Operation (4)
Priest Areon. The prisoner we captured has turned into a dickbrain.
“Turned into an idiot? Are you sure he’s not just acting to avoid interrogation?”
“We assigned three heresy inquisitors to observe him for four full days. All three reported the same thing—he’s lost his mind and behaves like a child.”
“Like a child?”
“Yes. He can’t control his bowels, can’t stand properly, and refuses to eat. According to the inquisitors, it’s as if his soul has been ripped out, leaving only an empty shell of a body.”
“His soul ripped out, leaving only the body… It’s possible the evil god Busker extracted the soul to prevent any information from leaking.”
“Ah, that makes sense.”
“For now, keep him under the inquisitors’ observation. If we release him carelessly, they might reinstall his soul. Keep him under strict supervision.”
“Understood.”
Priest Areon began drafting a report on his encounter with the evil god’s puppets. As he wrote, he recalled the words of the man named Polman, who had claimed he didn’t understand why they were being treated as enemies. For a moment, Areon wondered if the man truly didn’t know. But he quickly dismissed the thought as nothing more than the usual suspicions surrounding demons.
“So the evil god Busker was behind these puppets after all.”
Standing atop the castle wall, Priest Pablo read the letter that had arrived from the order and pondered the name Busker. Yet no clear memories surfaced. Among the evil gods, Busker was one of the oldest, and the specific atrocities associated with him had faded from common recollection.
“The order says they’re digging through ancient texts to learn more. If these beings were brought to the human realm by an evil god’s power, their goal must be to sow chaos across the continent, correct?”
“Most likely.”
“Then… could Official Patrick be part of it as well? With the massive battle against the Orc Lord already spilling so much blood, is that what they wanted?”
At the young priest’s question, Pablo found himself unable to answer. Having watched Patrick work around the clock inside the fortress, splitting every twenty-four hours into productive segments, it was difficult to conclude that the man had come here solely to plunge the human realm into turmoil.
“When the Orc Lord runs wild, someone must inevitably stand at the opposite pole to stop him. Right now that role belongs to Marquis Marcel and Official Patrick. But even if they weren’t here, someone else would have taken that position.”
“That makes it rather difficult to pass judgment.”
“Let us first deal with the orcs swarming toward us. We can ponder the rest afterward.”
At the edge of the plain, clouds of dust were rising. Intermittent blasts from orcish war horns announced their army’s advance.
“The orcs have established camp on the plain.”
“Their exact position?”
“Precisely where we anticipated.”
Marquis Marcel nodded with satisfaction as he looked at the priests of Tablon.
“The magic circle will activate automatically at sunrise. After dawn breaks, have the mages examine the orc encampment.”
“Station mages capable of Insight magic on the watchtowers and keep them on alert for night raids throughout the evening.”
In military doctrine, launching a surprise attack on the very first day of contact was common. Knowing this, Marquis Marcel had deliberately ordered more braziers lit along the walls and additional banners raised.
“The sun is rising.”
The tense wait to see whether a night raid would come had passed. As morning arrived, sunlight scattered across the plain like golden seeds. In response, the magic circle activated silently.
“The sun has risen. Has the magic circle truly activated?”
Marquis Marcel asked Priest Pablo with growing suspicion. Quite some time had passed since the sunlight first touched the ground, yet nothing visible had occurred.
“The circle we installed on the plain is the same type the Tablon order places on land before constructing any building. It activates each day upon receiving sunlight, purifying all that is impure and repelling everything except the divine power of Lord Tablon.”
“So you’re saying the circle is functioning correctly?”
“Yes. To our faithful, the sight of impure forces being pushed back and purified by the circle is clearly visible.”
“Look! Marquis! There’s movement! Orcs are gathering around the large tent that appears to be the Orc Lord’s quarters!”
At the mage’s report—delivered through Insight magic that granted vision like a thousand-li eye—everyone turned their gaze toward the orc encampment even though they could not see it themselves.
After exchanging letters with Patrick, Orchan had continued contact through email as well. Just like in the game, they had agreed to settle everything in one decisive battle—whether the human forces and fortress would fall, allowing the orcs’ struggle to swallow the entire continent, or whether the humans would achieve a dramatic victory.
That was why he had donned his helmet and armor for the first sortie, waiting only for the sun to rise. Both orcs and goblins preferred the cover of darkness, but for their debut battle, Orchan wanted to display the might of the orcs beneath the bright sun.
When sunlight began to spill outside his tent, he judged the time had come. Orchan rose from his seat and grasped his axe.
That was the last memory Orchan possessed.
“Chik! My Lord, what’s wrong?”
Yamur, the orc champion chosen to lead the vanguard today, sensed something was off when the Orc Lord dropped his axe and simply stood there in a daze.
“Urrgh… chik chik…”
“My Lord? What are you saying?”
The attendant orcs and the captured human females serving as slaves all strained their ears, but none could understand him. Then Orchan suddenly collapsed to the ground. He began turning his head this way and that as if witnessing something wondrous, eventually rolling across the floor. Only then did the others realize something was seriously wrong.
“Should we sound the charge?”
Even when Goblin strategist Maksha spoke to him, Orchan merely glanced at the goblin, waved a hand vaguely, then went back to doing something else. When the Orc Lord stopped speaking and behaved as though he could no longer understand language, the orc champions in charge of each unit all rushed to the tent.
Seeing their lord acting like a newborn infant, none of them knew what to do.
