Chapter 798: Findir’s Mission (10)
Before the Orc King could speak again, the mage interjected, his eyes sharp as he studied Findir’s sweating, exhausted form. "Do you really only want gold?" he asked, his tone calm yet filled with suspicion.
Findir’s fake exhaustion morphed into rage, and he let out a roar so convincing that even the gods themselves might have been moved. "Gold?! You think I care about gold?" He slammed his fist into his chest, his face twisted in raw fury. "I want revenge! The Troll King and his army destroyed my entire village! My family! My friends! My... my everything!"
The Orc King’s eyes gleamed with approval. He leaned back, a vicious grin tugging at his monstrous lips. "You want revenge... Then you shall have it!" His next shout echoed so loudly through the chamber that it nearly shattered Findir’s eardrums. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath the force of his roar, the entire camp shaking as his voice traveled throughout the orcish stronghold. "PREPARE FOR WAR!"
In an instant, orc warriors flooded the camp, preparing for battle. Findir, his act complete, was escorted out of the chamber, his breathing calm but his heart pounding with the thrill of success. As he was led to a nearby training ground, where several orcs were locked in brutal sparring matches, Findir couldn’t help but let a wide grin stretch across his face. He raised a hand to cover his smile, chuckling under his breath.
"I see why Orion has so much fun doing this," he muttered to himself, the thrill of deception still coursing through his veins.
For the next few days, Findir remained in the orc camp, held captive though it was more by choice than force. He could have easily fled, slipping past the orcs with the same silent precision that had gotten him into the camp. But he stayed, obedient and unremarkable, blending into the routine of the enslaved. He knew the orcs were brutish and simple, but even among them, there were a few sharp-minded individuals who might grow suspicious if he suddenly disappeared. They would likely assume his presence had been to provoke a fight. Findir didn’t believe this was very probable, but with everything progressing so smoothly, he couldn’t afford any risks.
Over the days, he witnessed the orc camp gather an army of ten thousand strong, a sight both awe-inspiring and chilling. This number paled compared to the total population within the camp, but from snippets of overheard conversation, Findir gathered that there were other orc camps surrounding the base of the Troll Mountain, each preparing for the inevitable clash. The war that was brewing promised to be a bloody one. The clang of metal against metal filled the air, as the blacksmiths worked tirelessly, day and night, forging weapons for the coming battle. The demands of the Orc King were so extreme that some blacksmiths collapsed at their anvils, their lifeless bodies falling into the flames. But the work continued without pause, and not a single orc batted an eye at the fallen. This was the cruelty of the orc camp—expendability was a way of life.
And the slaves... the slaves suffered a fate far worse than the blacksmiths. Though slavery existed in the overworld, it was a hidden crime, illegal in almost every part of the continent. Here, in the orc camp, it was not only in full view but taken to the most extreme depths of cruelty. Findir had emptied his stomach more than once, sickened by the horrors he witnessed. There were breeding chambers—dark, vile places where the screams of tortured souls echoed night and day. Findir couldn’t bear to even glance in their direction, the anguish of those inside gnawing at his soul.
The male slaves endured unimaginable torment, forced into grueling work that seemed designed to break them both physically and mentally. They were driven from the moment they awoke, herded like cattle by cruel overseers wielding whips and clubs, with no regard for their condition. Every day was a new punishment, with no hope of reprieve. Their tasks were as varied as they were brutal.
Some were sent to the quarries, forced to carve massive stones out of the earth to fortify the orc camp’s defenses. Armed with crude tools, these emaciated men hammered away at the unyielding rock from dawn until dusk, their hands bloodied and blistered. The weight of their chains made their movements sluggish, and each swing of the pickaxe seemed to drain what little strength they had left. If they slowed down or faltered, the taskmasters were quick to lash their backs with spiked whips, the metal tips cutting deep into their flesh. It wasn’t uncommon to see slaves simply collapse under the weight of their labor, never to rise again. Their bodies were dragged away, replaced by fresh captives.
Others were forced to haul supplies across the camp, transporting heavy loads of wood, stone, or weaponry to feed the orc war machine. They carried these burdens through thick mud and uneven terrain, their bodies buckling under the weight of supplies that were far too heavy for their frail frames. The relentless pace never slowed, and the orcs showed no mercy to those who stumbled. A whip to the back was often followed by a kick, and those who couldn’t rise were trampled over by their fellow slaves, desperate to avoid the same fate.
There were those assigned to the forges, tasked with stoking the fires and maintaining the blistering heat required for the blacksmiths to work. The slaves worked side by side with the blacksmiths, throwing coal into the roaring furnaces, their skin blistering and peeling from the constant exposure to the flames. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the choking smoke. The heat was so intense that some of them collapsed where they stood, their bodies left to smolder in the ashes. Yet, the work never ceased.
A few were assigned the grim task of tending to the breeding chambers, hauling away the bodies of slaves who had been pushed past their limits. Their work was soul-crushing, as they were forced to witness horrors they could not unsee. Their eyes hollowed out from the trauma, these men barely functioned, carrying corpses like lifeless dolls, all while knowing their turn in the death cycle could come any day.
Every task was designed to crush the human spirit. Even at night, when the day’s work was done, the slaves were not granted proper rest. They were crammed into filthy, overcrowded pens with nothing but dirt to sleep on. Disease ran rampant, and the air was thick with the smell of rot. Yet, sleep was not a sanctuary. The orc guards often took pleasure in tormenting the slaves at night, forcing them awake to mock their suffering or subject them to more abuse.
Findir watched it all with growing horror. The slaves were treated as nothing more than fuel for the orcish war machine, their lives valued less than the very tools they worked with. It was a never-ending cycle of labor, suffering, and death, with no hope of escape. The only release came with death, and even then, their bodies were not spared. They were butchered and served as meat to the orc soldiers, their flesh consumed to sustain the very creatures that had destroyed them.
This was the reality Findir had to endure in silence, all while his heart ached with a desire to help. But he couldn’t. His mission took precedence, and any move to aid the slaves would risk everything. So he kept his head down, even as his soul screamed for justice, knowing that one wrong step could unravel the fragile balance he had maintained within the orc camp.
Each time he witnessed the atrocities, Findir felt his heart twist in agony. He considered abandoning his mission, just for a moment, to free as many slaves as he could. The urge was strong, almost unbearable at times, especially at night when the broken cries of the slaves echoed through the camp, mingling with the stench of death and sweat. The thought of slipping away under the cover of darkness, freeing those who still had the strength to run, crossed his mind repeatedly.
But his loyalty to Orion, and to the rest of his family, was stronger. He reminded himself that this mission, as twisted and brutal as it was, served a greater purpose. Every decision, every horrible moment, was a step toward a larger plan.
Yet, even as he reminded himself of this, Findir wept. At night, as he lay on the threadbare sleeping bag they had given him, surrounded by orc warriors training for war, his tears fell silently. He cried for the slaves, for the broken souls trapped in this nightmare, and for the cruelty of a world where such horrors could exist. And though he knew he had to remain steadfast, the weight of it all crushed him in those quiet moments of the night.
"Orion... this is too hard..."
