Translator: Cinder Translations
...
"Pah!"
Imar spat heavily.
"I, Imar the Stonemason, have actually fallen to the point of personally dealing with filthy and stupid orcs."
His belly was bulging, seemingly filled with resentment, and even the small braids of his beard trembled slightly.
"The Stonemason clan will see its king return to the throne and reclaim the power he was meant to hold. In that time, those traitors will get what they deserve."
Imar swore again and again, vowing by his surname, by his hammer, and even by his beloved beard.
Accompanied by this state of mind, he made his way to the small cabin that Barash had told him about, roughly pushed the door open, and boisterously said, "Gunther, you rascal, what have you—... hmm, who are you? Where's Gunther?"
The interior of the room was quite simple, with only a small wooden table and four stools made from logs—nothing more.
But the son of the Blood Ox tribe's chief was nowhere to be found.
Seated at the table was an unfamiliar older orc, accompanied by two equally unfamiliar young orcs standing behind him.
The old orc stared at Imar, seemingly scrutinizing him closely.
Imar felt uncomfortable under his gaze and cleared his throat, saying, "Excuse me, I think I've entered the wrong room. My apologies."
He turned to leave.
"No, you haven't entered the wrong room. Young chieftain of the Stonemason clan."
The old orc's words sent a shiver down Imar's spine.
"How do you know—"
"Haha! You dwarves seem to keep the secret of how to enter the mountains well, but you can't seem to keep any other secrets, especially after drinking." The old orc wore a sly smile.
Damn! Imar thought to himself, now there are three more people in the world laughing at me. No, perhaps a whole group of green-skinned, hairy brats?
Orcs, those barbaric fellows, are even less reliable than dwarves when it comes to keeping secrets, and they certainly don't treat others' secrets as secrets. They are crude, uncultured, and enjoy making a joke out of others' suffering.
Perhaps his deeds had already been "sung" across the entire grassland?
"I don't know what you're talking about!" He planned to play dumb. Dwarves and orcs don't live together, so let these brutes say whatever they want.
But it seemed too late.
"Imar, you are the eldest son of the former chieftain of the Stonemason clan. However, because you defied your father, you were expelled from the clan and had to cross mountains and valleys to seek refuge in the nearby Hammer tribe. Am I correct?"
The old orc's words pierced Imar's heart like a knife, causing his beard and the braids upon it to puff up. The muscles in his arms bulged, and his clenched fists cracked ominously.
"Damn it, I really regret not bringing a hammer or axe in here to crack open your old bald head, which is probably filled with something no bigger than a peach pit."
The two young orcs exchanged a glance and sneered contemptuously, not moving an inch, which only fueled Imar's anger.
"Oh, poor Imar. You should learn to respect those older than you."
The old orc spoke with a tone of pity. "But I forgive you because I sympathize with you. I know that what you've suffered is not merely banishment; you are banned for life from stepping into your clan's territory. Your right of inheritance has been stripped away, and when the man you call father passes away, it will be your brother who sits in the chieftain's seat."
"That isn't my brother!" Imar yelled, incensed. "Just some filthy rock picked up from who knows where."
"Oh, poor Imar." The old orc said cruelly, "No matter how much you shout here, you can't change the fact. The current person is nothing but a leech, living off relatives' protection, indulging daily in wine and illusions, a waste of life."
"You!" The dwarf Imar's veins bulged.
Eugene clapped lightly, "The Hammer tribe's arrangement for waste is reasonable, haha! Look, weren't you sent here to deal with that annoying Gunther? Barash is quite the good cousin to you."
"That has nothing to do with Barash or the Hammer tribe."
"You are indeed magnanimous, 'Your Highness.' May I ask, have they sent even one soldier to help you return home? Has anyone sent even a soldier to help you reclaim your inheritance?"
Imar impatiently replied, "Clans shouldn't interfere with each other."
"Oh, even if you are their blood relative? The indifference of dwarven kinship truly exceeds our rough orc imaginations! Just look at how your own father treats you; your uncle and cousin treat you the same way." Eugene exclaimed dramatically.
"Enough!"
Imar's patience reached its limit, and all the grievances, reluctance, and anger he felt suddenly erupted, quickly tightening around his heart.
Like a mad bull, the dwarf charged at the old orc with astonishing speed, so fast that the two young orcs standing behind Eugene couldn't react in time.
Imar grabbed the old orc's furs with both hands, yanking him from his seat effortlessly.
Because of his height, Eugene was now curled up with his legs dragged across the floor.
The two young orc guards angrily drew their weapons, one holding a dagger and the other wielding a mace, shouting at Imar to let Eugene go, or they would make sure this ignorant dwarf wouldn't leave the room.
"Stand down!"
Eugene waved his hand to dismiss his subordinates. The two young orcs lowered their weapons and took a step back, still glaring at Imar with resentment.
Eugene's face flushed slightly, and his breath became a bit ragged, as if Imar's sudden move had caught him off guard. Was the son of a clan chieftain really this impulsive?
Imar stared at Eugene with an intensity that felt tangible. "I know you're trying to sow discord, you filthy, disgusting bastards, pretending to be noble, thinking the great Imar can't see through your pathetic tricks?"
"Calm down! Young chieftain of the Stonemason clan." Eugene had no doubt that if he provoked him further, those strong hands would ruthlessly snap his neck.
Though the dwarf only reached the orc's waist, they were not lacking in strength compared to orcs, and Eugene dared not underestimate him.
"I didn't come to provoke you. What I want to say is…"
Imar's eyes widened, like copper bells.
"The Stonemason tribe can't give you what you need, but the king's tent on the great grassland can give it to you. Chief Abal can give it to you!"
(End of the Chapter)
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