Orcs were a dangerous and mighty race. Hailing from the untamed highland wilderness, these brutes were born with bloodlust coursing through their veins—every single member of their clans was a fearsome warrior, and a fully-grown orc could tear a sturdy warhorse apart with nothing but bare hands. These brawny fighters with ashen-gray skin ranked among the most terrifying beings on the entire continent. This dread stemmed not only from their brutal tempers and overwhelming combat prowess, but also from their ferocious, menacing appearances. As the old saying went, **You may know a man's face, but not his heart**. Since one could never truly fathom another's innermost thoughts, most people relied solely on first impressions to judge others. Unlike the elves—who were blessed with ethereal beauty and widely beloved—the orcs were considered downright ugly and vicious by human standards. Their heads were angular, with jutting jaws and protruding fangs that exuded aggression from every angle. Even if an orc offered the kindest of smiles, it would likely be mistaken for a terrifying, bloodthirsty grimace.
Humans had clashed with orcs in the past; some kingdoms had even attempted to dispatch armies to wipe out these "uncivilized savages." But they had paid a heavy price for their arrogance. People were quick to jump to conclusions, dismissing orcs as nothing but muscle-bound fools who relied solely on brute force—and thus had never taken them seriously. In their eyes, conquering these wild tribes and enslaving them was merely a matter of time.
Unfortunately for humanity, they had been gravely mistaken.
While orcs fought with brutal simplicity and prioritized raw power above all else, this was only because their sheer strength was more than enough to overcome any obstacle. After all, if an enemy could neither be crushed by force nor defeated in battle, why bother resorting to human-style trickery and schemes?
This did not mean, however, that orcs were idiots.
After their first offensive failed miserably, the orcs promptly switched up their tactics. Though they lacked a unified government and lived as scattered clans across the vast grasslands, this did not make them a disorganized rabble. What was more, these orcs had inhabited the highland wilderness for centuries—they knew the land like the back of their hands. The human expeditionary forces, on the other hand, had trekked long distances, struggled to adapt to the harsh highland climate, and were completely unfamiliar with the terrain. To make matters worse, the highlands were sparsely populated by humans, and winter had just begun to set in. **The heavens were against them, the land was against them, and fortune was against them**. It was not long before the human armies were routed and nearly annihilated. If the tribal chieftains had not spared them to negotiate a peace treaty, the entire expedition would have perished in that desolate wasteland, their bodies left to rot unburied.
In the end, humanity was forced to acknowledge the orcs' strength. Unable to conquer them, they had no choice but to accept them. Fortunately, the orcs had little desire for expansion—beyond the highland wilderness, they had no interest in seizing foreign lands. This was precisely why humans and orcs had ultimately signed a peace accord. If the orcs had been driven by a strong urge to conquer, humanity would never have let the matter rest so easily.
Nowadays, orcs had integrated themselves into human society to some extent. Their innate courage, strength, and unwavering loyalty made them exceptional mercenaries—scarcely a single mercenary company of any size existed without at least a few orcs in its ranks. This did not mean, however, that humans had fully embraced them with open arms. In human society, orcs were mostly met with wary, fearful gazes rather than kindness and acceptance. Yet these brutes seemed not to care in the slightest. To them, the highlands were their true home—they were born there, and they would die there. Life in the human world was nothing more than a trial, a chance to wander, to test their mettle, to hone their strength, and then to return to the highlands to meet their end in silence. Such was the life of an orc.
The orcs standing before Blake now were clearly no exception.
Blake stared at the orc chieftain in silence, his brow furrowed as he weighed his options.
He knew full well that **oaths of fealty were sacred to orcs**. Once they made a decision, they would never waver; once they swore allegiance to someone, they would obey that person's commands without question, no matter how dire. Even if ordered to march straight to their deaths, an orc would not hesitate for a single moment.
The fact that these orcs had taken the initiative to offer their loyalty should have been a cause for celebration. But Blake refused to believe in free lunches—he knew the orc race far too well. They were straightforward, yes, but they were not fools. Swearing fealty was the most significant act an orc could perform in their lifetime, for they were only permitted to swear such an oath *once*. More often than not, they reserved this honor for those who had rendered great service to their clan or performed a heroic deed for their people. Yet Blake had no ties to these orcs whatsoever—so why would they suddenly offer to swear their loyalty to him? It was highly suspicious, to say the least.
