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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/ralo_ramone on 2024-11-02 21:55:46+00:00.

The Warchief looked down on the main square. His hair was gray, yet it fell in abundance over his shoulders like a white lion’s mane. His face was covered in old scars and wrinkles, and his left tusk was broken and replaced with a silver tip, but his body still had the vitality of an adult orc. Golden rings covered his fingers, and the golden pelt of a strange beast covered his shoulders.

The other orcs revered him.

“Wolf, son of Dassyra. You are strong, and your strange art deadly. However, you have accepted the taint of Corruption. There is no place for you among our tribe.” The Warchief’s words echoed throughout the orc camp. “You can stay at the camp until your injuries heal. Then, you should leave. Any complaints, Chieftain?”

Dassyra kept her head low, and I couldn’t see her expression. If she had any complaints, she didn’t voice them. The Warchief gave me a fleeting glance, acknowledging my presence, and returned to his tent. When he disappeared inside, the orcs scattered and returned to their tasks. The ceremony was over. Wolf’s display of swordsmanship had been in vain, and our time in Umolo was limited.

Wolf’s expression remained impassive, but I knew a storm was raging inside him. It wasn’t [Foresight] that told me, but a hunch. My first reaction was to approach and comfort him, but I stopped myself. Seven years have passed since Dassyra left Wolf at the orphanage. For seven years, Wolf dreamed about the moment of the reunion, but nothing was like he had expected: he returned and showed his worth, yet the Warchief branded him as an outsider.

Wolf followed Dassyra to her tent. My hopes about the private reunion going better weren’t high. Seven years was a long time.

“I’ll show you your lodging,” Little One said. “Please don’t wander far from the tribe’s district. I’m sure Chieftain Dassyra will want to know why you are here during a Monster Surge.”

I nodded. Dassyra was our only ally and our key to survival. Little One gave us a short tour through the camp. Umolo was designed to shelter the tribes in case of a disaster. In addition to the warchief lodging in the main square, there were three permanent buildings: a public bath, a barn, and an underground refuge. I didn’t expect Umolo to have a water system, but Little One told us that the city was the product of hundreds of years of effort for survival. Disease ran rampant during medieval sieges, so having a sanitary system was a great addition to a city designed to hold a large population during dangerous times. Little One told us the water system was relatively new compared with the rest of the settlement, having been built only a few decades ago. The citadel and the terraces was at least four hundred years old, but the original settlement was even older.

I looked at the stone citadel dominating Umolo. The fortification stood defiant over the valley, but what caught my attention was the arched bridges ascending into the mountain. [Foresight] recalled an old memory and projected it into my eyes. Roman aqueducts.

“Those aren’t bridges. Those are aqueducts! You are bringing clean water from the mountains,” I said.

“There are no better stoneworkers than the orcs from Umolo,” Little One said with a hint of mockery.

Stone structures didn’t go along with the nomadic tribe’s lifestyle, and Little One seemed to look down upon the orcs of Umolo.

I let [Foresight] examine the exposed sections of the aqueducts. They looked suspiciously Roman, with tall arcs of masonry similar to the Aqueduct of Segovia. The sight was breathtaking, yet something felt odd. Orcs were mostly nomads, and the permanent population of Umolo had to be a fraction of what it was now. Such aqueducts seemed overkill for the population’s necessities; they seemed almost out of place.

“How many orcs live in Umolo?” I asked.

“Umolo is a big tribe. Around seven hundred orcs live here permanently, mostly farmers,” Little One said, vaguely pointing at the terraces cut in the mountain.

Aqueducts were overkill for a population of seven hundred living in an already water-abundant place. Umolo and the Greyfangs had their share of secrets, but I had neither the energy nor the time to unveil them. The Access Rune was a target on my back. Our time at Umolo was finite, and I needed time to plan our next steps.

A group of orc laborers dressed in simple undyed tunics finished setting up a tent and scattered without saying a word. I couldn’t help but feel like the tribe was a hivemind. They were too pragmatic, too efficient, and too clean. Maybe that was what it took to survive in the Farlands without a Class.

Little One guided us inside. The tent was spacious, with a skylight in the center that doubled as a chimney for the cooking station in the center. In a corner was a cask of clean water, a bag of an elongated grain similar to rice, and a dark crimson brick of what I could only identify as pemmican. In the opposite corner was a wooden screen and a water basin. Our luggage, or what was left of it, was already inside. Sleeping bags were lined along the wall—one for each of us—with a set of clothes neatly folded by their side.

“It’s child clothing, but… you know,” Little One said.

The smaller adult orc had to be about a palm taller than me.

“It’s not like we could fit into anything else,” Ilya finished the sentence for him. She was pissed. However, I knew Ilya’s anger wasn’t aimed at the orc but at herself. She blamed herself for Wolf’s situation.

“Rest well,” Little One said, lowering his head to pass through the entrance. “I’ll let you know when Chieftain Dassyra is ready to meet you.”

I approached the beds and grabbed the orc’s clothing. It was made of a thick, rough fabric made to last. Then, I realized I hadn’t changed clothes in a week. Ilya was faster. She grabbed the smaller set of clothes and cloistered herself behind the wooden screen.

“Do you want to check out the orc baths, Hallas?” I asked. I wasn’t particularly eager to share a bath with him, but I thought I could make him talk if I separated him from Pyrrah.

Hallas grimaced.

“Not a fan of sharing a bath with a bunch of green brutes. I’m going to patrol the wall,” Hallas replied, taking his bow and leaving the tent. He stopped in the doorway. “And you, Pyrrah. You are going to cook something. The monsters can attack any moment, so we must be prepared. Understood?”

Pyrrah dropped her clothes, grumbling. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Ignoring the fact I almost got an unwanted bath partner, I grabbed the clothes and walked to the public baths. It was better this way. I needed a moment alone with my thoughts. I strolled through the camp, and not five minutes later, I was outside the stone building. Without [Foresight], I would’ve ended up lost.

An ancient orc with a hunched back at the entrance gave me a clean towel and asked if I needed new bandages. I accepted his offer. It’s been a day since the elves patched me up, and I hadn’t dared to look underneath the bandages. The orc nodded, and I entered the stone baths. There was a small partition in the center and four lines of wooden stools faced bronze faucets. Skylights illuminated the room, but the gray stone made it look dark and narrow, as if it were underground. It lacked Light Stones. I touched the walls. They were perfectly vertical, cut from a single piece of stone.

To my dismay, there was no caldarium, only faucets. Orcs didn’t seem the sort that enjoyed long baths. I guessed they were too pragmatic for such activities.

“Do you know how to use them, young warrior?” The old orc asked.

I turned the faucet—they worked just like the ones back on Earth—and a thin stream of water fell into the drain on the floor. The water was cold, but after a week without a shower, it was everything I needed. Carving a Fire rune on the bronze faucet crossed my mind, but my common sense advised me against magical vandalism. The old orc then hung a basket with ointment and bandages on a rack, gave me a bundle of aromatic herbs, and left the room. There was no division between stools, but the bath was empty except for me.

I closed my left hand, and every single finger obeyed me. The Holone fruit had repaired my damaged tendons, but my body was far from recovered. I still felt like the Iceshard Matriarch had ran over me. I removed the bandages to find deep scars along my arm. Burn marks covered my fingers—not fashionable ones—and purple and green bruises followed the trail of the mana from my left arm across my chest and into my right arm. Luckily, my right hand was fully intact despite the mana lighting.

The Holone Grapes intrigued me. Unlike Alchemist potions, they weren’t the product of a System Class, yet they worked miracles. And without toxicity! Like orcs, elves had ways to create kingdoms without the assistance of the System. Introducing those methods to Ebros Kingdom might be a permanent fix to Corruption. The Lich’s words echoed in my mind. Bigger and meaner things live in the Deep Farlands. Even if I managed to steal the secrets behind the Holone Grapes, I doubted any human would surrender the powers of the System for the greater good.

I washed my body, deep in thought.

Fixing Corruption was one of my lesser problems. The Lich knew about the Access Rune, which meant I had a target painted on my back. My mere presence in Umolo threatened the orc tribes and everyone around me. I had hoped the tribes would protect the kids while I dealt with the Lich and the Ac…

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