Chapter 62: The Virtue of Madness

  Nights in the Barbarian Highlands were always unusually quiet. Only the occasional cry of a wyvern echoed through the sky—but the soldiers had grown accustomed to it. Ever since leaving Bracada, these massive beasts had circled high above their heads. At first, some soldiers had tried to shoot them down with arrows, but the wyverns’ altitude and the gale from their wings sent all long-range attacks plummeting back to the ground, sometimes wounding their own comrades. Clearly, the orcs cherished these precious creatures too much to risk sending them down to attack. So when the army camped at night, dozens of soldiers with powerful bows and crossbows stood guard by the campfires, watching for wyvern raids.

  Several werewolves crept toward the camp under the cover of darkness. Not a sound betrayed their approach—not even in the still night. They needed no light; even in this moonless blackness, they could see clearly, allowing them to close in without a single noise or glimmer. It was a skill humans could never match—one that made them perfect ambushers.

  The edge of the camp was eerily quiet, with no patrolling soldiers at all. The werewolves slipped closer. Of course, with so few in their number, they couldn’t inflict serious damage—this was just a probe, a harassment.

  Suddenly, a strange, high-pitched squeaking came from inside the camp. It sounded like the cry of some small animal. Before the werewolves could react, the entire camp sprang to life. Torches flared to life everywhere; soldiers poured out of their tents. The once-silent camp erupted into a roar of chaos, as wave after wave of men charged toward the werewolves.

  No officers shouted orders or directed the soldiers. They swarmed forward with weapons in hand, yelling—disorganized, like a mob of brawling ruffians. Discipline didn’t guide them; rage and hatred did.

  The two frontmost soldiers fell instantly to the werewolves’ maces, their mangled bodies flying far, blood splattering everywhere. But the soldiers who got their comrades’ blood on them showed no hesitation or fear. Instead, they charged forward more fiercely, their shouts no longer human—more like the snarls of bloodthirsty beasts. By the torchlight, their bloodshot eyes blazed with frenzied frenzy.

  The werewolves, in turn, were stunned by the scene. They turned to flee.

  From the crowd of soldiers, a massive figure moved with surprising speed—far faster than his size suggested. In a few strides, he reached a werewolf, swinging a huge axe. He was nearly as tall as the werewolf himself, and his axe carried the same devastating force as the creature’s mace.

  The werewolf dodged by a hair’s breadth, swinging his mace at the attacker. The weapon—capable of shattering shields and armor—clashed with the man’s second axe, unleashing a thunderous, evenly matched crash.

  The werewolf howled in agony. The man had already pulled back his other axe—missed but now wielded with brute strength and skill—and swept it sideways, hacking off the werewolf’s weapon-wielding arm.

  In his agony, the werewolf’s free claw raked a chunk of flesh from his opponent’s body. But the pause was brief. Soldiers swarmed in. The werewolf managed to kill two or three more men with his claws and teeth before being hacked and stabbed to pieces by countless swords and spears.

  The other werewolves had already fled into the night. The man who had just felled the werewolf had his upper body soaked in blood. If he hadn’t dodged quickly—drawing on years of experience—that claw would have gutted him.

  This long-awaited taste of pain and battle reignited his fighting spirit. He roared, taking a step forward and hurling his giant axe. It whistled through the air, chasing a fleeing werewolf. A cry rang out—the creature fell. The rest vanished into the darkness.

  Ethan emerged from his tent just in time to see the soldiers—their morale sky-high—surrounding the general as he returned. The blood covering the old man didn’t make him look weary; if anything, it invigorated him, as if the battle had breathed new life into him. When he saw Ethan, he nodded toward a few small animals tied to the corner of a tent and smiled. “We have you to thank for this idea.”

  They were pika—small herbivores native to the wasteland, with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. Back in Bracada, when Ethan had discussed wilderness combat with the general, he’d mentioned this trick: catch these sensitive creatures, tie them around the camp, and they’d squeal in unison at the scent of carnivores. Adventurers used this method to rest safely in beast-infested areas; Ethan had adapted it—and it had worked perfectly against the werewolves’ silent raids. The general had already ordered all soldiers to sleep with their weapons, ready to spring up and attack at the first sound of pika squeaks. The plan had paid off.

  Soldiers dragged over the werewolf the general had downed with his thrown axe. The blow hadn’t been fatal, and the creature clung to life with stubborn vitality. The general ordered it bound tightly to a post.

  Having taken down two werewolves single-handedly, the general was now a god of war in the eyes of these young soldiers.

  They gathered around him as he poured strong liquor over his wound. The gash was deep, cutting into his thick muscles. The general took a needle and thread, stitching the flesh back together himself—pushing the needle through his skin, pulling it out beside the wound, piercing again, then yanking the thread tight. The flesh puckered as the thread pulled it closed.

