Aboard a colossal warship drifting through the vast void, the Orc Pantheon was holding a meeting.
"The situation in the mortal realm is not going well."
"It's far worse than merely 'not going well'! Humanity's accumulated advantages over the years are simply too great. No matter how many methods the orcs devise, we can only gain a temporary edge. If this drags on, that advantage will sooner or later be worn away."
"The food supply has already begun to become a problem."
"It can't be helped. The Great Grassland's productivity is limited, and we're short on manpower now."
"We have to find a way, whether we can help it or not!"
"If we could think of a way, would there still be no way?"
Snakenel, the Iron-Masked Fiend, chief god of the orcs who had returned to power after Lefeng, the Devouring Sky Dog, died in battle, frowned as he listened to the gods' discussions and disputes, his heart full of irritation.
He had never been the sort skilled at strategy. When it came to warfare, he only knew two phrases: "Charge, charge, charge," and "Kill, kill, kill." Neat and balanced, simple and clear—but not enough to deal with every situation.
By comparison, the late Lefeng had possessed a clear head and meticulous thinking. He had been far more organized in everything he did.
Though Snakenel had always been reluctant to admit it, Lefeng truly had been more qualified for the position of chief god.
Unfortunately, Lefeng was already dead...
Snakenel sighed inwardly and said helplessly, "Stop arguing. If you keep this up, you won't reach a conclusion even by next year."
"Then do you have any plans, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, please make the decision!"
Seeing the trust and expectation in the gods' eyes, Snakenel could not help but feel