Dragonmaw Clan

"Duel, Mak'gora!"

... Will this ever end...?

"Someone is challenging the chief."

That's enough...

Grot Deathstrike opened his eyes. His tent was empty, just as always.

The voice outside the tent sounded again. This time it was another voice, sounding puzzled. "Someone wants to duel the chief?"

Grot groaned and sat up, recognizing the sounds outside. Through the gap in the tent flap, he saw who was shouting—two children from the Dragonmaw Clan.

Grot rubbed his sleepy eyes. Less than three days had passed since the last duel. He thought to himself.

"A bunch of fools," he muttered, but immediately regretted it. They weren't fools. Clan chiefs tolerated no weakness, and of course, no sympathy or pity. Over the years, the Dragonmaw Clan had changed chiefs several times, each reigning for a short time, until the current chief Mog'gor, ascended to the throne, and the regime gradually stabilized, but this regime was entirely built on bloodshed and corpses. It wasn't that Mog'gor was particularly cruel, but rather that he had too many challengers. This was understandable; Mog'gor was very different from other clan members. Just thinking about his appearance made Grot feel nauseous.

"Another corpse." Grot patted his forehead, slowly waking himself up. He thought he could sleep a little longer, since duels usually didn't start until sunset. He glanced towards the tent entrance and realized that night had fallen; he had been asleep all day.

"So it's about to begin?" Grot shook his head helplessly. He knew he had to get up immediately and find a seat in the arena, but Grot loathed witnessing that scene—the chieftain's opponent lying in a pool of blood, the crowd cheering. There was no glory in that. Mak'gora, which was supposed to be sacred, had now become a tool for Mog'gor to control the clan. Grot sighed, then stood up and put on his gauntlets.

How is this any different from Deathwing controlled the clans years ago?

With a piece of jerky in hand, Grot headed straight for the camp's arena. A crowd of spectators had already gathered there—all members of the clan, Mog'gor had demanded everyone come to witness his glory. The entire arena was cordoned off, and Grot didn't see inside until he was seated in the audience. The two duelists were already inside, ready to fight at any moment.

The audience fell silent. Mog'gor seemed to be saying something, but Grot refused to listen. He only saw that the challenger was a Beastmaster, but duels didn't allow for bringing one's own beast companion. As for Mog'gor, Grot really didn't want to watch him, but in every duel he hoped Mog'gor would have some weakness, such as whether he had any unhealed injuries.

The Orcs glanced at him; the image of the Dragonmaw Clan Chieftain was etched deeply into his mind. He was an Orcs with blood-red skin. Yes, the harsh truth. Mog'gor was an Orcs had drunk Demon Blood.

This is precisely why the Dragonmaw Clan has never joined the Horde on the far western continent. The clan still has members who have drunk Demon Blood, not to mention one who has become a chieftain.

"Begin!" A roar heralded the start of the duel.

Two Orcs lunged at the other side, and a chaotic battle ensued.

The audience erupted in cheers and shouts.

Grot sat there with his arms crossed over his chest. A few minutes later, Mog'gor punched the Beastmaster in the forehead, ending the fight. The victor strode confidently through the arena, basking in the enthusiastic cheers of his clan members. The loser lay dead on the ground.

Regardless, this isn't unusual. Twice in three days, five times in a week, with the same outcome. Mog'gor was already powerful, but after drinking his blood, he became even more so, and those who challenged him were all pure-blooded Orcs.

At that moment, Mog'gor raised a fist, and everyone stared at him. "Who else?" he asked, the battle failing to calm his Demon Blood. "Who else dares to challenge your chieftain tonight?"

No one answered.

Chieftain Dragonmaw Clan laughed loudly in the dueling arena. After a while, he finally fixed his gaze on the audience, on the only person in the arena who did not cheer for his victory.

Grot stared fearlessly at Mog'gor, a dangerous act indeed. However, the chief didn't reprimand him, merely glancing at him before announcing, "That's settled then. I look forward to the next fool."

The audience began to leave.

The duel was over, and Grot's superfluous work began. He waited until everyone had left before slowly entering the arena and walking to the corpse. Although he still held a sliver of hope, he checked the Beastmaster's pulse, but to no avail.

"You have the heart of a Warrior, may your ancestors bless you, brave warrior." He placed his hand on his left chest in respect. Then he grasped the Beastmaster's arms and began to lead him away. Yes, this was his job: to handle corpses.

The Dragonmaw Clan doesn't tolerate idlers. Although Grot is old, he has a wealth of experience, especially in taming Wyvern. Mog'gor's task for him is to become the stable master, serving the clan.

After each duel, Mog'gor would ask Grot to take the corpse to feed the Wyvern. Later, the Dragonmaw Clan Chieftain didn't even need to speak; a single glance was enough for the Orcs to know what to do.

Grot would stop to rest after dragging the body for about a hundred meters. He was no longer young; his hair and beard were completely white. More than twenty years had passed since Second War. That was why Mog'gor, knowing Grot's displeasure, allowed him to live, because Grot posed no threat to him whatsoever.

An hour later, Grot finally led the Beastmaster to the usual burial site—a place with a beautiful view.

He sat resting beside the corpses, his expression somber as he stared at the Dragonmaw Clan's camp, as if transported back to the dark years of the Second War. The glory of their ancestors had been forgotten, Demon Blood still controlled the Orcs.

"Hopefully, Mog'gor will die next time," Grot muttered to himself as he began digging. He didn't finish until the moon was high in the sky. The Orcs glanced around and realized the place was almost a graveyard. A strange sense of loss washed over him, leaving him utterly exhausted.

Why do you feel frustrated?

"Who?"