Chapter 82: Warchief

Two biggest eyes peering straight into mine, our faces were unnaturally close to each other, but neither of us drew his face away, ending the awkward battle of stares. For a minute, we stared at each other.

Damn, if the orc had been a pretty lady, I wouldn't be so annoyed, but… Thankfully, a change occurred on his face. The orc's thick red-tanned lips arched up in a crazy grin, leaving his eyes half-closed by his chunky cheeks. I did try to mimic his ridiculously impressive smile, but I wouldn't be able to replicate it. In any case, the orc's face was brought up even closer to me—I was grossed out through and through—and his lips undid their funny smile. "Oh!" the orc said. "Oh! You finally wake, little monster!"

My goodness. That was a clown. I decided to stay silent and see where we would go. "Oh? Oh… I tell Warchief!" Honestly, I didn't expect him to speak at all. "I tell Warchief. No, told! I told Warchief!" he began saying, waving his arms around and pulling back. Pointing at someone further away from us, he spoke again.

"We… Orcs can use you! Gift to the Warchief! Oh! Little monster!" With his broken human tongue (that was the most prevalent language used throughout the Outside World, so virtually everyone spoke it, although some better than others), he kept telling me then that they could use me. He said he had told his chief, and that they could use me. I had to guess what he meant, but it was clear enough he meant for me to fight with them.

As an ally. As someone who was also discriminated against by the unfair humans. All we needed, according to the orc, was a common enemy and we would be best friends. "I see what you do to the… do to the vile Hooman! The orc frantically brought his arms up, adding emphasis to the word "human," as he spoke, paused for a second or two, then continued. "You help orcs—we, us! We kill vile hooman! You ally," he made a round with his arms. "No foe," he then made a cross with his arms. "Little monster! What you say? Oh! Not okay or… okay?

Ugh. Okay. Not okay. What difference does it make? That was pretty straightforward, and the demi-human confirmed what I guessed a minute earlier. They wanted to recruit me as a soldier. And so, I also inwardly nodded with my decision earlier: I didn't need to wreak havoc here. My philosophy in life was to live and to attain that end, I had decided to bring down any kind of threat to my existence.

These guys weren't a threat, so I wasn't so annoyed anymore. I know I shouldn't have just dropped my guard then and there, beamed into a smile, and thought nothing of their capturing me here since these guys didn't ostensibly seem to want to make my life end, but at the time, with my naive and inexperienced mind, I didn't know better.

Should I massacre 'em all right now? That's what I initially thought. Now was different. As far as I was concerned, if these people didn't want to kill me, maybe they wanted to make friends with me. With that kind of white-or-black thinking, I decided I'd love to make friends with them, too.

Unfortunately, however, I was afraid I couldn't take them up on their offer. After all, I already had a family to go back to. Cetha was a former elven princess, and she said she agreed to become the monster's home—that meant a lot to me.

She was the first person who genuinely knew everything about me—as she had said herself, we kind of had shared a soul for a week, after all—and still accepted me. I felt bad about it, but I didn't want to spend so much time with them. Joining their army and becoming their soldier wouldn't be over in just a day, you see. What was more, I had some project of being an adventurer and going monster-hunting with the humans' Guild, so I couldn't simply join their side.

Confused by my inner feelings, I couldn't right away answer either yes or no to the demi-human's proposal. But still, in a way, maybe I just had to help them out with what was needing help, and both parties would be fine with that.

The orcs wanted me to do something for them, I think, probably. And this little "helping" was about me fighting for them a little. What a golden occasion, then. Weren't there humans around, in the corner of the crude tent? Maybe I could just borrow a sword from the orcs and help them out a little.

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The demi-humans needed help. The crazy orc let it be clear—they could use me and do away with the vile humans' threat. He was still standing to my right, and since he was the one who brought me to the Warchief person, he was the one who spoke directly to me, making sure to introduce me properly to the onlookers.

His big lips chatted a great deal, and the chief had been introduced to me, too. Rather, he was only being pointed at. In front of my eyes to see, there were about thirty or so orcs. They were numerous, a huge lot, even, when all stowed in the tight tent of ours. The place was brimming with orcs. It felt stifling. In a few words, their presence was to be felt, and rightly so.

A few orcs of the onlooker group stood out, like the one standing to my right, and the one who stood out the most was their king. It wasn't actually their king, but that's how it felt to me at the moment. I never saw a king, but maybe that self-important-looking orc, who looked way more refined and "humanoid," let's say, than his compatriots, was a king. The fact was that the orc was simply a general among many of the orc army, but I didn't know that yet.

The crazy orc's long finger wasn't pointed at any orc. The finger showed me the chief. The chief was the one who stood out the most. Both his aura, the essence of himself, and his outward appearance were different. The reddish dark skin he wore was the same as the others, but his bulk wasn't as barbaric-like as the others. It was like the superior orc was disguised. Rather than an orc, the man was an ogre.

That was the race above the orc in terms of ranking. And so, it reminded me of two concepts of the world: Evolution and Nobility. The chief in front of me looked more refined and less beast-like because he was more evolved, most likely. That's how he overall looked more humanoid to me. According to the world, he was more of a noble. I, who looked perfectly human-like, must have been higher up the hierarchy than him.

Firmly seated on one ugly throne, decorated with broken pieces of bones and the like, the ogre repeatedly jabbed a finger on the armchair. He was giving me a somewhat distrustful, eager, and keen look. His outfit was similar to his friends', but just like his appearance, it was more beautified and adorned. Even sitting the way he was, on his hideous throne, with his tattered rags and bits of armor, the ogre possessed a certain sense of grace and nobility.

When our eyes met, the ogre felt strong. Though he was one-eyed, the pressure he emitted from his eye was as fiery as two. Such was the chief.

Analytically, I assessed I could stab my fangs into his throat with no problem anytime I wanted. As he might have felt that, his overall aura grew more tense and chilly. The ogre wasn't one to shy away from a stronger foe.

The humans, lined up a little distance from me, were tied up, too. My eyes settled on them. The group of prisoners wasn't exactly tied up like I was—they were placed on their knees, eyes folded, their hands were behind their back, making them uncomfortably lean onward, and their legs were fastened as one beneath their rears.

My eyes didn't linger long on them. They were simply the "vile humans" this whole situation was about. The powerful humans. Armored, richer, and technologically advanced. Even the strong humans, in their situation, there wasn't much they could do aside from staying here, perfectly quiet, either trembling or fearlessly dignified, like docile and subdued animals. Hm. Was I supposed to be counted from among their number?

There were a dozen of them. Was I a prisoner, too? The fat crazy orc had called me a little monster. It's obvious they know I'm not with these humans. So what's my share in our affair? To help and serve the crazy orc's chief, did I just need to slaughter the humans they called evil?

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