Thinking Orcs and the Birth of Élan Vital
After the Elang Vital Rangers' reconnaissance, shocking news spread that the orcs had formed something resembling civilization and were living in settlements. And I felt like I'd gone from a one-eyed man in the land of the blind to a two-eyed wonder in a world of cyclopes. The reactions from northerners—soldiers to common folk—were mostly the same.
"The orcs can actually think, and they've built villages to live in?"
"Yeah. Those ranger guys saw it with their own eyes and reported back."
"So what now? Do the orc bastards just fight better?"
"Of course they'll fight better, you idiot. If they can think. Next thing you know, orcs'll be forming shield walls."
"But who cares? If they're huddled together, our arrows won't miss."
"Aha!"
The soldiers brushed it off. To earn veteran status in the Grand Duchy's army, you had to survive dozens of orc raids and sieges. The fear of death faded into familiarity, turning into a weary oh great, these pests are back again. Lately, there'd only been small-scale raids in the thousands anyway, and even those had tapered off completely for a while.
So whether the orcs shyly confessed, actually, I can think and use tools too, or not, no one gave a damn. That was the stance.
The civilians were much the same. Far from trembling in fear, most treated it like no big deal.
"Turns out orcs are smart and can think."
"No sweat. One axe to the skull fixes that."
"Man, orcs haven't raided lately. Their hides are so damn useful for all sorts of things."
With talk like that from the locals...
...What the hell?
Naturally, doubts crept in. Had I spent over twenty years in the North only to underestimate the battle-hardened northern mindset? Who cares if they think—just smash 'em if they charge. That sounded less like a northerner and more like a Saiyan. Though northern men might lack energy blasts, their ferocity rivaled any Saiyan.
"This won't do."
A major strategic overhaul was needed. The enemy wasn't Whites—they were Jurchens. Proof? I eyed the evidence Maximilian had brought back after smashing an orc village: a crude bone hand-axe, likely made from animal remains.
Look at this. The Jurchens once founded the Jin Dynasty, sacked the Song capital, captured the emperor, and lived it up. The problem? Unlike the semi-nomadic fake horse-archers, hardened eco-warriors from the north couldn't stomach their decadence, swarmed south, and wrecked everything. That sent the Jurchens back to the Stone Age.
What if the orcs...?
Weird hypotheses kept bubbling up. But in the end, there was only one answer.
With grim resolve, I stood and summoned all my generals and staff officers.
Without preamble, I laid out the rangers' sketched map, a measuring tape, dice, and hand-carved miniature pieces.
"If I may be so bold, Your Grace, why suddenly bring out these figurines and dice...?"
"It's a wargame."
"Pardon?"
"From now on, you'll all conduct wargames under assumed scenarios. These are the tools needed, and the situations are hypothetical."
They blinked, staring like I'd spoken gibberish.
"There are all sorts of possibilities: raiding an orc village, pitched battle on open plains, orc ambushes, or a massive assault led by an orc chieftain. We'll simulate every scenario to hone command skills for those situations."
"Y-Your Grace, we still don't understand what this is ab—"
Amid the confusion, staff officer Karl flashed a sly smile.
"Your Grace, did you devise the rules yourself?"
"Yes. It may lack polish, but we can refine it through play."
"You'll explain the rules, then. What shall we call this wargame?"
"I already named it."
"May we hear it?"
"Élan Vital."
Perfect for a wargame focused on offensive scenarios, training proactive assault capabilities. Prepare thoroughly, leverage superior forces, adapt flexibly, and attack boldly. Just like Marshal Foch's original offensive doctrine.
No six weeks in my North.
My expression hardened unconsciously.
Miniature pieces modeled after unit types and monsters. A replica map of the lands beyond the Great Wall, crafted by Maximilian and the rangers. Dice and a measuring tape. That was all needed for Élan Vital, the wargame I'd dubbed.
And two weeks had passed since introducing my rough-hewn Élan.
After I'd explained the board-game rules in crash courses to the gathered generals and staff...
"Please, just a six! A six! Hahaha! It's a six! Mass orc casualties from concentrated friendly fire!"
"Argh! Reserves to the rear! Where are my reserves? Give 'em back!"
"This is rigged! How can they charge out from there? You didn't scout the terrain properly!"
"Hahaha! Would you run your forces that sloppily in real battle? Quit whining and prep body bags!"
...They'd all fallen hook, line, and sinker for my Élan.
My version wasn't a perfect match for Prussia's military Kriegsspiel. I lacked the skill for something so complex, detail-obsessed, and stats-driven. It was more a simplified demo.
In the broad sense, even go, shogi, or chess originated as tactical wargames.
Lame Timur loved chess that much.
The anecdote of Timur, founder of the horrific Muslim-eco-warrior hybrid Timurid Empire, practicing strategy. Hearing his son was born while holding a chess rook, he named him Ruh—actually Shah Ruh— inspired by it. He loved chess that much.
Thus, wargames' utility was proven, from Kriegsspiel to classics like chess.
"Scout in the center, switch."
"Just one good dice roll, please, arghhh!"
"Hah! Ooze incinerated! Flank strike from the hill detachment! Ogre rock toss! Get crushed!"
"Enough bullshit! My pre-positioned crossbowmen volley suppression! Pin the flanking detachment, form square with war wagons! Morale check—success!"
Sure, things got a bit heated, but I got it. In a world short on entertainment, especially the army. Anyone from modern Korea's troops knows: idle time breeds incidents, non-combat losses, and officers clutching their necks.
They managed units diligently, then unwound with a game of Élan. With the excuse of "training," no hesitation.
Crude compared to modern wargames or my old strategy games, but it hooked them as fun.
"Should I be happy they like it or not...?"
This is training, not a game.
Well, Prussia's wargames started civilian, played like board games.
And one predictable outcome:
"Heh, finished deploying?"
"Damn! Damn! I predicted it, but this was my chance to torch your orcs! I could've smashed them all!"
"Heh, don't talk big. Makes you look weak."
Karl had become the god of Élan. Over two weeks, unshaven, he'd finish duties then obsess like a madman.
"...Staff officer."
"Ah, Your Grace. To what do I owe?"
"It's great—very great—that you enjoy Élan, but..."
"Haha, your creation's brilliance, Your Grace."
Karl rose, ignoring his defeated foe, who saluted limply and left, face ashen.
What the...? A glance at the map: open-field gamble, flanks and rear bypassed, Karl's wings enveloping despite fewer troops. Monster?
Stunned inwardly, Karl smiled.
"Élan captures the art of maneuvering armies mystically. Our forces lack offensive experience, so acclimating to assaults is valuable."
"...That's why I made it. Anyway, good you're mastering it. But shave, at least."
Karl grew thick beard fast; two weeks, and it was lush. Growing a bushy one named Karl? Bad—evokes Beard Communist Heavenly Demon.
But on shaving, he said something odd.
"No worries, Your Grace."
"Hm?"
"Élan Vital trains commanders for surprises, variables—how to handle armies pre-real command."
"Yes, that's the intent."
"You've preached offensive doctrine forever, so I play aggressively, teaching others to attack."
Karl lifted a miniature seriously, placing it on the replica map.
"I'll meet your expectations, Your Grace. Teach these fools what battlefields are truly like. Real war studies."
Meeting his blazing eyes, I thought:
But wait—you've never fought beyond the Wall either.