The Temptation of the Meat Stew
Clang, clang.
The sound of iron chains clashing echoed through the massive underground tunnels of Wintervalt.
"Kurrk...! To think that I...! Krok, great warrior of the Red Fang Tribe, would suffer such humiliation...!"
Gnashing his teeth, Krok dragged a boulder as enormous as his own body. It was prime stone material destined for the construction of Wintervalt's new city and the reinforcement of its walls. Even those ironclad fortresses weren't enough—they were building an additional first line of defense, a new barrier wall. And of course, orcs were pitching in heavily among the labor force.
Three days had passed since their crushing defeat at the hands of the monster grand duke, Kailan. Krok and the 217 surviving elite orcs had been thrown into the grand duke's castle dungeon, then promptly dragged off to various sites for forced labor.
"Kurrk! Heavy! Kurrk!"
"Careful... kurrk...! There...! Rock's falling!"
Krok's bloodshot eyes scanned the surroundings. The elite orcs who had risked their lives with him on the southward march were now moving stones in perfect unison at a single human command. Some had half-resigned themselves; others seemed to be adapting to this simple labor life.
"You weaklings! Where did you sell your orc pride! Kurrrk!"
Krok spat as he bellowed, but the other orcs merely glanced warily at the guards.
They already knew. The humans of Wintervalt were no longer the frail creatures they once knew. Above all, the eyes of the human knights guarding these tunnels burned with feral intensity.
"Quiet, Orc Number 217! If you've got breath for nonsense, grip that rope tighter!"
A human guard cracked his leather whip against the ground with a snap. Krok glared daggers, murderous intent boiling, but the mana-suppressing shackles around his neck and limbs, combined with the rib pain from yesterday's beating by Kailan, left him with nothing but a low growl.
At first, he'd chosen death over becoming livestock for weak humans. But Kailan had withheld that merciful blade. So, he'd bide his time and spark a rebellion. Biting his tongue in suicide was a warrior's shame.
Krok intended to endure to the end.
I'm the chieftain of the Red Fang Tribe. I'll starve before becoming livestock for weak humans.
Gurgle...!
But separate from his orc pride, his stomach let out a pathetic rumble. Hauling massive boulders all day had his gut screaming for food nonstop.
"Alright, everyone stop what you're doing and come over here. It's mealtime."
At that moment, a woman with dazzling platinum hair neatly tied entered from the tunnel entrance. Wintervalt's lady of the house, Eleanor von Wintervalt, the grand duchess.
Behind her trailed human servants in a line, pushing carts loaded with massive cauldrons.
"The grand duchess is here!"
"Kurrk...! Meat stew! Meat stew!!"
The human guards and knights, along with the orcs who'd just been hauling stones, all turned to her in unison. Knights sheathed their whips, orcs set down their tools. Regardless of race, they drooled and swarmed the carts.
A scene of racial unity.
"Line up in order, everyone, and no injuries. There's plenty to go around."
With an angelic smile, Eleanor personally scooped ladles. She filled huge wooden bowls with milky broth brimming with thick chunks of meat.
"Kurrk... Delicious! So delicious!"
"Humans... not bad! Give meat!"
"Kukkurk! Fighting... kinda stupid...?"
"Work nice... get meat!"
The orcs snorted greedily, slurping down the stew. The savory, rich aroma of meat filled the entire tunnel, mercilessly shaking the senses of the starving Krok. Massive drool pooled and dripped onto the tunnel floor.
"Krok, come get yours too. You worked extra hard today, so I'll give you extra meat."
Eleanor gazed at him warmly and offered a wooden bowl. Aside from fellow orcs in the same plight, only a kind few humans called him by name instead of "Orc Number 217."
Before his eyes, steam rose invitingly from the meat stew. One spoonful, and heavenly bliss awaited.
But Krok clung to his last shred of pride.
Bang!!
With a rough swipe, he knocked over the bowl Eleanor offered.
"Kurrrrk! I'm the chieftain of the Red Fang Tribe! I won't eat scraps from a human wench...!"
The lively atmosphere chilled instantly. A knight's hand went to his sword hilt. Fellow orcs recoiled in shock, stepping back from Krok.
To spill meat stew personally ladled by Grand Duchess Eleanor herself! It was a death sentence!
But Eleanor didn't rage. She gazed sadly at the spilled stew on the ground, then looked up at Krok with pity.
"Starving like that won't do your body any good. Tell me anytime if you change your mind."
She had servants clean the mess, then resumed serving the other orcs as if nothing happened.
Krok clenched his fists. No outburst of fury, no whipping. Just that gentle, pitying gaze, treating him like a sulky child. It crushed his warrior pride more brutally than any blow.
"Kurrk... Scheming human wench...!"
He spat the curse through gritted teeth and turned away. But his eyes stayed glued to the other orcs devouring their stew.
That night, in the underground prison.
Krok lay on the cold stone floor, trying to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Hunger was an issue, but more so the strange changes stirring inside him.
My body... feels off. Why is it so light?
Back in the deep Northern Mountains, orcs always felt a stuffy pressure in their chests, irrational rage bubbling up. Krok had thought it orc nature. He never dreamed it was the corruption from the demon king slumbering in the north.
But here in Wintervalt, under Eleanor's artificial sun, sweating all day had slowly washed away the evil magic dominating his body.
"Kurrk... A human curse? What did they do to me?"
Krok eyed his thick forearm suspiciously. He'd thought it a draining curse, but his mind was clearer, his body lighter than ever.
"Kurrk, you... eat bread today? Soft and fluffy. Grand duchess. Nice."
"The radish in the meat stew was so good. Chewy even without teeth!"
"You... kurrk...! Talk... lot more!?"
"Look at humans. They all talk well. Why keep grunting kurrk-kurrk forever! Sounding like idiots with broken words!"
"Kurrk...! Really...!? Us. Idiots?"
In one corner of the prison, other orcs chattered lying down, no intention of sleeping amid tales of the day's labor and fantastic food.
"Tripped hauling stone today, guard asked if I was okay. Gave snack too. Humans nicer than I thought?"
"Right...! Kurrk...! Tarkan great chieftain... that guy's bad! Work but! Dirty monster bones...! Gives! This better! Kurrk!"
"Seriously, enough with the kurrk-kurrk."
"Kurrk...!"
Being slaved by humans, yet giggling like fools over what? Normally, Krok would've leaped up and bashed their heads, but now he lacked even the energy. Hunger kept sleep away. He closed his eyes, eavesdropping quietly.
Humans are kind...? Ridiculous.
He dismissed it inwardly. But listening to the orcs laugh, he realized his own lips had curled into a smile.
"Hah...!"
Chill bumps rose; he hastily schooled his face. Pretending not to hear, he rolled toward the wall and forced his eyes shut. But the other orcs' raves about the meat stew haunted his ears all night.
The next day brought more hellish labor. Krok still refused Eleanor's meat stew, surviving on the guards' meager rye bread and a single hard potato.
"Kurrk... I... won't accept... pity from a human woman...!"
But a few scraps of rye couldn't sustain an orc's massive frame. Krok's vision began to blur.
Then mealtime arrived. Orcs swarmed the carts again. Amid them, Krok's loyal subordinate and tribe's third-in-command, Grnak, cautiously approached holding a bowl.
"Ch-Chief..."
The bowl brimmed with plump meat chunks floating in oily broth. Steam enveloped Krok's nose.
Gulp.
His mouth flooded with saliva. His endurance teetered on the brink.