Chapter 20 : Tradition of Blood Alliance (3)

The ruling hierarchy of the orcs is decided in an overly simplistic and violent manner.

Regardless of status, only the strongest orc within a tribe can become its chieftain.

Of course, there are certain privileges.

Most chieftains will entrust their sons to the tribe’s strongest warrior to raise them tough, giving them a head start compared to other orcs.

However, that doesn’t guarantee victory.

There are those who, without any mentor, discover their own potential and grow stronger.

The Warchief of the Blood Pact, Gartahn, was one such orc.

The orc’s body, known as a warrior race, is designed for battle.

Thick skin, rapid healing, and resilience to death unless struck at a vital point – it’s fair to call them built for combat.

But even among orcs, Gartahn’s natural physique was incomparable.

His body was truly golden, a balance of strength and speed, making it his unique talent.

It’s simple yet absolute.

Strength that could serve as the ultimate spear and shield.

With this strength, Gartahn rose to become the Warchief.

Utilizing his seemingly endless stamina, he fought battles of attrition.

Under his relentless, storm-like attacks, Wolfgang was quickly forced into a defensive position, unable to do anything but defend.

In the end, that initial strike had been a stroke of luck.

Given time, the Warchief would undoubtedly win.

At least, that’s how it appeared to the orcs.

Although Gartahn’s aggressive attacks seemed to turn the tide, Wolfgang could have countered if she wished. She simply feared the repercussions of retaliating.

‘He looks as fragile as tofu, so I can’t hit him with full force.’

It might seem like a casual thought for someone directly facing Gartahn’s brutal onslaught, but it was her genuine feeling.

Wolfgang’s ideal life was peaceful and abundant.

Specifically, she imagined waking up at leisure, eating meals prepared by servants, and strolling through the streets.

She wanted a life free from worry about money, not a life of fighting orcs on a battlefield.

Of course, as much as she detested it, her opponent was at the peak of orc society.

While not as fragile as actual tofu, this paradoxically became a problem for Wolfgang.

People who are neither weak nor overwhelmingly strong often struggle to gauge how much strength to use.

It’s an option to swing wildly and see what happens, but what if she failed to control her strength? Her opponent could just drop dead.

And killing the Warchief? That’s akin to assassinating the emperor in the Empire – a monumental crime.

Naturally, if the orcs lost their Warchief, they would declare war on the Empire, and as a soldier and cause of the war, she would inevitably be conscripted.

And that would mean straying even further from her desire for discharge and a peaceful life.

The idea of rolling around in a battlefield with orcs was revolting.

So, she had no choice but to persist with defense.

Her struggling appearance was witnessed by the orcs, and even the Vendetta members who’d accompanied her observed.

“Looks like the captain is enjoying herself.”

“The captain isn’t using flames.”

“If her physical abilities alone are enough to match an orc, you have to wonder if she’s even human.”

However, none of them doubted Wolfgang’s strength.

Ten years – a full decade in the hellish Winter War – they’d followed the captain’s back without a chance to look elsewhere.

In that place, even a slight lapse in attention would spell disaster for even the so-called monsters among them.

It was indeed impressive that she was able to defend against the attacks of the Warchief, the strongest of the orcs, with only her human physique. She could hold her own, but her uniform wasn’t as sturdy.

Although her uniform was enchanted with countless protective spells, making it sturdier than most armor, even it couldn’t withstand Gartahn’s destructive power, which surpassed even a Wendigo.

She became aware of the problem at that moment.

Rip, tear.

The sound of her uniform tearing struck fear into her heart. Wolfgang’s uneasy gaze shot downward, precisely at her uniform.

It looked as if it could fall apart at any moment, its seams tattered like a neglected old wall.

The magic compressing her chest had broken, too.

Her ample chest couldn’t be concealed, but that wasn’t the issue.

Any more attacks would tear her clothes completely, a truth she realized with dread.

While disrobing isn’t a problem for most men during strenuous sports, that was in a past life. Now, she was very much a woman. The spirit always somewhat conforms to the physical vessel.

Just the thought of it mixed shame and embarrassment in her mind. Unconsciously, Wolfgang’s grip tightened.

Unfortunately, Gartahn seemed to sense her distraction and closed in to launch another attack.

Perhaps he instinctively noticed her momentary weakness.

Exploiting an opponent’s vulnerability is nothing to be ashamed of in battle.

But in this case, her opponent was particularly unlucky. Instinctively, Wolfgang swung her hand wide.

It was akin to delivering a slap.

To an outsider, it might look like she was swatting at a fly.

But the problem was that, in her embarrassment, she’d used her full strength.

Swooosh!

Her hand swung with such force that it was nearly sonic, creating a sound like a massive arrow tearing through the air.

Boom!!

Unable to dodge the full-powered slap, Gartahn was sent sprawling onto the ground.

The difference this time was that he couldn’t rise.

“The Warchief has been defeated!”

“What do we do now?”

“According to orc law, the strongest becomes the leader…”

The orcs watching the duel from the checkpoint were bewildered by their Warchief’s defeat, while Wolfgang fought through a whirlwind of thoughts.

What did I just do?

I slapped him out of fear of my clothes tearing?

And the Warchief fell from that?

Wolfgang quietly reached into her inner pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

Ah, I just…

I just want to retire.

An intense feeling of futility weighed on Wolfgang.

Upon hearing the news of undead at the checkpoint, Jeanne had already begun moving.

Her instincts told her that this was no mere coincidence.

Perhaps it could even be an opportunity.

A chance to show the Blood Pact Warchief precisely what he wanted to see by directly subduing the undead.

Jeanne had reason to be so confident.

She could read others’ desires. It wasn’t a grand power bestowed by a god but rather something born of experience.

‘If anything, I’d call it experience.’

Reading others’ desires and adapting herself to fit – it was her sole survival strategy.

Over time, it became her greatest weapon.

Life is survival and competition.

To survive, one must wield the tools they possess. Others might call it deceit, but for Jeanne, it was a weapon.

However, unfortunately for her…

This time, there was no place to use that valuable weapon.

For Jeanne, who could read desires, Gartahn’s ideal woman was a strong and bold type. A warrior.

But when Jeanne arrived at the checkpoint wall…

Instead of being greeted by a dignified Warchief smashing the undead…

She was met with Gartahn, who had just been defeated in a single blow.