Orgrim Doomhammer was in a foul mood. His temper was shorter than a gnome's fuse.
The utter failure of the cross-sea attack on Southshore was a black mark on his record as Warchief, a stain that wouldn't wash out easily. Sure, everyone knew it was just a relatively large-scale exploratory attack, a probing jab. After all, the main force that actually went into battle was only the Warsong Clan, a mere 25,000 strong, and the rest of the warriors were mostly from smaller, less prestigious clans, basically cannon fodder.
But failure is failure, plain and simple. And the straightforward, no-nonsense orcs had no concept of a "feint attack." To them, you either won, or you died trying. There was no middle ground, no subtle tactical nuances.
Most of them still grumbled that Stormwind had been conquered by Chieftain Blackhand, and Orgrim had merely turned around and found an empty city, a hollow victory. Ironforge, which should have been Orgrim's crowning achievement, his personal trophy, hadn't been completely conquered. Not by a long shot.
It wasn't that Kilrogg Deadeye's Bleeding Hollow clan didn't work their green hides off. Oh, they worked hard, alright. But when they attacked near the gate of Ironforge, those poor, battle-hardened warriors of the Bleeding Hollow clan got utterly stuck. No orc, no matter how tough, could withstand that kind of three-dimensional, all-around, "everything-but-the-kitchen-sink" cannon fodder attack.
Many times, a new hole would suddenly appear in the mountain wall, and from it, deadly shots would burst forth, either from guns, or worse still, from cannons, turning orcs into green mist. It was like fighting a mountain that shot back.
Their greatest achievement was advancing to the very entrance, practically knocking on the dwarves' front door, almost entering the dwarf's core area. And then, the warriors who fought their way inside encountered a pocket formation, a brutal killing zone, made by the dwarves using steam tanks and various cannons.
Those orc warriors died just like that. Poof. Gone. Like a bad smell on a windy day.
This had nothing to do with courage; it was purely a matter of fighting philosophy. The dwarves were playing a different game entirely.
And just now, the news had come in: another failure for Orgrim. The exploratory fleet he'd sent to the Swamp of Sorrows had returned with a grim report. The ocean-going fleet he had painstakingly built, piece by agonizing piece, was almost completely wiped out. Not even a single ship could return. They were all at the bottom of the sea.
"A super giant whirlpool that spans the entire sea area from the shore to the deepest sea?" Orgrim wondered if the orcs' luck had finally run out, if the well had run dry. Although he never really believed in "luck," it was starting to feel like the universe had a personal vendetta against him.
In the past, he might have chanted about the protection of the ancestral spirits, called upon the elements. But after almost all orc shamans abandoned tradition and transformed from shamans to warlocks, embracing the dark arts, no warlock has ever been heard of who could still sense the call of Mother Earth. They were too busy calling on demons.
What Orgrim had to face was that winter was coming, and before the winter was over, he would most likely not be able to organize a decent cross-sea operation. The ice would make it impossible.
Wetlands, as the name implies, are areas consisting of a large number of swamps and shallow puddles. Spending the winter here was simply a nightmare, a freezing, muddy hell. Orcs were hardworking and could endure hardships, but if given a choice, no one would be willing to spend the winter in such a wet and cold, miserable place.
Not long after Orgrim took office as Warchief, the disadvantage of his insufficient reputation began to show. He was still the new kid on the block.
He didn't have enough clout to truly subdue those irritable chiefs, who were constantly grumbling and demanding. And their demands seemed so damn reasonable.
"We are willing to fight to the death for the Horde, Warchief. But at least give us a peaceful winter. Unless it is a disaster that will destroy the Horde, no clan will choose to go to war in winter."
"We have conquered an entire continent. The warriors of the Horde are very tired. Winter is the time for producing the next generation of tribal warriors. I cannot oppose this tradition."
What do orcs do in winter? As long as there is enough food, they all roast fire, eat the stored food, and hold the female orcs to give birth to baby orcs. It was their version of a cozy winter vacation.
This was the tradition that the orcs had passed down for thousands or tens of thousands of years, etched into their very bones.
Orgrim reluctantly agreed to withdraw the army to the more comfortable Loch Modan area, a little further south, where it was drier and warmer. In order to appease his powerful Blackrock Clan, he even moved most of the Blackrock Clan orcs back to Elwynn Forest, their original stomping ground.
Of course, the orcs of the Blackrock Clan were also happy to travel for more than half a month to return to the territory that they had conquered at the cost of more than 100,000 of their fellow tribesmen. After all, it was warmer there, and Duke had not burned all of the forest, as there were still a lot of trees that could be used as charcoal for winter heating. A small mercy.
Orgrim's only consolation was that his new right-hand man, Zuluhed, the chieftain and shaman of the Dragonmaw clan, brought him "the news" and his biggest worry – Gul'dan was laid low.
