Chapter 95
Chapter 95
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: Chapter 95
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: Ogre's Ambition
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"Why on earth are they dawdling like this?"
A minister, his face gaunt from sleepless nights lately, asked frantically.
But the minister he was questioning looked equally haggard.
"......I don't know either."
The Siege of Sodom, thought to be their final struggle, had ended in defeat for the Redskin Mercenaries.
The ministers, on the verge of raising toasts to victory, were stunned and demanded further subjugation of the Redskin Mercenaries and their affiliates.
Yet the enemy had launched no offensives for a full fortnight, content to defend the territories and cities they had seized, digging in completely.
No, if they had simply hunkered down, that would have been fortunate enough.
But the barbaric atrocities of the orc hordes were igniting fierce discontent and uproar across the capital's direct territories.
At this rate, even the once-friendly powerful clans and massive merchant guilds might turn their backs on them.
All these utterly incompetent ministers were racking their brains over this shared dilemma.
Clunk!
In that moment, murmurs echoed from the corridor as the door to the luxurious reception room swung open.
It was Gregorz himself, whom even the guards could not bar.
"Pr-Prime Minister!"
"No fuss. Sit."
This was Gregorz, the former Prime Minister who had rarely ventured outside his estate since retirement.
But this crisis had shaken even him, drawing him back to the palace after so long.
Tsk.
Gregorz clicked his tongue at the ministers slouched there so pitifully and took his seat.
Then he cut straight to the chase, laying out their next move.
"Tell the Redskins that if they take Sodom, we'll pay them double."
"Double, you say?"
"They're too busy saving their hides. Nothing less will budge them."
Mercenaries were predictable that way.
Boundlessly brave in sure victories, quick to husband their forces in wars hinting at losses.
But the crux was that Gregorz and these ministers had no other army to lean on but them.
They would pay more before letting the uprising triumph.
Gregorz sighed heavily, his face aged several years in an instant.
And he issued a final warning to these fools now bound to his fate.
"When push comes to shove, they'll devour everything. Stay vigilant. Keep them leashed tight."
"We'll remember."
Orcs were born covetous, their beings packed tight with greed and desire for others' possessions.
Having glimpsed their aims in rooting down in the east, Gregorz let out a small groan and asked,
"And His Majesty?"
"Stubborn as ever. Seems he's caught those odd rumors."
The long-vanished Eastern Prince Richard had resurfaced in the city of Sodom.
Not on behalf of the Eastern royal house, but from the people's side, declaring a new kingdom.
Open treason. Usurpation.
Yet also a threatening inferno fueled by the absolute might of public sentiment.
What if puppet King Wilhelm II caught wind of it?
He would pry into the truth—and they had fed him lies all along.
No disruptions to the plan allowed.
A scarecrow must chase sparrows, nothing more. After deep thought, Gregorz resolved to tie off their chain of past sins.
"Relay to the palace kitchens: ramp up the Golden Tail in his meals."
Golden Tail, rare poison herb thriving in the Agui Mines' deep abysses, muddles the mind and saps the heart of any who ingest it.
The once-wise, steadfast Eastern King Wilhelm II had devolved so utterly from long-term doses in tiny amounts.
How could one cloaked in human skin commit such?
The black hand behind the Eastern Kingdom's ruin was the king-trusted former Prime Minister Gregorz.
Yet none among these gathered petty villains could halt the crescendo of evil.
Even ignoring the truth merited divine retribution enough.
The ministers bowed their heads with effort.
For some reason, the floor beneath their gaze seemed filled with the reaching hands of the sacrificed dead.
Kruk.
Puff.
The vast mansion resembled a smoky raccoon burrow, choked with cigar haze from every exhaled breath.
Yet not one mercenary captain in the long lineup voiced grievance.
Because the orc enthroned arrogantly at the head was the mighty leader of the Redskin Mercenaries.
Nicknamed Ogre.
This brute, two or three times the size of fellow orcs, bore the legendary monster ogre's very name.
His prowess matched it, overwhelming enough to brute-force unity over the chaotic Agui Mines.
Small wonder orc mercenaries—so loath to follow—pledged fealty of their own accord, clinging like zealots.
Strength was truth. Truth, religion.
Worshippers of coin and might, they bore a culture worlds apart from mainland orcs.
And this singular Redskin leader, Ogre, grinned wickedly at the crate delivered to base that morning.
"Exactly double."