  The general’s face was calm, as if he were sewing a shirt. Most of the young soldiers were new to battle; seeing this, their admiration for him grew boundless.

  Ethan watched coldly, not stepping forward to heal the general with magic. He wanted the old man dead as soon as possible—and he could tell this brave display was just another way to boost the young soldiers’ morale.

  When the performance ended, the general told the men to rest. After this scare, there would be no more raids.

  Ethan stayed. Once the soldiers left, only he and the dying werewolf remained.

  He wanted to look at the creature. He was the only one here with no hatred for orcs. In Oufu, he’d grown used to seeing orcs work and live like humans—using tools, building lives. To him, they were no different from people.

  Judging by its build, this was a young werewolf—still not fully grown, its white downy fur not yet shed. In human years, it would have been a teenager. The general’s axe had left a deep gash in its back; a broken rib protruded from the wound. If it hadn’t been wearing a tough leather armor, the blow would have killed it.

  The soldiers had bound the werewolf tightly with ropes—but even without them, it couldn’t have struggled. Its wolf-like face looked weak; its eyes half-open, staring at Ethan as it hovered between life and death. Then tears welled up in its eyes. Its youth made it vulnerable.

  Poets had once praised tears as a human trait—but anyone who knew animals understood this was a lie. Ethan had never thought tears held any noble meaning, yet seeing this werewolf cry stirred something odd in him. He knelt down, placing a hand on the werewolf’s wound and casting a healing spell.

  Ever since he’d started dreaming of traveling again, he’d spent his free time in Bracada studying magic, asking the priests under him for advice. He’d never bothered to memorize the tedious incantations for blessings or buffs, but he’d made great progress with practical spells like healing and antidotes. The power of the World Tree Leaf and the Sunwell in his body likely boosted his magic; while his healing wasn’t as masterful as old Sandro’s, it was far stronger than a regular priest’s. As soon as he cast it, the werewolf’s bleeding stopped, and the wound began to close.

  “Th-thank you,” the werewolf said, its voice weak and slurred. Young orcs usually worked hard to learn human language. To receive such unexpected help here left the small werewolf astonished. “P-please… let me go?”

  Ethan shrugged. “I can’t. If I let you go, they’ll chop me up like a spy. That crazy old man is probably looking for an excuse to get rid of me as it is.”

  “I… don’t want to die.” The young werewolf’s face contorted, whimpering like a wounded dog.

  That plea sounded familiar—and it tugged at Ethan’s heart. But he knew he couldn’t set the werewolf free. “You never should have come raiding in the first place,” he said, feeling awkward about his sympathy. It was his idea that had let the general foil the werewolves’ attack so easily. Normally, defending against night raids by werewolves—nocturnal orcs—would have drained the army’s strength and morale.

  The werewolf perked up a little, speaking in the strange, halting tone unique to werewolves. “We weren’t raiding… just… scouting. General Gru wanted to know your army’s purpose… what you’re here for.” It was clearly a smart young werewolf; speaking human language didn’t seem to strain it.

  Purpose? Were they here to destroy Oufu—or just to die?

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  Ethan could almost see what would happen when this army faced General Gru’s orc forces. Gru alone couldn’t stop five thousand soldiers—but he could charge into their ranks and twist the general’s head off like an apple, or crush it like a tomato. Without their leader and spiritual figurehead, and after witnessing such overwhelming strength, even the most fiery morale would shatter instantly. The soldiers would be left to the orcs’ mercy.

  That was why Ethan had joined this march: to prevent that from happening. Saving five thousand young lives—honestly, Ethan had never thought of himself as noble. He just didn’t want to see mountains of corpses, didn’t want a massacre dozens of times more horrific than the one he’d survived half a year ago. No matter how deranged the general was, these five thousand soldiers were innocent.

  But he had no idea how to fix things now. All he could do was march with the army, hoping a solution would appear when the time came.

  He looked at the young werewolf. What would the general do with this prisoner? Kill it to boost morale when the two armies faced off? It was just as innocent as the five thousand soldiers. Ethan patted the werewolf’s head. “I’ll try to stop them from killing you. This battle never had anything to do with you.”

  The small werewolf nodded eagerly, wagging its tail in thanks. “Thank you… Lord Sedros says… peace talks soon. After that… no more war. Please… come to Oufu?”

  That naive invitation made Ethan smile. Suddenly, he was determined to save the creature. He patted its head again. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you back to Oufu.”

  The young werewolf whimpered softly, tears glistening in its eyes.

  Ethan stood up and returned to his tent to sleep. For the first time, he felt his decision to join the march had meaning. Saving even a few innocent lives was worth it.

