Chapter 42: All Living Things Must Die

  Ethan found himself admiring Lord Bolgan—at least a little.

  Bolgan’s earlier predictions hadn’t been entirely accurate, though. The goblins hadn’t sold off their plunder—couldn’t sell it, in fact. The goods no longer belonged to them; the other orcs had confiscated everything. While the fortress’s main inhabitants were indeed orcs, its core leaders, rumor had it, were humans.

  One prediction had held true: gold and silver coins circulated here, just like in human kingdoms, and dwarf and human merchants traded within the walls. None of these merchants hailed from the empire, though—they all came from kingdoms west of the Barbarian Highlands or small states southwest of the empire.

  Bolgan had also mentioned the fortress would be "orderly." Ethan hadn’t paid much mind to what "orderly" meant until he stepped inside.

  It was a settlement where orcs of all races lived together. Nearly every building was made of massive stone hewn from nearby mountains—plain, unadorned, with no trace of ornamentation. Yet for all its ruggedness (far cruder than Bracada’s) and its orc inhabitants, it felt no more barbaric than human society. If anything, it seemed to value discipline and rules more. On its northern outskirts, separate districts housed ogres, werewolves, and other orcish races—self-governed territories where each group managed its own affairs. Between these districts lay the heart of the fortress, a city called Oufu.

  In Oufu’s central square stood three enormous stone stelae, etched with the city’s laws in bold, unflinching characters—visible even to a dwarf with poor eyesight from a distance. The axe-hewn strokes were deep; they lacked elegance, but they conveyed the neatness and rigor one expected of laws. The regulations applied only to Oufu’s central district, and in many ways resembled human laws—some even seemed more lenient, focused solely on maintaining order. Their most striking difference? The wording was brutal in its simplicity. Each law prohibited a specific act, but none specified a punishment. The gallows standing beside the stelae said it all: there was only one penalty here—death by hanging.

  Perhaps it was this deterrent justice that kept Oufu so orderly. For all the orcs wandering its streets, there was no violence, no savagery. These subhumans were mostly busy with their own tasks, going about their days.

  It was a true city. Save for taverns and casinos, it had nearly everything a human city had—most surprising of all, it exuded a sense of civilization. Every orc (save lizardmen) spoke basic human language; some even knew how to read. Half-orcs were the most notable—close kin to goblins, they had human-level intelligence, making them easy to interact with. They handled much of the city’s day-to-day affairs.

  This order was astonishing. Orcs had always been synonymous with savagery and ignorance, but here, they felt more deserving of the scholarly term "subhuman."

  Such strict order made crime nearly impossible. The thieves were caught off guard. After days of waiting, the old thief Fodolen had finally contacted the goblins—only to learn the plunder had been seized by the other orcs, supposedly in exchange for the goblins’ right to their own district. Worse, the orcs had no intention of reselling it. The news threw the gang into chaos. They’d been stranded here for days, unwilling to leave empty-handed but unsure what to do next.

  Ethan wasn’t worried. He was closer than ever to the book, and he doubted the orcs would hoard the goods forever. If all else failed, he could steal it back. His mood was calm—too calm, almost.

  Sophia was the most cheerful, most energetic of the group. True to her word, she’d treated the trip like an adventure. At first, she’d stuck to the inn, asking merchants and dwarves about the city. But soon, she’d dragged Ethan out to explore, a notebook and pen in hand, jotting down notes and sketching strange sights. Thanks to her, Ethan had also learned the fortress’s layout. He’d always been quick to adapt, and with Sophia pulling him from place to place, the days here felt less like a mission and more like a peaceful tour of an exotic land. The only annoyance? Even though he slept on the floor or a chair, Sophia insisted he bathe every day.

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  That day, they’d gone to watch the outer city’s construction. Ogres and werewolves hauled materials to build houses and structures, their brute strength paired with custom-made tools making them surprisingly efficient. Dwarves or human engineers directed the work. Ethan stared in awe, half-convinced he was dreaming—his memories of orcish bloodshed and violence from six months earlier clashed sharply with this scene of peace.

  They’d just returned to the inn and were about to head to dinner when Fodolen’s voice rang out at the door: "Come out—something’s happened."

  Ethan and Sophia hurried outside to find nearly all the thieves following Fodolen, rushing toward the square.

