The march through the dense, verdant forest was steady, and the sound of their heavy boots and the occasional clank of armor were echoing through the trees occasionally.

Volk found himself walking beside the bone-armored orc who had approached him earlier.

This orc, unlike the others, seemed particularly interested in Volk, his gaze thoughtful as they moved forward.

Finally, the orc broke the silence, his deep voice filled with pride. “I am Grommash, known as Grommash the Great Hunter. My title is well-earned, for I have hunted and slain beasts that would turn the stomachs of lesser orcs. My arrows have found the hearts of creatures that would make even the bravest warriors tremble.”

Volk nodded, acknowledging Grommash’s introduction. He was keenly aware of the orc’s prowess, evident in the way he carried himself and the respect he commanded from the others.

Grommash’s eyes, however, were not filled with the usual condescension Volk had become accustomed to. Instead, there was a strange mixture of curiosity and something close to pity.

As they marched, Grommash began to speak again, his voice lowering slightly as he broached a more serious topic. “You have heard of the Labor Orc curse, yes? Right?”

Volk nodded, but Grommash continued, as if compelled to explain in more detail. “Long ago, all orcs were warriors, fierce and proud. Our ancestors fought with unmatched strength and courage. But as time passed, some among us began to consume food tainted with hazardous magic particles. These particles, though not immediately fatal, had a slow and insidious effect on our people.”

Volk listened intently, his mind recalling the memories of the Labor Orc that he occupied, but Grommash’s account was more detailed, more vivid. “The food, rich in hazardous magic particles, began to weaken our bodies over generations. Those who consumed it became less robust, less fierce. They lost their desire for battle, their bodies unable to withstand the rigors of combat.

These orcs became what we now know as Labor Orcs.”

Grommash’s voice was heavy with the weight of history as he continued, “Labor Orcs are a shadow of what they could have been. They are much weaker than the warrior orcs, unable to fight, only capable of working for the rest of their lives. They lack the fire that drives us, the desire to breed and carry on the bloodline.

Worse yet, they are sterile—unable to produce offspring unless certain conditions are met. They are born to toil and die in obscurity.”

Volk felt a pang of sadness as he listened. He had always known about the curse, but hearing it laid out so plainly, with such stark honesty, made it all the more real. He nodded, signaling to Grommash that he understood. But the Great Hunter wasn’t done.

“Even in their Grum-gar form,” Grommash said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “Labor Orcs are weak. The Grum-gar form is supposed to be the ultimate expression of an orc’s power, a transformation that grants us the strength of the ancients. But for a Labor Orc, it is a pale imitation.”

Grommash explained further, his words deliberate and slow, as though he was choosing each one carefully. “A normal warrior orc, when in their Grum-gar form, can strengthen themselves up to five times over. This is the mark of a true warrior, to tap into the power that runs deep in our blood. But a Labor Orc… they can only manage to double their strength. Even this is a rarity among them.

It is a pale shadow of what should be. In the neighboring clan, there are still some who can manage fivefold transformations, but they live in seclusion, their strength too precious to be risked in battle.”

Volk’s mind raced as he absorbed this information. He had never fully understood the limitations of the Labor Orcs especially his own, but now it was clear.

If he could only strengthen himself twice in his Grum-gar form, then his arsenal in combat was severely limited.

“Am I really limited in combat? Is that why even though when I introduced myself as a Kaz’rogal, they didn’t find it that much special?” He mumbled.

This realization struck him hard, like a cold stone of dread settling in his gut. He felt powerless.

Back when he fought Luk’Tar, he only got strengthened twice, and nothing more than that. If he can only truly strengthen twice, doesn’t that mean he will still be considered weak?

Grommash continued, his tone growing even more serious. “There’s more. The Labor Orcs, once they miss the ceremony of Union to the elves, lose the ability to breed forever. Even if they manage to participate, they can only produce offspring with one female elf. No others.”

Volk knew this already, and the mention of it stirred memories of his own struggles. He had nearly missed his chance to wed Solluha’r because of Luk’Tar, the thief who had stolen his earth mole kill. That near-miss could have cost him everything. The reminder sent a shiver down his spine.

Grommash’s words cut through his thoughts like a blade. “This is why we pity you, Volk Mog’ger. The curse is not just about weakness. It is about loss—of strength, of heritage, of potential. Even your children, if they inherit your Grum-gar form, will be weak. Though they might awaken the power, it will be a faint echo of what it should be.”

Volk felt a deep ache in his chest at the thought. His children cursed before they were even born. And yet, Grommash offered a sliver of hope. “But take heart, Volk Mog’ger. Despite all this, you are different. Your rise to the position of Kaz’rogal is proof of your strength.

You will grow, perhaps not in the way others do, but in your own way. Your Labor Orc blood will make you more efficient than others, and your rise to power will be swift. You may not be able to multiply your strength fivefold, but what you can do with your twofold strength will be unmatched.”

Volk struggled to process this. “Is that really it?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation. “Am I truly so limited in combat?”

Grommash paused, his expression unreadable. “Yes and no. Your strength may be capped at twice what it could be, but your mind, your tactics, your ingenuity—these are where you will excel. A warrior is not just muscle and bone. It is also the mind and heart. You will find your own path, Volk Mog’ger.”

Volk would think this is just a consultation to make him feel at ease, but it’s not helping him. Still, to look polite, he nodded, while still reeling from the weight of Grommash’s words.

Immediately after that, his thoughts swirled, questions bubbling up, but before he could voice them, a loud, commanding voice cut through their conversation.

“Mag’Durotan, Haaaaaaalt!”

The order was immediate, and the entire company of orcs came to a sudden stop.

The forest, which had been filled with the steady rhythm of their march, now fell into an eerie silence.

Volk could feel the tension in the air, the anticipation of what was to come.

“Formation!”

The voice rang out again, this time closer, more insistent.

The orcs began to move, falling into practiced ranks with military precision.

The younglings, including Volk, quickly fell into place, their hearts pounding in unison with the drumbeat of war that seemed to echo in the distance.

Volk’s mind was still racing with the conversation he’d just had with Grommash, but he forced himself to focus. This was no time for introspection. He didn’t know what happened, but it seemed like something came up.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep