As the dim light of dawn broke through the cracks and crevices of the cave, casting faint shadows across the jagged walls, Volk stood tall amidst his resting horde.

The once-quiet cave began to stir as the faint rustling of ogres and orcs waking filled the air.

Volk’s crimson gaze swept across his warriors, the remnants of bloodied battles still staining their skin.

The fire in his eyes betrayed the storm brewing in his mind—a fierce determination tempered by careful calculation.

He raised his arm slowly, commanding silence.

The air in the cavern grew heavy, the gravity of his presence drawing all eyes to him. Volk’s voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the space.

“Brothers, sisters,” he began, his tone carrying an undeniable authority. “The time of hiding is over. This day, we reclaim the skies and the ground beneath it.”

The orcs and ogres straightened, their fatigue momentarily forgotten, their chests swelling with resolve.

Volk walked to the center of the cavern, his footsteps purposeful. He stopped, turning sharply to face them all.

“But before we ascend, before we face those who dare hunt us,” he said, his voice sharpening, “there is work to be done.” He gestured toward a cluster of ogres to his left.

“You, check every nook and cranny of this cave. I want no blind spots. Map out the tunnels. If there are secondary exits, I need to know about them. Mark each with something visible—claw marks, rocks, anything that will guide us swiftly if we must retreat or flank.”

The ogres nodded, their heavy brows furrowing in concentration as they prepared to carry out their task. Volk turned to a group of orcs seated near the mouth of the cave.

“You,” he commanded, pointing at them with a clawed finger, “return to the trails we left yesterday. Obscure them further, but not too perfectly. Let the harpies think they still have the upper hand. Make it messy—chaotic. Scatter rocks, create false paths, leave faint traces that lead to dead ends.”

An orc raised his hand hesitantly. “But, Lord Volk,” he said, his voice gruff, “won’t they see through such tricks?”

Volk smiled coldly, his tusks glinting in the dim light. “Let them see through it,” he said. “The more they think they’re clever, the deeper they’ll fall into our web. Trust me. Confusion is our weapon now.”

He pivoted again, addressing another cluster of his warriors.

“You will scout the surface,” he barked. “Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Study their formations, their movements. Count their numbers. If the skies are still full of their kind, report back immediately. If the skies are clear, we advance.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the horde, but Volk silenced them with a raised hand. “This task is vital,” he said. “Without this information, we are blind. And blind warriors are dead warriors.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, then turned to his most trusted lieutenants.

“The rest of you,” he said, “will prepare. Sharpen your weapons. Reinforce your armor with what you can find. The harpies believe they hold the skies, but I intend to clip their wings. When the time comes, we will show them the strength of those who fight for survival, not arrogance.”

Volk’s pacing came to a halt. He stood at the center once more, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed his troops. His voice dropped lower, but its intensity did not waver.

“Today is not about vengeance,” he said. “It is about reclaiming our right to exist. They think us weak because we hide. Let them think it. Let them descend into this cave, into the heart of our strength. And when they do—”

His fist shot into the air, clenching tightly. “We will crush them!”

The cave erupted in a chorus of roars and battle cries, the sound reverberating through the cavern like thunder. Volk let the fervor swell before raising his hand again to restore order.

“And now,” he said, his voice steady, “to the surface. Let the skies know we do not cower. Move out!”

One by one, the orcs and ogres began their tasks.

The scouts crept toward the cave’s entrance, their movements deliberate and silent.

The ogres lumbered deeper into the cave, their massive forms disappearing into the darkness as they mapped the tunnels. Others set about sharpening their weapons, their faces grim and determined.

As his warriors dispersed, Volk remained still, his eyes fixed on the faint light filtering into the cave.

…

Volk was making his way back along the concealed trails his horde had left behind, his mind still stewing over the potential confrontation with the harpies, when the first complaints reached his ears.

An Ogre limped toward him, his massive leg marred by deep, jagged wounds. “Chief!” the Ogre growled, frustration etched into his face. “This trail is cursed! My leg—it got sliced by something sharp. I didn’t even see it!”

Volk raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, another Orc stumbled forward, clutching his shoulder where a crude spike trap had embedded itself.

“It’s not just him, Chief! I almost lost my arm back there! What kind of magic are these harpies using?”

More voices began to rise from behind, echoing through the dense undergrowth and faintly along the cave walls.

One Ogre collapsed onto his knees, gritting his teeth as he pulled out a series of sharpened stakes lodged in his side. “I thought this path was safe!” he snarled.

Another Orc, bloodied but seething, stormed to Volk’s side. “We’ve already lost two of our best trackers, Chief! Something’s wrong. Are we being hunted?”

Volk’s eyes darted to the surrounding trees and ground, and an uncomfortable realization dawned upon him.

These weren’t traps set by the harpies—they were his traps.

He’d meticulously crafted and laid them to ensure the enemy couldn’t escape if they followed.

They were designed for winged creatures swooping low or descending to the forest floor in search of an advantage. Yet somehow, his own horde had managed to trigger nearly all of them.

Hahaha he almost choked on his own saliva.

The chorus of complaints only grew louder.

“I stepped into a loop snare!” cried a particularly enraged Orc, hoisting his swollen, bound leg into the air.

“I nearly lost my head to a tripwire!” shouted another, whose helmet was now grotesquely dented from where a log trap had struck it. “Are we fighting ghosts or harpies?”

“My axe broke trying to hack through some hidden spikes!”

“My foot! My foot! It’s gone!” wailed an Ogre, who was currently being supported by two Orcs, his face pale with shock.

Volk froze for a moment, his usually commanding composure wavering. His eyes were saying something else, but immediately he knew he should compose himself.

He clenched his jaw and quickly assessed the situation, only to realize the damage was far worse than he initially thought.

Almost every member of his horde bore fresh wounds—cuts, punctures, gashes, and bruises, all inflicted by his own traps.

Yes, almost every member of his horde bore fresh wounds—cuts, punctures, gashes, and bruises, all inflicted by his own traps.

By his own very traps!

Volk couldn’t help but laugh inwardly inside. Somehow, he is enjoying this but he knew he shouldn’t because these creatures were simple minded and might think that he is their enemy.

He didn’t want his small backup army to lose trust in him.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted.

One particularly sharp-witted Orc narrowed his eyes at Volk.

“Chief, this doesn’t feel like harpy work. Their magic is precise and designed to wear us down from the air. These traps—they’re too crude for harpies but too effective against ground forces like us.”

Another Ogre joined in, his tone accusing. “Yeah, Chief, these traps look like something we’d make.”

Volk could feel the weight of dozens of eyes boring into him, each questioning his leadership.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, raising a hand to silence the murmurs and grumbles. He straightened his posture, drawing upon the authority that had always been his strength.

“It seems the harpies are craftier than we gave them credit for,” Volk said, his voice gruff but steady. “They must have anticipated our retreat into the forest and set these traps to demoralize us. It is known that with their sharp eyes, and minds, they can pick up anything… interesting…”

A few of the Orcs exchanged skeptical glances, but most nodded along, their anger redirecting toward the harpies rather than their leader.

Volk continued, his expression grim. “This only proves their cunning. They fear us—fear me—so much that they’ve resorted to desperate measures. We’ll take these wounds as badges of honor, proof that even cornered vermin are willing to strike out before they’re crushed beneath our boots!”

The horde let out a scattered but half-hearted cheer, though the pain and frustration in their eyes lingered.

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As Volk turned away, he muttered under his breath, “Damn harpies,” knowing full well that the only ‘vermin’ responsible for this disaster was him.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep