Re:Crafting in Another World
Chapter 90: Orc XIII - Pride of a foolish orc

Chapter 90: Orc XIII - Pride of a foolish orc

The wind howled across the plains as morning broke. The small human town of Aelbury, nestled at the edge of the human territory which were considered to be safe, woke to a sky of ash and dread.

A thousand orcs had gathered before the gates.

Their leader, Ukar, stood tall amidst them, his battle-axe resting on his shoulder, the iron of his armor clanking with every breath he took. Around him, war drums pounded like a heartbeat gone mad.

Behind the walls, Captain Harren gripped his longsword tighter.

"Archers on the ramparts! Hold until the first volley!"

The town had no great walls, only stout wooden barricades and a reinforced gate. Barely two hundred guards stood ready — farmboys with spears, blacksmiths with rusted swords. But none turned away. Men, women, even elders stood ready. This was their home.

And they had nowhere to run because they knew that the moment they tried to escape from the back, the orcs would rush in and kill them.

From the ramparts, a horn blew. Then silence.

Ukar raised a clawed fist.

"FORWARD!"

The orcs roared, a black wave of muscle and steel rushing toward the walls. As they neared, Aelbury’s archers loosed a storm of arrows. The sky darkened, and then the front ranks of orcs crumpled — pierced through the throat, chest, and eyes. Dozens fell.

Yet they did not stop.

They trampled their own dead.

The second volley struck harder. Archers from the town had prepared well. Flaming arrows now streaked through the sky, igniting the tar-covered stakes hidden along the battlefield.

"Burn them! BURN THEM!" Harren shouted.

Screams rose from the front lines of the orcs, but Ukar didn’t falter. Flames danced in his reflection-stained eyes.

"Break the gate! Bring the ram!"

A massive orc war ram, shaped like the jawbone of a mammoth, rolled forth. Orcs on either side pushed it under a hail of arrows, shields above them. They lost dozens in moments — but they reached the gate.

BOOM.

The gate shuddered.

"Hold!" Harren barked. "Spears in formation!"

BOOM.

Wood splintered.

From the top of the walls, women still fired arrows, their hands blistering, blood soaking the fletching. Some leapt down to aid the wounded. Mothers pushed children behind cellars and basements, kissed their heads, then took up swords to stand beside their husbands.

Inside the gate, humanity made its last stand.

BOOM.

It broke.

With a monstrous shriek, the barricade splintered into a thousand pieces. Orcs poured in like a tidal wave.

"For the town!" Harren yelled.

Blades clashed. Spears snapped. The cobblestones turned red.

Ukar stormed through the breach, his axe carving through two guards in a single swing. Blood sprayed his armor like paint. He turned, grabbing a third by the neck, and crushed the man’s windpipe with one hand.

He was a beast — no strategy, only slaughter.

Nearby, an elderly woman stabbed an orc in the leg with a carving knife before being run through. A teenage girl, her arms trembling, stabbed another in the back to protect her younger brother.

The orcs had numbers, but not discipline. And for every human who fell, another took their place, screaming with fury, fear and desperation.

Ka’ra’s supporters — orcs loyal to the original plan of sneaking attacks and minimal bloodshed — watched in horror. One, a female warrior named Ragha, spat to the side.

"This... this was not the way."

Another orc nodded grimly. "He said it was about bringing humans to breed. Not... slaughter."

Inside the chaos, Ukar slammed a guard through a wooden beam, cackling like a madman. His axe moved like a storm, unstoppable. But then—

"Ukar!" Ragha yelled from behind. "There’s one — that knight. We need him alive!"

Ukar turned.

Through the blood-drenched street, a lone knight limped toward him.

Captain Harren.

His armor was shattered, one arm useless, blood soaking his side. Yet he walked with fire in his eyes.

"You..." Ukar said with a grin. "You’re still standing."

Harren didn’t respond. He raised his sword, its edge broken but still deadly. He stood between the orcs and the last remaining shelter where women and children had fled.

"You shall not pass further, imbecile."

Ragha stepped forward. "We can use him! He has strong seeds. I can fuck him!"

Ukar’s grin only widened.

And he charged.

Their blades met with a thunderous clash.

Harren ducked the first strike, slashing across Ukar’s thigh. The orc roared, slamming his shoulder into the knight, sending him crashing into a barrel. But Harren rolled, using the debris as cover, and stabbed Ukar under the arm.

"AARGH!"

Ukar struck with his axe, tearing through the barrel and nearly bisecting the knight’s sword arm — but Harren pivoted, slammed his elbow into Ukar’s jaw, and kicked him in the gut.

For a moment, the orc staggered back.

The two circled.

"You’re no ordinary knight," Ukar sneered.

"I talk with no monster.," Harren growled. "I’ll not give it up to a butcher."

With a savage scream, Ukar lunged — and this time, Harren met him head-on.

Steel rang. Blood splashed. For a moment, it seemed Harren might prevail — he knocked Ukar’s axe from his hand.

But Ukar didn’t need a weapon.

With a snarl, he grabbed Harren’s face and slammed his head into a wall — once, twice — until the knight’s body slumped.

Ragha screamed, "NO!"

But Ukar raised the broken man up by the chestplate. "This... was your champion?"

He drove his clawed hand through Harren’s chest.

Silence.

And then the orc horde roared in triumph.

But not all joined the cheer.

Ragha looked around. "How many did we capture?"

A grunt spoke. "...Nineteen. Most children. The rest died fighting."

Nineteen.

From a town of nearly thousand.

And every orc knew what that meant.

This wasn’t the battle they wanted.

It was butchery.

One orc leaned on his spear, blood dripping from his chin. "Ka’ra would not have allowed this."

"She wanted us to build a future," Ragha said bitterly. "Not burn it to the ground."

A silence hung in the air, heavier than the stench of death.

The women who had fallen — they hadn’t screamed for mercy.

They had fought.

Men had died shielding children. Even the elderly had thrown stones or boiling water from windows.

This town had died on its feet.

Ukar stood atop the bloodied hill, roaring, "LET THIS BE A MESSAGE TO THE HUMANS!"

But no one responded.

Not even his own.

The fire crackled behind him, consuming the town hall. Screams had faded. The dead were countless. And yet, the prize was hollow.

***

The orcs, their green skin glistening under the dim moonlight, dragged their prizes—living and dead—through the underbrush, their crude wagons creaking under the weight of chained humans. Among them, women sobbed, their wrists bound, while men groaned, battered but alive, their fates uncertain.

Ukar led the procession, his axe slung across his back, its blade still slick with blood. His yellow eyes gleamed with savage pride, though a flicker of unease danced in their depths. The raid had been a success—too successful, perhaps. The humans’ village had fallen with barely a fight, their warriors cut down like saplings. Yet something gnawed at Ukar, a whisper of doubt he could not shake.

Behind him, the orcs reveled in their victory. Some gnawed on severed limbs, their jagged teeth tearing through flesh with relish. One orc, a brutish figure named Gorzod who enjoyed Ukar’s leadership, held a human arm aloft, laughing as he bit into it, blood dripping down his chin. "Taste better than boar!" he bellowed, prompting a chorus of guttural cheers.

Others, impatient and driven by base urges, had already begun their depravity. In the shadows of the trees, a group of orcs pinned a human woman to the ground, her cries muffled as they took turns violating her. Her eyes, wide with terror, stared blankly at the canopy above, as if searching for escape in the stars.

"Keep movin’!" Ukar barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Save your hunger for the village. The spirits’ll reward us there." His words were met with grumbles, but the orcs obeyed, hauling their captives forward. The woman was yanked to her feet, her tattered dress barely clinging to her body, and shoved back into the line.

The journey was a descent into nightmare for the humans. The orcs showed no mercy, prodding them with spears, laughing as they stumbled. One man, too weak to continue, collapsed, his breath ragged.

An orc named Vroth sneered, raising his club. "No use if he can’t walk," he growled, bringing the weapon down with a sickening crunch. The man’s skull split, and the orcs roared with approval, leaving his body for the wolves while Ka’ra supporters were conflicted.

As they neared the village, the captives’ despair deepened. The orcs spoke of a great fire, a wall of flame blessed by the spirits to protect their home. It was said to burn without fuel, a gift as Ukar explained it and a curse as Ka’ra was bansihed, whose magic kept the tribe safe. The humans, trembling, imagined what horrors awaited within those fiery walls.

But as the warband crested the final hill, the sight before them stole the breath from even the fiercest orc. The village lay exposed, its wooden palisades dark and silent. The wall of flame, the tribe’s sacred shield, was gone. Not a flicker remained. The orcs froze, their green faces paling, blood draining from their bodies as if the spirits themselves had abandoned them.

"What in the name of the old spirits...?" Gorzod muttered, his voice trembling. The human arm fell from his hand, forgotten.

Ukar’s eyes widened, but there was something in his gaze—a shadow of knowing, of dread realized. He stepped forward, his massive frame tense, as the others turned to him, their voices rising in panic.

"Ukar! Where’s the fire?" Vroth demanded, shoving a captive aside. "You said the spirits blessed us! You said we was protected!"

"This ain’t no blessin’," another orc, Kraz, spat. "This is a curse! We took too much, angered the spirits! This is the curse of Ka’ra and Ukar. Both of them are not suitable."

"Shut yer traps before i kill you!" Ukar roared, his voice shaking the trees. "The fire’s gone, aye, but we’ll fix it. More wood, more blood—Even spirits need wood."

At the center of the village stood the crone orc shaman, her gnarled hands extended to the ground as if pleading with the earth itself. Her eyes, milky with age, glistened with tears. Her tattered robes fluttered in the wind, and her voice, cracked and weary, carried a weight that silenced the warband.

"Forgive us," she whispered, her words barely audible. "We took too much... angered the spirits... bring us peace, bring us protection..."

The orcs stared, their bravado crumbling. Even the captives, bruised and broken, sensed the shift. her words were not a plea for the humans’ suffering—they were a confession of the tribe’s doom.

"Old crone!" Ukar bellowed, storming toward her. "What happened? Where’s the flame?"

The crone raised her head, her eyes locking onto Ukar’s. "The spirits... they turned from us," she rasped. "We took more than we was owed. The blood of the innocent... it poisoned the fire. This is Ka’ra’s curse. This is Ukar’s curse. This is our curse."