He'd gone to see Gul'dan yesterday, a visit he'd dreaded:
The Horde's former puppet master, the shadowy power behind the throne, was in a bad state. A very bad state.
"I'm sorry, Warchief. The humans have a very strong mage. Although I have severely damaged him, it is obvious that I will not be able to serve the Horde for a long time." As he spoke, Gul'dan was not only gasping for breath, sounding like a dying boar, but his shoulders were completely covered by huge blocks of ice.
It should be said that half of his body was embedded in a block of ice, like a particularly gruesome sculpture.
Orgrim narrowed his eyes. He had seen ice magic from human mages before, but this was the first time he had seen something this horrible, this utterly devastating. An icicle, thick as a tree trunk, pierced Gul'dan's shoulder, and with the wound as the center, a terrifying cold energy gathered there and did not dissipate. It was a persistent, chilling curse.
Orgrim roughly smashed off nearly half of the ice with his Hammer of Doom, taking a swing at it like a madman, but it was of no use. The ice seemed to be an amoeba that could increase in value infinitely, and within just a few seconds, it returned to its original state. It was like trying to punch water.
Orgrim frowned, a deep furrow in his brow.
"This is a mysterious energy method of humans called the Arcane Circuit. That powerful man injected a portion of his power into my body, and it formed an independent cycle. My injuries cannot be healed until this power is destroyed."
Orgrim nodded: "You should take good care of your injuries, Gul'dan. Get well."
Orgrim left after saying this, without even asking Gul'dan to provide more death knights to the Horde. He was too relieved to see the warlock out of commission.
Who knew that just as Orgrim left, Gul'dan sneered, a venomous, triumphant twist of his lips. In front of his confidant, the two-headed ogre magician Cho'gall, the ice on his shoulder shattered, exploding outwards, and the seemingly extremely cold and powerful ice cone was left with only a small piece as big as a chopstick stuck in Gul'dan's shoulder. He'd been faking it.
"Orgrim, you are a fool who does not understand what power is," Gul'dan hissed, his voice filled with contempt. "Very good, go back to your war. I have other things to do, and because of you resting assured, I will have more freedom to focus on these things. I will continue to play the role of this loyal warlock who was gloriously wounded for the Horde. But I swear... this will not be forever. Soon I will get what I seek, and then you and this tribe will disappear from my sight forever. I will establish a new force to replace you, a force that is only loyal to me, and then I will change the world according to my plan! Hahahaha!"
Gul'dan laughed wildly, a cackling, unholy sound that echoed through the cavern, and his laughter greatly encouraged the remaining warlocks of the Shadow Council... their dark hearts swelling with renewed ambition.
After Orgrim left, he and his guards walked straight to the Dragon Roar Clan's base.
Next to the chief's tent, Orgrim saw a thin and wrinkled old orc, but under the gray and tattered braids there was still a pair of sharp brown-red eyes, gleaming with ancient wisdom.
"Zuluhed!" Orgrim shouted, his voice booming.
The old orc shaman looked towards the source of the voice and found that it was the Warchief calling his name, so he immediately stood up and pushed away the wine glass and large plate in front of him, eager to serve.
"Doomhammer!" Unlike Gul'dan's false humility, Zuluhed did not bow, and Orgrim didn't care about it. He respected the shaman's pride.
After all, Zuluhed himself was a chieftain, the leader of the Dragonmaw Clan. He was also a shaman, the only shaman who remained with the Horde after coming to this world, clinging to the old ways. And Orgrim felt more comfortable communicating with this typical orc, a straightforward, no-nonsense warrior.
It was the strange foresight that the shaman brought, the weird visions he offered, or what he might offer, that interested Orgrim so much.
"How did that go?" Doomhammer didn't exchange pleasantries, but took the wine glass handed over by Zuluhed. The wine in it was very good, and the human blood that flowed into the glass made the wine even more delicious, a dark, rich flavor.
"It's done! Great Chief!" Zuluhed opened his stinky mouth and let out a smile that seemed like a declaration of victory, a wide, toothy grin.
"Take me to see it! Now! Right away!" Orgrim was practically bouncing off the walls, his impatience barely contained.
After two powerful attacks, one was a victory but a defeat, and the other was a direct failure, Orgrim deeply felt the bottleneck of the orcs. As the most visionary among the orcs, and also the highest-ranking one, Orgrim deeply knew that the era of orcs conquering the world alone was over. Their solo act was officially canceled.
"As you command. Please follow me." Zuluhed called Orgrim to ride on the wolf, leading the way.
Soon, they arrived at the southeast part of the wetland.
This place is called Grim Batol, as the dwarves call it. It was once a dwarven fortress, a stronghold of stone and iron, but now it belongs to the Dragonmaw clan.
