Translator: Cinder Translations
...
The flames in the hearth flickered, casting shadows that mirrored the turbulent emotions of the room's owner.
The chieftain of the Blood Ox Tribe stared at the fire, his face grim.
His heart was a swirl of anger, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of worry.
A grass curtain separated the innermost section of the longhouse, behind which strange animal sounds emanated—howls of ice wolves, roars of black-spotted tigers, and chirps of birds.
Anyone unaware of the truth would assume that Chief Asoye was keeping many animals in his home.
But in reality, the sounds came from the shamans of the orcs, practitioners of an ancient profession. They mimicked the voices of animals to communicate spiritually with the Wild Spirits, the oldest deities worshiped by orcs. Through this, they sought to receive blessings of power beyond mortal reach—at least, that's what they claimed.
On the other side of the grass curtain, the shamans danced while producing the animal sounds.
Asoye wanted desperately to storm in and ask about his son's condition but dared not move. The shamans had repeatedly warned him not to disrupt the gods, so he remained still, fearing his rashness would anger them.
Just two days ago, his son, Gunther, had been carried back to the Blood Ox Tribe.
Those who brought him back had been panting heavily, as though returning from a lost battle—which, as it turned out, they had.
Asoye nearly fainted at the sight of his son.
Gunther's arm had been tightly bandaged, but the large patches of blood and his pale complexion told Asoye that his injuries were grave.
Gunther could barely stand on his own, and several other warriors had suffered similar wounds.
Under Asoye's fierce gaze, Gunther and his men trembled as they recounted the events that had led to this, explaining that their injuries were caused by an evil staff.
The chieftain of the Blood Ox Tribe was enraged, ready to punish them, but seeing his son in such a state held him back.
Now, Asoye didn't even know how to direct his anger.
As he considered how to reprimand his son and the warriors, things took a turn for the worse—their wounds began to deteriorate.
The initial signs were swelling and pus around the injuries, which soon progressed to fevers and burning hot foreheads.
Orcs had naturally robust bodies, rarely getting sick, yet here they were, burning with fever...
That very night, two strong warriors succumbed to the illness, claimed by the Wild Spirits.
The worst part was that Gunther himself was among the fever-stricken.
...
The sound of the longhouse door opening interrupted Asoye's thoughts.
It was his loyal guard, Yerye.
Without looking up, Asoye weakly asked, "How are the others?"
Yerye shook his head. "Chieftain, two have shown signs of recovery—their fevers are subsiding—but the others… it doesn't look good. You should see this."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out several small objects, placing them in Asoye's hand.
The chieftain stared intently at Yerye's palm, seeing small metal pieces.
"What are these?" Asoye asked, holding one up.
"They were found inside the wounded warriors," Yerye replied.
These things had brought his son and warriors to the brink of life and death?
Yerye explained, "I've examined them closely—they're made of lead. Based on what the survivors described, I believe the 'staff' is more like a slingshot, and these…" he gestured at the metal pieces in his hand, "are the projectiles fired from it."
"Chieftain, these projectiles are terrifying. From the outside, it seems like just a hole in the skin, but inside, they wreak brutal damage."
"I see."
Asoye looked at his guard. "Take care of the injured warriors. I'm counting on you."
"Yes, Chieftain!"
Yerye bowed and left the longhouse.
Asoye continued sitting by the fire, staring blankly at the flames.
"Chieftain!"
Finally, the voice he had been waiting for arrived.
Three shamans parted the grass curtain and approached Asoye.
"Gunther's condition has stabilized for now; his fever is no longer rising. But…"
The word "but" dragged Asoye back from the edge of joy.
"What is it?" he asked.
"To completely heal Gunther, we must… we must…"
Asoye frowned. "Stop stammering and tell me directly."
"We must completely remove his injured arm."
Asoye exploded in anger. "What?! That would make my son a cripple! Do you understand what that means?"
The head shaman, gathering his courage, said, "There is no other way. Though he will lose an arm, Gunther will keep his life. If you refuse, then I'm afraid…"
Asoye painfully nodded.
"Very well. If that's your decision, proceed as you see fit."
The shamans bowed and left to prepare.
Asoye approached his son's side. Gunther, now delirious, mumbled incoherently.
Asoye glanced at Gunther's injured arm, where a bloody hole remained. The area had been cleaned, but the flesh around it was swollen.
Is there… a lead bullet inside?
Asoye thought back to the metal pieces Yerye had shown him.
The shamans soon returned, carrying their tools. The most conspicuous—and terrifying—was a saw!
"Chieftain, we must bind Gunther to prevent him from thrashing during the procedure," the head shaman said.
Asoye made a gesture of approval and left the room silently.
The shamans swiftly tied Gunther down, placing a specially made stick in his mouth.
This was to prevent him from biting off his own tongue.
Even in his delirious state, Gunther sensed something, opening his cloudy eyes to see the tools in the shamans' hands.
"Mmm! No… mmm!"
He writhed in agony, his instincts warning him of the fate awaiting him. He tried to spit out the stick in his mouth, but couldn't.
"Hold him down! Hold him down!"
The shaman with the saw urged his companions as they restrained Gunther.
Outside the longhouse, Asoye stood in silence, gazing up at the night sky.
Before long, a long, pitiful wail echoed from inside the house…
TL: Damn bro! I'm so glad tetanus is curable now... But maybe it's lead poisoning...
(End of the Chapter)
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