Of course, if Blake truly could help these orcs advance to the high rank, he would indeed have done them a great service and earned their gratitude. But that was still nothing more than a distant possibility. What was more, orcs already possessed formidable combat strength—while advancing in rank was no easy feat for them, it was certainly simpler than it was for humans. Their faces were hidden beneath their helmets, making it impossible to gauge their ages, but judging by their auras, they were still young—they had plenty of time left to train and hone their skills. So why had they come to him with such a request?
As Blake pondered this, his gaze fell on the intricate pattern etched into the thick neck of the orc chieftain before him. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The **Horn Totem**..."
Blake lifted his head, locking eyes with the orc.
"Which branch of the Battleaxe Clan do you belong to?"
To anyone else, this question would have seemed trivial. But upon hearing it, the orcs before him stiffened, their faces darkening instantly. They growled low in their throats, their hands tightening around their weapons. The chieftain's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly waved a hand to silence the restless murmurs of his subordinates behind him.
"We are the **Circle of the Earth**, of the Battleaxe Clan!" the chieftain declared, his voice booming. "Honored Lord, we hail from the deepest heart of the highland wilderness! We are warriors blessed and glorified by the Earth itself!"
With that, the orc warrior raised his weapon high and slammed a fist against his chest. At the sound of the words "Circle of the Earth," the orcs behind him drew their weapons in unison and pounded their chests with identical movements—sharp, precise, and unhesitating. It was clear from this display alone that these orcs were no ordinary fighters. But...
"So you are visitors from the Circle of the Earth," Blake said, nodding slowly. He did not look the least bit surprised, as if he had already guessed their origins.
"No wonder you bear the mark of the Guardians. I see now..."
As Blake spoke, the orc chieftain felt a surge of confusion. Most humans knew next to nothing about orc culture—they could not tell one clan apart from another, nor did they have the slightest idea what these tattoos symbolized. Yet this young human had not only recognized their totem but also deduced their clan from it? What was more, his tone suggested that he was quite familiar with the Circle of the Earth? It was incredible. There was little to no interaction between humans and orcs—how could a human possibly know the inner workings of their clans?
Despite his confusion, the orc chieftain's earlier hint of arrogance had vanished entirely. Though he had treated Blake with deference before, it had merely been out of respect for the social hierarchy that orcs were expected to abide by in human society. Deep down, he had not thought highly of this young lord at all. Orcs worshipped strength—even someone like that red-haired girl, whose aura alone had been enough to cow them, would have earned their genuine respect. But this young lord had displayed no such power. Rumors claimed he was a high-ranked swordsman, but to the orc chieftain, he seemed no different from any other human noble. He had been skeptical, to say the least. But now, his opinion had shifted completely. Regardless of Blake's true strength, the mere fact that he was so familiar with orc culture was proof enough that this young man was far from ordinary.
"That is correct, honored Lord!" the chieftain affirmed. "We are the Guardians of the Wild Heart, of the Circle of the Earth! I have led my warriors here, guided by the great Wild Heart, to undergo our trial!"
"I see," Blake nodded, listening to the orc's explanation.
"For now, I cannot give you a definitive answer. However, if you still hold this desire after successfully advancing to the intermediate rank, you may come to me—*but only if you tell me your reasons*."
"My Lord, we—"
"The time for discussion is not now," Blake cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"We will talk about this once you have completed your advancement. Now, you may take your warriors and leave."
"As you command," the orc replied, bowing his head respectfully. Without another word, he turned and led his men away.
"Phew..."
Only after the orcs had departed did Ophelia, who stood beside Blake, let out a long, relieved breath. Orcs were notoriously foul-smelling at the best of times, and these particular orcs were soaked in sweat after enduring Judy's fiery aura. The stench was unbearable—far too much for a lady of noble birth like Ophelia to handle. But out of politeness, she had forced herself to endure it until now. Now that the orcs were gone, she finally felt free. She took a few deep breaths, fanning the air in front of her to dispel the lingering odor, then turned to Blake with a curious expression.
"Lord Blake, do you think they are hiding something?"
"Hiding something? Not at the moment," Blake shook his head, watching the orcs' retreating figures as he shrugged his shoulders.
"But it never hurts to be prepared. What do you make of them, Lady Ophelia?"
