Gromkuld (6)
"Gruk, the Great Chieftain said to wait quietly until everyone gathers. If you're not here to fight, then get lost."
"He said to wait until they gather."
"No use asking us. Gruk, we don't know the details either."
The orc shook his head. Naturally, asking outright would tip them off unless they were idiots, but even intelligent orcs didn't shed their species' ingrained instincts. Their brains weren't up to it, so their bodies suffered instead—simple, brutish, and worshiping raw strength. At least from what I'd seen in this conversation, they fit every stereotype of orcs I'd ever imagined.
That said, for strength-worshipers, their hands gripping spears trembled with fear even after I'd made clear I had no intention of fighting.
A new sight, one I'd never seen from orcs charging the Great Wall before.
"I see. Understood."
I nodded as I mounted my horse. I'd learned enough. The orcs were preparing to assemble, and Gromkuld had issued a strict order not to stir up trouble until they were all gathered.
"Move out."
I addressed the rangers. The orcs finally exhaled what passed for sighs of relief, like he's leaving at last.
But when I naturally led the rangers around the palisade and straight through their village, they looked baffled.
"Gruk, didn't he say he was leaving?"
"I never said that. Now that we're here, we finish the job."
"Chwik?"
"You have no orders from your Great Chieftain to attack me, and I have no intention of fighting unless you strike first. So there's no reason for us to clash, right?"
"Gruk, is that so?"
The orc who could speak tilted his head repeatedly before explaining to his comrades in orcish. Seeing their collective puzzled expressions, I had a rough gauge of orcish intelligence on average.
We strode boldly right through the heart of the village. With Gromkuld's orders in place, there was no need to worry about a preemptive strike before he showed up.
The goal was to scout areas Maximilian and the rangers couldn't reach.
Afterward, orcs still snapped into alert postures the moment they spotted us. But none attacked first.
"They're staring. I don't like it. They look weird."
"Endure it. No counterattacks until they strike first."
"His Grace the Grand Duke's orders. I'll hold."
Billaine bared his fangs and growled, unhappy with their glares, but that was the extent of it.
As we showed no reaction, the orcs grew flustered instead.
"Their 'preparations' must mean assembling forces and siege weapons, right?"
"I agree with that assessment."
Leonhard nodded readily.
"Before making any moves, they're probably planning to gather in force for a proper assault."
Maximilian chimed in from the side.
"They watched how we defend. They'll prepare countermeasures accordingly. Maybe mass-producing shields to reduce arrow damage."
"Even wooden shields are better than nothing. And if they charge differently than usual... Hm, a surprise attack might be different, but haha, if we know in advance and prepare, it won't make much difference."
"Orcs' advantage is their breeding rate. Gather a prepared army, attack, and if it fails, try again later. Gromkuld's using his brains more than your typical orc."
We pieced it together quickly, but Maximilian was spot on. A surprise we knew about was no surprise at all. It was easy intel thanks to the orcs' intellectual shortcomings, but that alone halved the impact of whatever Gromkuld was brewing.
Still, if he survived repeated head-on charges, their numbers would rebound eventually.
Inducing an attrition war?
If that was Gromkuld's aim, it was a decent plan. In a surprise assault, killing one of our seasoned soldiers might cost them ten orcs, but long-term, that favored them.
Of course, now that I'd sniffed it out, the surprise element was gone.
I mulled it over in my head while steadily mapping the terrain around us. We'd pushed fairly deep into the snowfields; aside from the expanded village size and numbers, it wasn't much different from the outskirts.
"Mage Tower Lord, time to head back."
"Consider walking back next time."
"Too taxing for multiple casts?"
"Even I, the greatest archmage to blaspheme the goddess herself, can't simultaneously calculate teleport coordinates for this many people. It's a computational issue, not mana."
"Overburdening, got it. We'll walk back unless necessary next time."
"'Tedious chore' would be more accurate. As I've said many times, I am the supreme archmage who defies even the goddess. It's faster to count what I can't do with magic."
Leonhard shrugged, gathered his mana, and slammed his staff into the ground. That triggered the magic circle, activating the teleport spell.
As blinding light enveloped us, I recalled a conversation with my sister from my past life.
First off, my sister's novel wasn't that long. The main romance fantasy story focused on the romance and the path to it. She'd said three to four volumes covered it all.
There were side stories after, which I'd read just to tease her.
But did the main story or side stories have anything like this—or even hint at it? Racking my memory, the answer was a flat no. Nothing of the sort.
Did I warp the original too much?
I'd mangled the rose-scented romance into this, so maybe. But now crying about the original or how things had to stay true to it? No conscience for that, and I'd stuck to my stance that following the original wasn't my problem anyway.
I remembered my drunk sister's whining again.
'Should I write something other than romance fantasy for my next work?'
'Do whatever.'
'Hey, I give you allowance and you talk like that? You're such an ingrate.'
'True.'
'Ugh.'