“Krrng. This is a curse. A human sorcerer’s curse! Just a moment ago I felt an extremely faint flow of mana spread across the entire encampment. That must have been the curse activating.”
At the goblin shaman’s words, the tent erupted in chaos. When the kobold and orc shamans also confirmed they had sensed the subtle mana flow, everyone accepted that this was indeed a curse.
“Chik— Then what should we do?”
“Kill the humans who cast the curse. All of them.”
“We can’t fight like this. We must retreat! Kekeng.”
“Isn’t dispelling curses your job? What are you shamans even doing? Krrng!”
Inside the tent, everyone began shouting suggestions. The noise quickly spread outward. Shamans from every race arrived and attempted to lift the curse using their secret arts, but the Orc Lord continued rolling on the ground, showing no signs of recovery.
While the curse-dispelling rituals continued, opinions split over whether they should fight or withdraw.
“Our Kobold Alliance will pull back. We had promised to follow the commands of Orc Lord Orchan. Kekeng. But if Orchan has been cursed and become someone else, that promise no longer holds. Grrrr.”
“Chik! You filthy mutts bare your fangs the moment trouble appears! Our Lord may be cursed, but he is still our Lord!”
“That thing is only the Lord in appearance. It is not him. Grrrr. We will obey his commands once the curse is lifted. We are withdrawing. Kekeng.”
When Kobold chieftain Hittor tried to pull his forces out, the orc champions released their killing intent, preparing to subdue him by force. But lycanthropes and other mixed-blood tribes stepped forward to stand beside Hittor.
“Look at our Lord right now. That is not him. We bowed our heads not to his shell, but to his soul. We will bow again once the curse is lifted and the true Lord returns.”
“You filthy half-breeds! Chik!”
A bloodbath seemed imminent, but Goblin Maksha stepped forward.
“Both sides are correct. And this is not the time for us to fight among ourselves. Krrng. The first priority is to lift the Lord’s curse. Do you all agree? Krrng.”
Orchan had left standing orders that, in his absence, everyone was to follow Maksha’s decisions. Since this situation matched those conditions, they all accepted his words.
“Then, to break the Lord’s curse, one army of orcs will escort him back to the Valley of Origins. The spirits of our ancestors will lift the curse.”
“Ooooh!”
“That’s right! The souls of our ancestors dwell there! Chik!”
“And those who insist on recognizing only the Orc Lord when he is in his right mind may withdraw their troops. However, you must be prepared for punishment once the Lord returns. If you are willing to accept that, then you may leave.”
Kobold chieftain Hittor stared at Maksha for a long time. Then he looked at Orchan, who was rolling on the dirt like a newborn orc.
“We will not withdraw our forces. But we will also not participate in any attack on the human fortress.”
At his declaration of staying yet refusing to attack, the other mixed-blood races voiced the same stance. Maksha felt relieved that he had prevented the coalition from shattering. At the same time, he realized this chaos must not reach the humans’ ears.
“Continue the attack as if nothing has happened. Meanwhile, detach a unit to escort the Lord to the Valley of Origins immediately. This is the order I issue under the authority granted to me by the Lord.”
The chaos within the orc camp settled quickly. When the orcs began their assault, both Marquis Marcel and Patrick felt a wave of disappointment.
“After the attack began, roughly a thousand orcs broke away and moved toward the rear at high speed!”
“Goblins, kobolds, and similar races are not participating in the battle. There is no movement from them.”
Only after the Insight mage’s report did they become certain that something had gone wrong among the orcs.
“Focus solely on preventing them from scaling the walls! The orc bastards will retreat soon enough!”
On the ramparts, the defenders were holding the orcs back with ease. Both orc and human soldiers seemed to be fighting without real ferocity. Jinwoo sensed that something was definitely off. He suspected that Orchan and Patrick had probably exchanged emails agreeing to take it easy on each other.
He was also curious about the magic circle the Tablon priests had created, but he felt no indication that it was doing anything at all. So he simply watched the battle as a spectator. Still, since people treated him as a Fire Storm mage, he wandered the more dangerous sections of the wall and tossed three firebombs. That was all.
After more than three days of half-hearted attacks, Jinwoo wondered whether the Tablon order’s operation had succeeded or if the two leaders were still coordinating through email. On the fourth day, the orcs stopped attacking entirely. According to the observing mages, many kobolds and other races had disappeared from the surrounding area.
“It must be a food shortage. The ones who vanished probably went out to forage.”
Not only the veteran soldiers but even Supply Officer Baron Cortner took it for granted. Unlike humans, orcs and monsters had no concept of organized logistics.
“Orcs usually aim to bring down a fortress within ten days. Since they fight fiercely in sieges, they can simply eat the ones who die in battle. That’s why they don’t bring much food.”
“But their attacks have been so half-hearted.”
“Exactly. That’s what’s strange. It doesn’t make sense for orcs to just sit around waiting to starve. They know better than anyone that hunger is an army’s greatest enemy.”
“There must be something else going on.”
After eleven days, the kobolds and several other tribes openly pulled their forces back and left. The orcs themselves began to splinter and scatter. Everyone assumed they had gone to gather food, but none of those who disappeared ever returned.
“Patrick, it’s time for us to launch our own attack. Prepare a full-scale offensive.”
Even as he carried out Marquis Marcel’s order, Patrick could not shake his doubts. Contact with Orchan—the one he had been exchanging emails with—had been completely cut off.