"I suspect they have ulterior motives," Ophelia replied without hesitation.
"Oh?" Blake raised an eyebrow, turning to look at his adjutant. "Do tell."
"It's simple," Ophelia said, a faint smile playing on her lips as she held up a hand to explain.
"I do not know why these orcs are so eager to advance to the high rank, but I am certain that this is not their true reason for coming here. After all, no one could have predicted that you would offer such a generous deal before we announced our recruitment drive. There are only two possibilities here. First, it could be a stroke of luck—they had no such intention originally, but were tempted by your offer. Second, these orcs may have encountered some kind of trouble that they cannot resolve on their own. They likely heard the rumors about you—after all, word of your status as a high-ranked swordsman has spread far and wide in these parts. Perhaps they hoped to enlist your help to deal with a problem that is beyond their current capabilities. But orcs are proud creatures—they would never entrust something so important to a complete stranger. If they could have handled this problem themselves, they would never have turned to a human for help. So when they heard that you could help them advance to the intermediate rank, they changed their approach."
Ophelia paused for a moment, choosing her next words carefully.
"That said, the first possibility seems unlikely. Orcs are a race that values honor above all else—they would never abandon their principles just for a chance to take a shortcut to power..."
"I agree," Blake nodded. "They are definitely hiding something from me, but I do not care—for now, at least, they pose no threat to us. And with Judy keeping an eye on them, they won't be able to cause any trouble even if they wanted to."
With that, Blake said no more on the subject.
"Now, Lady Ophelia, I leave the task of drawing up the contracts with these mercenaries to you."
He patted Ophelia gently on the shoulder, then turned to head back into the castle. But just as he did so, the ring on his finger suddenly flashed with a faint white light. At the sight of this glow, everyone present froze in surprise.
"What is it, Möbius?" Blake asked, holding up his hand to examine the ring. This was a communication device linked to the Source Transformer—a tool that allowed him to summon and converse with the artificial spirit. Up until now, the Möbius Ring had been occupied with collecting mana, transforming the surrounding environment, and materializing wandering souls. It had never taken the initiative to contact Blake before. But now, this eccentric artificial spirit had reached out to him unprompted?
"Reporting to Master, unidentified intruders have breached the territory," the artificial spirit's voice echoed in his mind moments later.
"They are currently conducting a survey and reconnaissance of the territory's internal defenses."
"Survey and reconnaissance?" Blake scoffed coldly. "Do you know who they are?"
"They are mana manipulators and nothing more," Möbius replied.
At this, Blake's expression darkened slightly. He knew exactly what this meant.
**Mana manipulators** were those who wielded magic—and on this continent, there was only one profession capable of such a feat.
**Mages**.
"What is their level of power?" Blake demanded.
"Classification D-X3. Among them is an individual of Archmage caliber."
"An **Archmage**?!"
Ophelia gasped in shock, her eyes widening as she stared at Blake in alarm. But try as she might, she could read nothing from his youthful face. Even so, she thought she could guess what the young lord was planning.
"Lord Blake, please think carefully! We have already incurred the wrath of the Holy Church—if we make enemies of the Mage Guild as well..."
"I understand your concerns, Lady Ophelia," Blake said, his expression and tone remaining calm and unchanged.
"You may proceed with the mercenary contracts. I will handle this matter myself."
"My Lord..." Ophelia opened her mouth, wanting to say more, but in the end, she simply bowed her head and turned to leave.
"I only hope you make a wise decision," were her final words as she walked away.
"I always do," Blake replied, a faint, elegant smile spreading across his lips as he watched her go. He raised his right hand.
In an instant, a wisp of shadow coalesced before him, taking the form of a dark, ethereal steed. Blake swung himself onto the horse's back, then turned his gaze toward the surrounding Duskwood Forest.
"My Lord, do you require our assistance?" Judy and Charlotte exchanged a glance, then stepped forward to ask. If the artificial spirit had deemed these people intruders, it meant they had bypassed the territory's natural barriers through underhanded means rather than entering legally. This alone was proof that their intentions were far from peaceful.
"No need," Blake shook his head.
"The Mage Guild is not our enemy. This time... I am merely going to greet my guests."
With that, he tightened his grip on the reins and gave a sharp tug.
The shadow steed erupted into a streak of dim, flickering light, vanishing from sight before the eyes of all who watched.