She'd barged into my room, chucked my favorite pillow, and rambled on.
'I... I wanna write fantasy next... Romance fantasy stresses me out with comments, hurts writing it. I get too immersed, it's mentally exhausting, and side stories? I'm married now, what more is there? Nothing left.'
'Fantasy? Go for it. Won't stop you. But don't do page-long psych descriptions or pile on flowery prose per sentence. Want a ghostwriter? Cheap rates.'
'Get out.'
'This is my room. You get out—telling me to leave would be—'
'Whatever. Dragon flies in, drops a meteor. Hit dragon gets revenge with its own meteor. Side story: dragon slayer.'
'Ninja ending drift is evaded. Protagonist's not it, but there's one. Sword Master dies to dragon breath while wine-tasting. Saw it in a novel once.'
'Not even original?'
That was it. Then drunk sis puked right in front of me, and I spent ages cleaning up.
Anyway, seeing it firsthand made that chat resurface. Had I twisted the romance fantasy into this war-torn hell by ignoring the original? Or did sis black out mid-side story, scribble this setting after my death, and it manifested when I reincarnated as Estiang Berg?
Couldn't be sure, but probably the latter. And the result was Gromkuld and his orc uprising.
Whoosh!
Enveloped in radiant light, we returned from the snowfields to Berg's training grounds in an instant. I thought,
Fine, bring it on.
I wouldn't blunder by underestimating the enemy, but I had full confidence.
Pre-iron age tech level. Orcs fundamentally dumber than humans. Unstable rear lines with zero support in a harsh environment. Gromkuld's situation was the polar opposite of mine.
No matter his skill, he couldn't overcome Berg—backed by my reforms and tech tree—with all its military modernization.
If this was pre-me, maybe. But I'd seized overwhelming advantage; defeat wasn't even on the table.
The light faded, revealing Berg's training grounds fully.
"Sir Maximilian."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"The orcs are arrogantly mustering to come at us. A warning shot's in order, right?"
"Precisely, Your Grace."
"Rangers will have it rough for a while."
"We're fine with that. It's what we all want."
Not just Maximilian—the other rangers smirked upon hearing it. They were volunteers driven by a sense of mission for the riskiest jobs. Reliable just looking at them.
"Combine show of force with pressure that we know everything. I'll increase patrol frequency."
"Leave it to us."
We already knew Gromkuld's moves. Busted or not, let him try.
* * *
Ranger patrols ramped up. Fewer per shift but more shifts overall, rotating to watch the orcs constantly. And Estiang's personal inspection of every nook and cranny.
All this reached Gromkuld swiftly.
"Humans showing up more. Gruk, their leader came too. Mounted humans watching us."
"Gruk, chwik."
In a tent of beast hide, Gromkuld—vastly larger than other orcs—sat on a bone chair and slowly rubbed his dry face.
"Gruk, I calculated everything else. But not the blabbing idiots. What's the point if they spill it all? No surprise left."
"Great Chieftain, what now?"
"Hold off. No point in raids if they're watching that closely."
Gromkuld's voice was somber through his jutting tusks.
Another orc asked, "What about those blabbermouths?"
"Next time, put the idiots up front in the attack."
"How many?"
"Gruk, how many more?"
"Over five hundred this month alone."
"Hm..."
Gromkuld closed his eyes, then exhaled a deep sigh from his lungs.
That sigh carried a cold decision treating kin as mere numbers.
"Send three thousand this time."
Orcs boasted top-tier breeding among subraces, maturing to warrior level in record time. That's why they fought and died periodically, even knowing the odds.
An instinct etched since before Gromkuld's rise.
The change? Instinct-driven orcs now had their life or death decreed by Gromkuld.
"Prepare three thousand. Gruk."
"Three thousand... yes, three thousand."
"Gruk, will Great Chieftain watch this time?"
"Not this time."
"Humans will know. This attack gets spotted quick."
"Fine. Tell the shaman to brew the usual drugs."
"Got it, gruk. How to pick the rest?"
"One from each of the ten tribes up next."
"Will do."
The nodding orc left the tent. Alone, Gromkuld stared at his back, then rubbed his face again. Fatigue seeped through his pot-lid hands.
He couldn't feel nothing shoving kin into the meat grinder. Just numb to it.
As leader, he had to see those three thousand as numbers, not brothers. For the greater good.
Resources in this barren land were finite; cull before exceeding limits. For the horde's survival—and eventually breaching the Great Wall for fertile soil beyond.
Orcs, or greenskins, were a race doomed to endless decimatio.
Their explosive breeding and growth was both blessing, forging warriors, and curse—forcing self-thinning in these snowfields.
"Need... another way. Must rethink the method again."
His hands were stained with countless kin's blood already. Like always, Gromkuld resumed his dignified Great Chieftain pose.
That blood wouldn't be wasted. He had to break the humans and that cursed Great Wall.
Even if it meant rivers of blood—even drowning the enemy in it. No matter the cost.