The lidless chest brimmed with pure gold bullion of unassailable worth and uncountable silver coins.
Advance payment, true—merely a tenth due—but rivaling a grand fief's full yield already.
What fortunes had they hoarded to dispense such sums so freely?
Typical mercenaries would drool, scheming to wring more.
But Ogre, harboring grander designs from the outset, confirmed a truth via this payout.
Hiring war dogs supplemented standing armies to spare them losses, never as prime force.
Money's thralls, they might bolt at peril—or worst, turn blades on patrons.
Yet the royals hiked bids each time they lagged, frantic as men dousing house fires.
"No options but us, eh."
The scheme shone plain.
The Eastern Kingdom lacked not just strength to crush the revolt, but even means to check contract-flouting hires.
The royals were golden geese.
Spare the laying bird, sure—but a kingdom-sized fowl changed the tale.
Prospects brimmed to bursting.
As inner ambitions writhed, Ogre voiced the unspeakable.
Kruk!
"How long trail humans like curs? How long bow to mainland stares, just for shared orc blood?"
The meddling Second Prince, harping on orc kinship; the cursed First Prince, ever scorning Redskins.
What exalted imperial blood entitled birth-praise, thrones grand, legions vast?
Long deeming it unjust, leader Ogre surged up and booted the gold-silver chest with fury.
Bang! Clatter!
"Employer stiffed on pay. Mercs like us claim balances owed. Right?"
In a world deeming might sole mandate, no bar to a mine orc claiming emperor's glory.
Fees accrued, eastern plunder seized: Redskins and allies forged unprecedented might.
Confidence surging to fullness, Ogre dangled richer lures before his fevered underlings.
"Crave honor? Positions yours. Riches? Mountains high. Slaves? Lands? All desires granted!"
Honor, rank; wealth, soil.
Ambrosia to orc sellswords adrift in the harsh east lifelong.
"But seize with your claws! As Redskins endured! Their owed remainder? This east entire!"
Seize first; consequences later.
For visible fruit, they stretched filthy hands.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Ogre! Ogre! Ogre!
Thrilled mercenaries' chant!
Ogre savored it, gleefully fueling the realm's downward spiral.
Next dawn, bands scattered kingdom-wide wheeled toward Kutna, grand city nigh the capital Dupidia.
Locust swarms passed: naught but myriad deaths, swirling gray ashes remained.
Whoosh, whoosh, smack!
Clang!
An easterner whirled his sling like an extra limb, released one cord at leisure.
The polished stone slug struck the propped steel helmet dead-center.
"Dented."
"Skull'd burst...?"
Slinger units reorganized.
Doubters of potency fell silent post-demo by the two veteran-led cohorts.
Steel helm pierced at 100 meters.
Dint depth promised shattered cranium sure.
How yield such ruin from pebble?
The group, sheepish grins, fixed on the approaching veteran.
"Fine show."
"Heh, flattered. Back home, blindfolded elders nail 'em galore."
"Improved sling suit?"
"Gloves like a dream. Range up, punch ferocious."
Scale kids' toy adult: mischief swells.
Elongated, thickened upgrades leaped range, struck to half-cripple guaranteed.
Elite marksmen cherry-picked for 100-200m hits—what fate frontally?
I wondered at his 'elders' prowess.
When slack affords, invite to Sodom; beg pointers commonplace.
"Heh, off I go."
"Well done."
The bashful veteran beamed at my reward, barracks-bound.
His peers, probing the mangled helm, approached with bows.
"Myopic of us, milord."
"You astonish anew each time."
Not stupidity absent invention; continent's multi-race mores just diverged.
Mere faint query—no revolt.
No apology needed; I shook my head.
"Redskins?"
"Status quo."
"Puzzling."
A month fled since Eastern forces clinched Sodom.
No follow-ups; mere frontline dawdle.
Merc pay roots blunt aggression?
Training boon for time-strapped Easterners—but short-war schemer me found it lacking.
"Watch close. Any twitch, report instant."
"Aye, milord."
Odd calm descended.
I stretched long, eyed brighter Helena, Richard.
"Idle looks. Skills amuse? Both, drill yard—now."
Barren day; time drill swordplay into Richard, Helena.
I grinned at their gloom, Sodom-bound.
Yet fate ever thorns our path, never smooth.
As all savored peaceful respite that afternoon, word winged from front.
'Redskin rear muster.'
'Kutna incursion.'
Drills scrapped; Eastern troops yanked from family hearths.
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