Although the rooms in the Dwarf Fortress were large enough, the height was enough for the Dwarves, but it was not friendly to most Orcs, who had to stoop and duck. Zuluhed asked most of the Hordesmen who had nothing to do to expand the fortress, hacking away at the stone. The fortress had complete facilities and was built inside the mountain, so it was easy to defend, which was very important.
Because there was a powerful weapon stored here that could break through humanity's damn defense system, a true game-changer.
Zuluhed led the Warchief and his guards into the depths of the fortress and finally came to a huge iron gate, thick and imposing. It could be imagined that there must be a vast underground hall behind the iron gate, a cavernous space.
"What's inside? You told me a few weeks ago that you sensed an extremely powerful mysterious force that had the ability to change the entire situation of the battle. Is this thing inside now?" Orgrim demanded, his voice low and urgent.
"Yes, my great chief."
"I hope the things inside are worth that much. Do you understand? Zuluhed, for the sake of your illusory illusion, your crazy visions, I sent you 30,000 elite orcs as a search team, and almost 100,000 laborers as diggers. If it weren't for you, I would have focused on attacking Southshore Town. Now! If you disappoint me, I don't mind letting you see the wrath of the Great Chief. You'll be in a world of hurt." Orgrim raised the Doomhammer in his hand and issued a threatening declaration, his eyes burning.
"You won't be disappointed, Chief." Zuluhed shrugged his nose and showed a rough smile, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
At this time, one of Orgrim's guards, a curious fool, attempted to touch the handle on the iron gate.
"Wait!"
The chieftain of the Dragonmaw clan issued the most severe warning, his voice sharp and urgent. He took out a strange object from a large bag on his waist, a huge and ordinary-looking golden disk, and held it high.
"I am the master of the Demon Soul. In the name of the master, I command you to appear! Guardian!"
It is difficult to say whether Zuluhed used the power of a shaman, or something darker.
In any case, in the vision of the great chief and dozens of orc guards, they only saw countless sparks emerging from the huge iron gate, and gathered into a figure in the void in front of the iron gate.
The figure gradually began to become clear. It was a tall, strong humanoid figure wearing an unfamiliar bone armor. Its top was a bit like a demon skull that had lost its flesh and was hollowed out, but it was burning with flames.
Its eyes were spheres of black flame. This strange being floated in front of them, as tall as an orc but looking very dull, exuding an indescribable power and... a sense of alertness. It was a silent, terrifying sentinel.
"We are going in." Zuluhed held the Demon Soul in front of it and said, while pointing his finger at Orgrim and his guards, telling it that "we" included those creatures.
The strange being nodded, turned into countless sparks again, and disappeared in front of the iron gate. The Dragonmaw Clan Chief nodded to his great chief, indicating that he could enter.
"What would be the consequences of just barging in?" Orgrim asked, a hint of unease in his voice.
"Well, it was bad. Very bad. There was a messenger with your message, and he rushed in without waiting for me to relieve the guard, and then the guard appeared from nowhere, grabbed the fool's head with his huge hot hands, and the fool's head turned to ash. Poof. Gone."
Orgrim seemed to be able to imagine a huge flaming claw grabbing the careless orc's head, flames coming out of his seven orifices, and after a few seconds the guy stopped screaming, his body went limp, and his head turned into a pile of pure ash. A gruesome, fiery end.
Fortunately, Zuluhed was a pure orc, not a conspirator like Gul'dan who made Orgrim uncomfortable all day long. Fortunately, Gul'dan was seriously injured. A small blessing.
The huge iron gate opened with a creaking, groaning sound, revealing the darkness within.
Inside, you could see dozens of heavy metal chains that were burned red by high temperatures, connected to the wall. Very strangely, Orgrim originally thought that he would see a huge creature filling the entire cave, a monstrous beast.
As a result, at the end of those magical chains, which became thinner as they moved toward the center of the room, were tied...
A human female!?
From the perspective of the entrance, she was lying on the ground with her face pressed against the ground, her head facing the innermost part of the cave. She had a red base color, gold-rimmed hand and leg armor, and a set of sexy bikini armor. As a woman, she was very beautiful, with long red hair as bright as fire, and a body that was extremely attractive in the eyes of human aesthetics.
Whether it was out of comfort or despair, Orgrim could clearly feel that she was actually awake, but she just lay there, utterly still.
Orgrim was furious! His face turned a deeper shade of green.
He pointed his thick finger at the plump and slender waist and yelled at Zuluhed: "You idiot, you are attracted by this shriveled and weak waist!? Bastard! I don't care which country she is the queen or princess of! Zuluhed, you are dead! You're a dead man walking!"
At this time, Zuluhed smiled mysteriously and tapped the disc in his hand.
The next moment, the seemingly human woman and the chains grew rapidly... expanding, stretching, transforming.
After a few seconds, Orgrim recovered from his shock, his jaw hanging open.
"Hahaha! Zuluhed, you sly dog! You magnificent bastard! Well done!"