Lord Theodorus is dead—assassinated!
The entire city of Orford had become a volcano on the verge of eruption. The once orderly streets had descended into chaos. Everywhere, furious and grieving beastmen howled and wailed, smashing their weapons against the ground and walls. If not for a few respected elders who managed to keep their wits and restrain the tribesmen, Orford would have already fallen into complete anarchy.
Theodorus was not a god in the eyes of the beastmen. A god was merely something to worship, a distant and revered figure. But no deity, however exalted, could move their hearts more than a real person they respected and admired. And for the beastmen, Theodorus was far more than just respected and admired. Their very survival, the existence of this once-unimaginable city, their newfound status as equals among humans—all of it was given to them by Theodorus.
He was no god. No god had ever held such a place in their hearts.
Orford was filled with the mournful howls of beastmen. Nearly half of them had fallen into a state of semi-berserk rage, and the air was thick with the pungent scent of their fury-induced hormones. It was as if the one going mad in grief was not the beastmen themselves, but the very city that Theodorus had built with his own hands.
At the heart of Orford, within the massive city hall, the atmosphere was starkly different from the chaos outside. There was no noise, no disorder—only a weighty, suffocating silence, so heavy it felt as if molten lead might drip from it.
Inside the lord's office, Theodorus' corpse still lay motionless on the floor. The room was thick with the stench of blood—his blood. The once-vigorous old man was now nothing more than a lifeless body, sprawled in a dried pool of his own blood. His throat bore a massive, gaping wound, a silent testament to the manner of his death.
A blood-stained dagger was embedded in the door beam—the only clue left by the killer. Nothing in the room had been moved; everything remained as it was, left for Grutt to see with his own eyes. He had just received the news that morning and had rushed back from the Saundfest Mountains.
"Celeste…" Grutt reached up and pulled the dagger from the beam. It was a silver cruciform dagger, its blade and hilt intricately engraved with countless delicate patterns. This was the tool used by the Church's Inquisition to execute heretics guilty of the gravest sins. His voice was heavy, as if each word were a lead weight crashing to the ground.
His gaze and expression no longer carried that usual deep, unfathomable mystery—like the depths of the ocean. Though his face seemed unchanged, no one dared to meet his eyes. No one even dared to step too close.
The half-orc outside the door whimpered, "So far, we haven't found many clues. Even in Lord Theodorus's chamber where he was assassinated, we had the werewolf elder—our best tracker—examine everything. Though he was shaken, he carefully inspected the scene. He said… he couldn't find any trace of someone entering. Not even a scent… But there are obvious signs that Lord Theodorus fought with the assassin…"
"That wasn't a fight. He never even had the chance. It was a clean kill…" A harsh, grinding sound filled the room as the silver dagger twisted and crumpled like a ball of wastepaper in Grutt's grip. "Anything else?"
"This morning, the patrol lizardmen from the southern sector reported that the wyverns seemed to have picked up the scent of a large flying creature near a thicket. They suspect a griffon passed through…"
"Summon all the tribal leaders immediately. We're holding a council meeting," Grutt said coldly. His voice was calm, steady—but the half-orc still shivered involuntarily.
The crumpled lump of metal in Grutt's hand flew across the room, smashing into a massive stone wall. With a thunderous crash, the wall collapsed.
"My lords, I do not agree with this decision," Lord Borugan declared, climbing onto a chair to make himself more visible.
"Did you not hear our question, dwarf?" an ogre chieftain roared, his bloodshot eyes burning with fury. "We asked how long it will take to rally all our forces and what the fastest route is for us to march through—" If not for the discipline instilled in him by years in Orford, his near-maddening rage would have driven him to tear apart every human he could find.
Lord Borugan waved his arms furiously, though even standing on the chair, he was still dwarfed by the surrounding beastmen. His voice, much like his stature, seemed insignificant against their towering presence. "My lords, I understand your grief over Lord Theodorus's passing. But you must realize—what you are proposing is not rational…"
"You didn't hear us, did you?!" The beastmen's furious roars instantly drowned out Borugan's voice.
