Chapter 4: Leaving the Tribe

The Chief's Command

The war tent was massive, a towering structure of beast-hide and reinforced bone, held up by wooden stakes thick as tree trunks. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the scent of burnt herbs and sweat clinging to everything.

At the center sat Warchief Brakur, draped in scarred plate armor, his massive form resting on a throne made of skulls and iron. He was old, but not weak. His body was a map of battles fought and won, his tusks still long and sharp like daggers.

Around him stood his elite warriors, veterans who had bled for the horde more times than they could count. Their eyes, cold and calculating, flicked to Ghaz'Rok and Druth'Rok as they entered.

Druth'Rok walked without hesitation, his missing arm wrapped in crude bandages, his face set in stone.

Ghaz'Rok followed, his hand never far from his axe.

The moment they stepped forward, Brakur sneered.

"I should've expected this."

His deep voice rumbled like thunder, filled with the same disdain as always.

"The wounded always come crawling, looking for mercy."

Druth'Rok's jaw tightened.

"I am not here for mercy," he said.

Brakur snorted. "Then why? To beg me to let you stay?"

The warriors around them chuckled, muttering among themselves.

"An ork with one arm? He'd be dead in a week."

"Might as well send him to the pens to skin beasts."

"Better yet—throw him to the wolves."

Druth'Rok's nostrils flared.

Brakur leaned forward, his red eyes gleaming.

"We march at dawn," he said. "Those who cannot fight go back to The Holding."

The Holding.

The place where the weak, the old, the crippled, and the useless were sent. A fortress of castaways, far from war, far from glory.

A place of shame.

Brakur's lips curled.

"And you, one-armed runt, are not a warrior anymore."

Druth'Rok stiffened.

Brakur grinned, sensing the anger boiling beneath the surface.

"You will go back. You will rot there. And you will learn what it means to be a failure."

The war tent was silent.

The warriors waited, watching for Druth'Rok's reaction.

Would he accept? Would he argue? Would he beg?

But instead, Druth'Rok moved.

With a single sharp motion, Druth'Rok grabbed his right tusk—the symbol of his place in the tribe, the mark of his honor, his bloodline, his loyalty.

And snapped it off.

The sound was sharp. Bone cracking, flesh tearing.

The room froze.

Warriors who had laughed before stared in disbelief.

Even Brakur's grin faded.

Because only orks with no tribe did that.

A broken tusk meant one thing.

He had cast himself out.

Druth'Rok held up the shattered piece of bone, his hand steady.

"I am not your cripple."

His voice was calm. Final.

"I am not your burden. I am not your weakling. I am not your problem."

He tossed the tusk at Brakur's feet.

"I am not yours."

Brakur's eyes darkened.

He leaned back, looking down at the broken tusk.

"…Then you are nothing."

Druth'Rok didn't flinch.

"I was nothing the moment you chose to throw me away."

Then he turned.

And walked out.

Ghaz'Rok stared after him.

Watched his younger brother leave behind everything.

His home. His rank. His tribe.

And something in Ghaz'Rok's chest twisted.

Because Druth'Rok had been right.

The moment he lost his arm, they had already decided he was dead.

Ghaz'Rok looked at Brakur, at the warriors who had once called him brother.

And he knew.

He couldn't stay here.

He wouldn't.

Brakur sneered. "What? You going to follow your cripple? Or are you going to act like a real warrior?"

Ghaz'Rok said nothing.

Instead, he reached up.

Grabbed his own right tusk.

And snapped it off.

The pain shot through his skull, sharp and blinding.

But he didn't care.

He tossed the tusk to the ground beside his brother's.

Brakur's face darkened.

The warriors murmured in shock.

Even Druth'Rok turned, eyes widening. "Ghaz…"

Ghaz'Rok simply grinned.

"You didn't think I'd let you have all the fun, did you?"

Druth'Rok let out a breathless laugh.

Then together, they turned their backs on the horde.

And walked away.

The war camp faded behind them, the fires of the horde growing distant.

They didn't stop.

Didn't look back.

Didn't hesitate.

Because there was nothing left for them there.

They weren't warriors of the horde anymore.

They weren't tribesmen.

They weren't even orks, by their own people's law.

They were exiles.

Druth'Rok walked in silence for a while, his footsteps heavy. Eventually, he let out a long breath.

"…Where are we going?"

Ghaz'Rok glanced at him. "There's only one place that accepts everyone."

Druth'Rok frowned. "Brethus City?"

Ghaz'Rok nodded.

Brethus City.

The meeting point of all races. A place of mercenaries, thieves, merchants, warriors, and outcasts.

A city where blood meant nothing, but strength meant everything.

Druth'Rok snorted. "It's a pit of filth and lies."

Ghaz'Rok grinned. "Exactly. Sounds like our kind of place."

The system beeped.

[New Quest: Survive the Wilds]

Objective: Don't die in the next week.

Reward: You Get to Keep Living.

Failure: You Die, Obviously.

Ghaz'Rok sighed.

"You are really not helping."

[Not my job.]

Druth'Rok shook his head.

Then he looked ahead, toward the unknown.

Brethus City was still far.

Their new life had only just begun..