A few hours earlier, miles away in the Orc camp, Gerom and the other Orc leaders stood atop a high hill, staring toward the horizon where the distant castle lights shimmered mockingly.
Gerom's face was as hard as silent stone, reflecting his suppressed rage.
Behind him, Akar stood like an ice statue, his brows furrowed, flames dancing in his eyes.
Krugas let out a furious snort, stomping the ground, his voice booming like thunder: "They were ready! We didn't surprise them—they were waiting for us!"
After a long silence, Gerom spoke slowly, as if restraining his emotions: "Garron is dead. The spies who accompanied him were wiped out... and so were my sabotage teams."
His voice was muffled, carrying deep grief and anger. "Why do you think this happened?"
No one answered. In response to his question, Gerom found only silence. No one dared to speak—they all knew that whoever spoke would face a rage that appeared calm on the surface but was, in truth, a storm waiting to erupt.
They could easily become the scapegoat.
Gerom, still staring at the distant castle, sighed heavily, as though his chest bore invisible burdens. He spoke softly, yet his words were charged: "Akar, back then, you assured me the plan would succeed. You said that once the castle was built and the spies were sent, there would be dozens of ways to infiltrate, sabotage it easily, and eliminate this new human lord... So why has this happened?"
Akar, as Gerom's advisor and the architect of the plan, hesitated before responding, as if his mind were racing through rapid calculations.
Then, in a low voice, he said, "Either they are extremely cautious by nature... or they have a leader—or an advisor—who warned them of our likely attack..." He paused briefly, glancing at the glowing mental map before him, then added in an even quieter tone, laced with suspicion: "...or they received prior intelligence about our infiltration plans."
A heavy silence fell, and each leader began wondering to himself: "Does this mean someone has betrayed us and sold our information to the enemy?"
After sensing that everyone had grasped the implication of his words, Akar continued, attempting to clarify:
"I don't mean to suggest there's a traitor among us. No honorable Orc would collaborate with those weak human lords. But I suspect their new leader may possess advanced means of detecting infiltration plans—perhaps he laid a meticulous ambush for our spies. He might even have specialized soldiers trained in stealth, capable of sensing our teams' movements. Or worse… he could have struck a deal with a magical beast that scouts and monitors our forces, like the infamous noble Hartur, who now serves as a general in the Northern Army. He may even be a highborn himself, a member of some great aristocratic family, wielding one of those rare human artifacts against us."
While Akar's words eased the immediate fear of betrayal, they stirred a deeper unease—none of the possibilities he listed boded well.
Krugas shattered the silence, his voice dripping with scorn and fury:
"Didn't I say it from the start?! No need for all this scheming and circling—we should've launched a full assault! Battles are won by resolve, not plans!"
No one replied. Not even Gerom, who kept his gaze locked on the distant castle. Finally, he exhaled slowly, as if his chest bore the weight of the unseen. His voice was quiet but charged:
"Akar… you swore this plan would succeed. You said once the castle was built and the spies deployed, there'd be a dozen ways to infiltrate, sabotage it effortlessly, and eliminate this new human lord. So why…"
BOOM.
As he spoke, Gerom raised his massive arm—thick as a young girl's waist—and slammed it down on the side of the golden strategy table. The impact was dull yet thunderous, like a warhammer crushing bone. The Orcs flinched, bowing their heads like quail, trembling in submission.
Watching his subordinates quake under his presence, a glint of satisfaction finally flickered in Gerom's eyes—nearly buried beneath folds of flesh, leaving only a slit of cold scrutiny.
He was furious.
Not just because his soldiers had died, nor because this was his first direct loss against the fortress—but because he didn't even know if the enemy had suffered any losses in return.
Yet that was only the surface.
For Gerom's Orc horde, now numbering over a thousand warriors, these casualties were insignificant. What truly burned in his chest was something darker—a perverse thrill.
His trusted advisor, Akar, had been humiliated in his very first clash with the fortress's new forces. And secretly?
Gerom relished it.
Because in truth, Gerom didn't see the openly defiant Drogul as his greatest threat. No—it was Akar.
The advisor he had appointed.
The reason was simple: Akar was of his own tribe, second only to Gerom in authority. Worse, his popularity had begun eclipsing Gerom's own.
Where Gerom ruled through brute force, Akar wielded charisma and cunning, winning hearts with ease.
Lately, Gerom had noticed something unsettling—the way Orcs from Akar's tribe looked at him. Not with fear, but with admiration. Even awe. And it wasn't just them. Other clan leaders—even Drogul—had started directing that same reverence toward Akar instead.
A shift in loyalty.
And Gerom?
He'd just been handed the perfect excuse to remind them all who truly ruled.
Now, after the failure of Akar's strategy—regardless of the reasons or losses—Gerom sees some gains.
The blind reliance on plans and tactics against humans has been exposed as a weakness, and Akar's talents have been humbled, weakening his standing among the leaders. Gerom's goal has been partially achieved.
Yet, a deep unease still gnaws at him.
No matter how the human commander did it, the result is the same: More than a dozen Lightfoot Orcs—along with a larger auxiliary force from other tribes under his command—are dead. The loss is devastating.