  "What’s going on?" Ethan caught up to Fodolen. For days, the old thief had been negotiating with the orcs over the plunder, with little success.

  "One-Eye tried to break into the warehouse last night to steal something. He got caught," Fodolen said. One-Eye was a skilled night thief in their gang—so agile, rumor had it he’d once robbed the imperial palace. "I warned him not to act rashly, but he heard there was a cache of jewels in the goods. He snuck into the warehouse at night… and ran into two werewolf guards."

  "Werewolves?" Ethan’s blood ran cold. He thought back to his life-or-death struggle with a werewolf in the Lizard Marsh. No hunters were deadlier—their senses and strength were dozens of times sharper than a human’s. If he’d rushed in blindly to steal, he’d likely have met the same fate.

  "What about One-Eye?"

  "Hanged," Fodolen said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.

  Beside Oufu’s three stone stelae stood an equally massive gallows—built from stone slabs and wood, tall and sturdy. Together with the law-etched stelae, it exuded the grim authority of death.

  A crowd of orcs had already gathered. Two werewolves held One-Eye, bound and gagged. Leading them was a human—a middle-aged man in plain clothes. One-Eye’s eyes were covered with a black cloth, and though his mouth was stuffed, muffled shouts escaped him. His bound limbs thrashed wildly, but against the werewolves’ grip, his struggles were pitifully futile.

  The human stepped forward and announced One-Eye’s crimes: attempted theft and assaulting a guard the night before, confirmed by the city’s council. He then turned to the stelae and read aloud the law prohibiting theft. When he finished, he nodded to the werewolves, who lifted One-Eye onto the gallows and slipped a noose—thick as a man’s arm—around his neck. One-Eye continued to struggle, his muffled cries growing louder.

  The man climbed onto the gallows and pulled a lever. The floor beneath One-Eye opened, and he dropped.

  The noose snapped tight with a faint crack. When the werewolves lowered his body, he was silent—already dead. The fall had snapped his neck clean. For all his thrashing, his death had been quick, efficient.

  The orc crowd showed little reaction—far less excitement than human onlookers at an execution. They murmured among themselves, then dispersed, melting back into the city’s bustle.

  Ethan felt a tight grip on his arm. He turned to see Sophia, her face pale, staring at One-Eye’s body as the werewolves carried it away.

  Back in their inn room, Sophia still clung to his arm, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat on the simple bed. Her face was ashen; her thin lower lip was caught between her teeth, revealing a hint of white. Her brows were furrowed, and her narrow eyes seemed fixed on something invisible, wide with disorientation.

  "First time seeing someone killed?" Ethan asked softly.

  "No," Sophia shook her head. Ethan could feel the stiffness in her movement. "First time seeing someone I knew killed."

  One-Eye had been the friendliest to them in the gang—he’d often stopped by to chat, telling Ethan silly jokes. When Sophia didn’t understand and asked questions, he’d laugh loud and proud.

  Ethan felt a twinge of sadness. Unconsciously, he leaned his cheek against her hair. Sophia stirred slightly, but didn’t pull away.

  A strange scent drifted to his nose—faint, not quite a fragrance, but tangible. It wasn’t just a smell; it felt like a touch, filling every corner of his senses. The skin of his cheek tingled at the softness of her hair, and that softness seemed to carry an indescribable, mysterious warmth. He lost himself in the delicate sensation, his mind going blank.

  "I’ve been afraid of death since I was little," Sophia said, her voice quiet, as if talking to herself. "I don’t want to see anyone die—human or animal. Something alive, gone in an instant… forever. It’s terrifying."

  "A few days ago, I admired their laws—so clear, so intimidating, so thorough. In chaotic times, strict laws are needed, especially in a city of mixed races. That’s why they only have the death penalty. But today… I watched someone I knew die because of it. I know he deserved it—he broke the law on purpose. To keep order, they have to uphold the law. So he had to die… but I still didn’t want to see it."

  "All who live must die," Ethan replied, his mind foggy.

  "I don’t want to die," Sophia mumbled, just as dazed.

  Lost in the moment, Ethan felt a sudden surge of courage. He sat up straight, turned to face her, and said firmly: "I’ll never let you die."

  "Dinner’s ready!" Fodolen’s voice called from outside.

  For the first time in his life, Ethan thought eating was the most annoying thing in the world.