"This whole thing is suspicious!" Lord Borugan shouted, straining his voice to compete with the uproar. "Yes, Celeste has long wanted Lord Theodorus dead, but... something doesn't add up! If they had the ability to do this, they should have done it long ago! Why wait until now?" He was practically screaming at this point. "And remember, our strength lies in our potential and growth! We don't need to rush into—"
A deafening roar of outrage erupted, nearly toppling Lord Borugan off the chair. A few beastmen, already teetering on the edge of madness from their grief, almost lunged at him.
Rationality has no effect in the face of uncontrollable emotions, especially when dealing with orcs whose instincts far surpass their reason. Although he knew this well, Lord Borugan still felt unwilling to accept it. He sighed quietly and murmured, "Lord Theodorus is already dead... Although I respected him, those who are dead do not deserve the living to continue..."
With a huge crash, Lord Borugan collapsed completely into his chair. Fragments rained down from the sky—pieces of the chair's backrest, the wall behind it, and his hair.
He hadn't had time to comb his hair today, and from now on, he probably never would again. He had nearly become bald. What was once thick, unruly hair now consisted only of some uneven short stubs. The rest of his hair, along with the chair and the wall behind him, was shattered and flying everywhere.
"Stop saying things that might anger me, just answer the question," Grutt said, sitting opposite. He hadn't moved an inch. His tone was calm, and his gaze was so deep it seemed like it could swallow someone whole and crush them into pieces.
All the orcs fell silent. The ones who had been so agitated a moment ago, ready to tear him apart at any moment, were now completely still. They were all watching Grutt.
Sweat poured down from Lord Borugan's forehead like a rushing stream. He knew that just a little bit more, and the shattered pieces falling from the sky would have been his own skull. And that tiny bit wasn't something left intentionally; maybe, in Grutt's mind or in some muscle of his hand, that little bit of distance truly existed.
It was then that he understood why these orcs, who were supposed to have significant self-control and rationality as leaders, had lost control. Their anger wasn't purely their own; it stemmed from something else, something they weren't even aware of themselves—fear. This fear came from the ruler here, the one who had already been influencing them from the deepest corners of their subconscious.
Killing intent—it wasn't the usual, outward killing intent, but something much deeper. No one could feel it, yet no one was unaffected by it. Grutt didn't appear to be particularly agitated or angry, but in reality, he might have been the angriest and most agitated person here. His anger and excitement were hidden deep within him, but the killing intent emanating from the very depths of his being had already spilled out, enveloping everyone around him.
The orc leaders felt nothing, but the instinct deep within their souls told them they were standing next to a wild, enraged beast, one that could tear them apart at any moment. That was why they were so restless, angry, and unable to control themselves.
Lord Borugan knew very well that under these circumstances, any pointless resistance was completely unnecessary. He didn't want to be the first one torn apart by this enormous, wild beast. He sighed deeply and answered, "I understand."
In contrast to the impending explosion of tension around Orford, Kalendor remained calm, as if nothing could ever happen here, especially in this small, secluded cabin that was already considered remote even within this area.
"Are you sure Orford's reaction will be like that?"
"Predicting the actions of beasts is always simpler than predicting humans, because their reactions are straightforward. Orford isn't without smart guys, but the majority are simple-minded, impulsive, and intense beasts. I know what cards they hold, so I also know how they will react..." The bishop, dressed as a commoner, smiled confidently. He was casually playing with the half-staff of Grandma Ail in his hand.
"Let's hope everything goes according to your plan."
"You should have some confidence in the development of events... There's really no need to worry so much."
"Don't you worry?" Grandma Ail turned around and looked at the bishop, asking coolly. "If something goes wrong, I won't let you off the hook. You'll be hiding in Glory Fortress under Magnus's ass for the rest of your life. Otherwise, I guarantee your end will be a hundred times worse than Theodorus'."
"You should know for sure that I don't like that place," the bishop said with a bitter smile. "However, right now, I am indeed a bit worried, but not about this. My concern is for my dear little ally. I wonder how things are going on her side."
"You must also be aware that, even with your esteemed presence in the matter, a deal is a deal. If she can't do what she promised, nothing will be possible. I believe in your abilities, but you must also trust my arrangements..."
The bishop's smile remained elegant and confident, exuding poise, with no sign of panic. He repeatedly examined the half-staff in his hand, as though trying to discern a flower from it.