These Lightfoot Orcs are different from the rest. Though they serve under Gerom as part of his army, their unique traits and abilities make them irreplaceable—they act as messengers, relaying intel between the other Orc forces. The new unified leadership had entrusted them with this role precisely because of their efficiency.
Akar sighed, running a hand over his jaw as he studied the tense faces around him. His tone was carefully neutral:
"What matters now is how we respond. We can't launch a direct assault after this loss."
"The response is obvious!" Krugas snarled, his eyes narrowing with fury. "We attack now! No more planning!"
But Gerom's sharp glare silenced him instantly.
"We tried recklessness tonight," Gerom said coldly. "You saw the result. If we charge now, we'd be handing them another victory on a silver platter."
Krugas gripped his sword hilt, his face taut with rage—but he didn't argue.
Gerom continued, his voice low and deliberate:
"This new human lord doesn't just have a disciplined army. He has armored crossbowmen, light infantry skilled in javelin throws, and heavy armored spearmen with tower shields."
He recalled the report from the sole survivor who had witnessed the slaughter. His expression darkened slightly.
"When I first heard that this human lord fielded organized crossbow units, lightly armed skirmishers, and heavily armored spearmen… I was furious. I thought it was a lie."
A bitter pause.
"But now… now I believe it."
"This formation is too expensive."
Even if human kingdoms were richer than Orc tribes, equipping troops in a small fortress with such lavish gear was impossible. The northern Orc tribes had raided these lands countless times—just miles from their own territory—yet most common folk there struggled to survive poverty. A single weapon or piece of armor sold there could cost the lives of several soldiers. In fact, even human knights and nobles might not own plate as fine as what was described for this army's officers.
Gerom knew something was wrong.
No one would dare deceive him so blatantly—verifying the truth would only require sending a scout. Which meant he had no choice but to believe it.
"This new human commander... is a man of unusual influence and identity," Gerom said quietly. Then, lowering his voice further: "Before this meeting, I sent word to the shaman closest to our new king. I told him we were advancing troops to seize the fortress. But now, seeing how the humans have reinforced it, the situation may change. I expect a reply within days—and royal reinforcements may come."
"Until then, preserving our strength and gathering intelligence must be our priority."
"We'll do our utmost," the Orc chieftains answered, understanding Gerom's shifted plans.
His next words were ice: "As for the human commander? Once reinforcements arrive, we amass overwhelming force and crush him swiftly. This is non-negotiable."
"Understood." The leaders replied in unison, not daring to hesitate.
"Meeting adjourned."*
Seeing the chieftains broken and obedient, Gerom nodded in satisfaction and dismissed them.
After the Orc leaders had left, Gerom's face remained grim.
In the silence, he muttered under his breath:
"This new human commander..."
Slowly, he raised his head, his piercing gaze fixed on the distant fortress.
"The King assured us the Orc race had reached its peak strength—that the time had come to establish our own kingdom. A kingdom to unite us, to ensure our survival, rather than squabbling over scraps and petty disputes. A kingdom that would stretch to swallow the entire southern realm of Alon whole."
His voice grew heavier.
"The nobles and aristocrats have weakened themselves with infighting and schemes, squandering precious resources on their incompetent, cowardly heirs... And yet..."
A shadow of doubt crossed his face.
"Now I wonder... Even in their weakened state, can we truly seize their lands? Lands steeped in civilization and heritage, built over thousands of years?"
His claws dug into the armrest of his seat.
"Isn't their deadliest weapon—our greatest weakness—that very civilization? That knowledge and those techniques capable of turning the tide of war, transforming victory into defeat... or at least halting our advance, just as they did decades ago in the last campaign?!"
For the first time in war, uncertainty gnawed at Gerom.
The future no longer seemed as certain as the King had promised.
......
Back to Ironfrost
The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the acrid stench of charred flesh and burning wood. Wisps of smoke curled into the sky, rising from the remains of shattered siege engines and the smoldering ruins of makeshift barricades.
The deafening clash of steel on steel had faded, replaced by the distant wails of the wounded and the ghostly echoes of final screams still lingering in the wind.
The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and charred ashes as the clamor of battle gradually faded.
Along the castle ramparts, torchlight flickered over scattered corpses like macabre puppets with severed strings, where human soldiers moved with methodical precision - collecting weapons and administering merciless coup de grâce to any wounded orc attempting to rise.
Within the castle walls, an entirely different scene unfolded. In the vaulted war chamber where human commanders gathered...
Arthur sat motionless upon the strategy throne, his harsh features carved deeper by flickering candlelight.
Tracked the battle reports with predatory focus.
Beside him stood Gabriel, his bloodied armor still steaming in the cold air, recounting events in a voice like grating stone: "The trap snapped shut perfectly, my lord. They walked in just as predicted."
Arthur's fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Orc's didn't just lose warriors tonight..." he murmured, his deceptively calm tone laced with venomous triumph.
"they lost certainty. From this moment forward, every shadow will seem an ambush, every decision will be poisoned by doubt."
Arthur, fully aware of why they had succeeded tonight, recalled the moment that had turned the tide in their favor.
The memory surfaced abruptly:
Two moons past from he's first card , during the march to garrison, when fortune had delivered their trump card - that peculiar small map etched with arcane sigils.
A single inscription shimmered upon its surface, radiating an undeniable aura of dominance:
[Territorial Dominance Map - Active]