  He was woken by noise outside. Opening his eyes, he saw dawn had broken.

  The soldiers were ready to leave. They stood in formation, listening for the general’s orders.

  Ethan walked over—and froze. The general was standing beside the wounded werewolf, one foot on its head, his posture majestic as he pointed at the bound orc prisoner and shouted: “Look at this! These beasts that once preyed on our people are nothing to fear! For we have unyielding courage—and the justice to avenge our kin!”

  The soldiers roared in reply. In one way or another, the general gave speeches like this every day—never letting the flame of revenge die in their hearts, keeping their morale at a manic fervor.

  “The orc den is close now!” the general continued, his voice thundering. “Soon, we’ll crush it like a bug! Every orc will die by our righteous swords! Now—let’s kill this werewolf first! Every warrior will take a swing—let its blood cleanse our blades!”

  The soldiers howled again.

  “Wait a minute!” Ethan hadn’t expected the general to use the prisoner as a sacrifice so early. He jumped forward to stop him. “This prisoner can’t fight back anymore. Aren’t you supposed to be warriors—”

  “Get out of my way.” The general swung his axe menacingly. “You weak priest. We all know you’re here for the nobles—sent to soften our warriors’ resolve.”

  Ethan knew arguing was useless. He turned to the soldiers, shouting: “This werewolf is only five or six years old! It could never have hurt a human! Didn’t we already kill all the werewolves that ate people? We don’t have to—”

  “Does the blood debt these savages owe vanish just because some of them are dead?” the general shouted, waving his arms. His fiery expression was so intense the soldiers could feel it in his voice and posture, even if they couldn’t see his face clearly. “Do we just forget the hatred for our kin—killed and eaten by them? Tell me—can we let this go?”

  “NO!” The roar was so loud Ethan thought his ears would burst, so overwhelming he felt like he was drowning in it.

  The young werewolf on the ground thrashed wildly. It understood it was going to die—but the ropes held fast. It could only twitch uselessly. A low, guttural growl rose from its throat.

  Even amid the soldiers’ deafening shouts, Ethan heard that growl clearly. He understood it: the sound of survival instinct and animal rage, tormented in despair. For a moment, he had a strange illusion—that the creature lying on the ground was himself.

  The general raised his massive axe, his voice filled with sense of mission，as if issuing a historic command. “Kill it.” The soldiers roared, swarming forward.

  Ethan tried to block them—but the tide of a thousand men shoved him back. The soldiers converged like starving ants surrounding a locust. Countless swords and spears fell on the werewolf.

  A shrill scream tore from the werewolf’s throat—mixed with the crunch of breaking bones and the squelch of tearing flesh, as if its body itself were wailing. Ethan’s skin erupted in goosebumps.

  He’d been pushed too far back to see the werewolf being torn apart. All he saw was blood, tufts of fur, and bits of flesh flying up as the soldiers swung their weapons—then splattering down onto their bodies.

  The werewolf was strong, its vitality fierce. It didn’t die at once. Its screams went on, growing weaker by the moment, until they faded entirely. But still, more soldiers pushed forward, hacking and stabbing. The sickening sound of flesh turning to pulp never stopped. The men lined up eagerly, each taking a swing or a stab at the gore—as if participating in a long-awaited sacred ritual.

  It took a long time for the “ceremony” to end. The soldiers returned to formation.

  The werewolf was gone. In its place was a large pool of dark red muck—like garbage. Amid it were a few larger bones and traces of young fur; a stranger would never have guessed what it had once been.

  The soldiers waved their weapons, now stained with that crimson muck. Blood dotted many of their faces—but every one of them wore a fiery, passionate expression. To them, that red stuff was a medal of honor: proof of their courage, loyalty, and bravery.

  They howled, elated. They knew, deep down, that this excitement was a virtue. Killing enemies—aliens, foes—was the noble duty of loving one’s family, one’s country, one’s people. This primal group frenzy mixed with absolute self-righteousness, feeding each other, driving their morale to impossible heights.

  Ethan stared at the soldiers. Only now did he realize how naive he’d been—to think he could save them. They didn’t need his help. They didn’t want it.

  He felt no anger, no sorrow. Looking at the pool of mangled flesh and blood, he felt only disgust.

  The general stood nearby, motionless—like a statue overlooking the scene.

  Ethan turned silently, grabbed a horse, mounted it, and turned its head toward Bracada.

  “What’s this?” the general finally spoke, his eyes glinting with triumph. He understood the young man’s retreat. He’d scared off this annoying boy—and he felt proud of the power of his “glorious cause.” This was war. This was how it always was. And this was just a tiny taste—nothing worth mentioning.

