watching nobles now wondered how Betshel would react.
Those who knew his temper expected an outburst.
Surely even a heavyweight like Betshel had limits to respecting this young knight.
But what happened?
Betshel smacked his lips regretfully, then nodded.
"Fine. If you put it that way..."
The nobles' eyes bulged.
They wanted to speak but just flapped their mouths like carp, staying silent.
Most agreed negotiation was needed anyway.
Some 30,000 orcs remained on the mainland.
The bishop wrecked, they couldn't cross easily, but who knew what tricks they'd pull next.
Best to compromise smoothly and send them packing.
"Tomorrow, we'll send envoys to start talks."
Owen wrapped it up and ended the meeting.
The negotiations went smoother than expected.
Both sides wanted to avoid more fighting.
Especially with Great Chieftain Kaladashyr vanished—that was huge.
The orcs united around him were lost and directionless.
Bargulgu, the Human Reaper, had taken the new great chieftain seat, but few followed him sincerely.
Orc chieftains, eyeing future power struggles, didn't want to waste warriors on the island anymore.
Conditions took three days to hash out, but it ended in a total victory for the humans and dark elves.
Owen announced the final terms before the assembled army.
"I'm thrilled to share this shining victory with you all today! Here's what we gained after fierce negotiations."
First: ceding ownership of Margel Island.
The key issue, but orcs resisted to the end.
It took heavy tug-of-war, and Owen made one concession.
The expedition would recognize the new orc great chieftain as Human Reaper Bargulgu.
Practical, really— he was the negotiating partner, so denying him voided everything.
"From now on, humans and dark elves jointly rule this place!"
"Woooaaah!"
Cheers exploded, echoing across the island.
"Second: Orcs leave their supplies, weapons, and gold as reparations."
"Woooow!"
The soldiers loved this.
Expecting rich rewards.
Realistic demand too—herding remaining transports across was burden enough; no room for cargo.
"Finally: three-year truce. Orcs agreed not to attack Margel Island for three years. This is perfect victory. The East will sing your exploits!"
Owen raised his hand; cheers roared.
Especially from those who'd endured the siege with him—their voices loudest.
Of course, the pact voids if Bargulgu falls.
But for now, best outcome.
Naturally, Owen's popularity in the expedition soared sky-high.
The later reinforcements, though, were just plain curious about the dynamics.
That night at the feast, Count Garten and his followers grilled a dark elf noble.
"We get Heroicus means hero. But what's the exact title?"
The beautiful dark elf noblewoman scoffed at the translated question.
"Hmph!"
As if to say, how do you not know?
Garten bristled inwardly but kept cool—they needed her goodwill.
"Old human noble. It means king of warriors."
The interpreter tilted his head briefly.
A human fluent in dark elf tongue from befriending many during the siege.
"What's the holdup? Translate already."
The irritable noble frowned; the startled interpreter relayed it, softening the edge.
"Noble human lord. It means king of women."
Garten beamed at "noble," but cocked his head at the rest.
"King of women?"
What the hell did that mean?
Actually, interpreter error.
Dark elf words for "woman" and "warrior" were near-identical.
"Warrior" derived from "woman."
True warriors could only be women in dark elf society.
Warrior is woman, woman is warrior—not wrong.
So the not-quite-fluent interpreter rendered "king of warriors" as "king of women."
And from there, deep misunderstanding began.
"Ahem!"
Garten cleared his throat, unable to hold back.
"King of women... sounds like having many women. Like a harem?"
Nearby Bris nobles perked up, ears twitching.
Gossips couldn't resist.
Someone even muttered in awe.
"Lord Leire's a harem king!"
But this delusion was just getting started.
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