  The morning sun had risen in the east, painting the sky red. Bathed in this light, Ethan felt his blood boiling. He turned back, staring at the fanatical leader and his five thousand followers, then shook his head, his voice hollow. “Go to hell. All of you. I don’t care anymore. I can’t stop you.”

  In Oufu City’s town hall, Lord Sedros stood amid a mountain of documents, reviewing them.

  Oufu was expanding constantly—its population growing, more orcs arriving every day. Managing the city, navigating foreign attitudes, monitoring the imperial army… every issue required him to untangle a web of complexities, finding the most effective solutions—solutions that killed multiple birds with one stone. Lately, Sedros slept no more than three hours a night.

  Yet the elderly man remained energetic, vibrant. He even stood while working, to stay focused. For he wasn’t just “doing his job”—he was enjoying it.

  Every task he completed made Oufu—his creation—stronger, more perfect. The joy, satisfaction, and pride he felt fueled him, breathing new life into him. To him, these weren’t “tasks” at all. If he had to label them, they were “games.” He savored the sense of achievement like a child building a mud castle—except he poured a thousand times more effort into it, reaped a thousand times more pride, and the “castle” itself was infinitely larger.

  Footsteps approached outside. Sedros frowned—he sensed trouble. He recognized General Gru’s gait, and it was slightly hurried. Few things could rattle his old friend.

  General Gru pushed open the door and reported: “An army has left Bracada, on the Ainfast border. They’re marching straight for us. At their current speed, they’ll be here in seven or eight days.”

  “Hmm,” Sedros replied without looking up, still scanning a document. “And what do you make of their intentions?”

  “We’ve been monitoring them for days,” Gru said, a cold snort in his voice. “No hesitation, no caution—they’re taking the most direct route here. I sent wyverns to scout thoroughly: no reinforcements, no ambushes, no sign of supply lines. Just that one army. Last night, I sent men to test their stance.” He paused, his tone hardening. “Their attitude couldn’t have been clearer.”

  “Oh?” Sedros finally looked up, surprised enough to set down his work. He turned to Gru. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  After listening to Gru’s account, Sedros fell into thought, then shook his head helplessly. “Envoys from every nation are already gathered in the royal capital. We’ve shown ample goodwill—they should know this war is pointless. Ronis should have made his position clear by now, too. So this can’t be an imperial order from Ainfast. In fact, I’d wager a recall order has already been sent. But for a small force to charge forward like this—no strategy, no plan, just blind fury… I can’t fathom why they’d do this.” He sighed, stretching his back and rolling his neck to ease the stiffness, then clapped Gru on the shoulder. “Come. Walk with me.”

  The two leaders of Oufu stepped out of the town hall and onto the streets. The orcs around them didn’t seem surprised—some nodded in greeting, then hurried back to their work.

  “That army’s intent is clear,” Sedros said, turning to Gru. “They’re here to die. What do you plan to do?”

  “Simple,” Gru replied, his tone casual, as if discussing something trivial. “Hit them when they’re most exhausted—right after their long march. I’ll lead the charge myself. I’ll kill their commanding officer first; the rest will lose heart. They might even scatter. After that, mopping them up will be easy.”

  “What kind of casualties are we looking at on our side?” Sedros asked.

  “Fewer than five,” Gru said flatly. His tone wasn’t just confident—it was matter-of-fact, like a man stating he could bite through a boiled egg without hesitation.

  “Five?” Sedros held up his right hand, staring at his wrinkled fingers. He sighed, as if reluctant to part with something, and lowered it. “No. Not a single one.”

  “Even five is a negligible number for our army now,” Gru said, confused.

  “But we’re not just avoiding losses—we’re avoiding the impact of losses,” Sedros explained. “If our people are killed by another race in battle, hatred for humans will take root. Racial hatred benefits no one—and for a multiracial nation like ours, it’s deadly. We have to prevent that.”

  “You can’t be thinking of persuading them to turn back?” Gru asked, skeptical.

  “They’re here against the emperor’s orders—they’ve lost their reason. Battle is inevitable. And this is the perfect chance to show the other nations our strength. Destroying them outright would serve us well.” Sedros fell into thought again. The highland sun blazed down, gilding his silver hair and beard until he looked like a statue of wisdom—no one would guess he was weighing how to kill five thousand men.

  They walked to the street lined with workshops. Craftsmen and their orc apprentices worked diligently; heat from the furnaces twisted the air, and the sunlight refracted through the warm currents, casting rippling shadows on the ground. Sedros studied the shadows, then glanced up at the dazzling sun. He nodded, turning back to Gru.

  “Take a wyvern. Deliver a letter to the southeast for me—then bring a few people back here.”