Chapter 3: The Horn of the Horde

The Call to Retreat

The battlefield still smoldered with the aftermath of war—bodies sprawled across the blood-soaked earth, weapons buried in corpses, the stink of death thick in the air. But above it all, cutting through the chaos, came the sound that every ork knew by heart.

BWOOOOOOOM!

The horn of the horde.

A deep, rumbling note that shook through the battlefield like a thunderclap, echoing across the valley.

It signaled only one thing: Retreat.

Ghaz'Rok lifted his head, chest heaving. His entire body ached from the battle, the surgery, the amputation. He wasn't sure which had drained him more—the bloodshed or the healing.

Druth'Rok sat slumped beside him, silent and pale, his freshly cauterized stump still wrapped in crude bandages. The once-mighty ork, the warrior who had laughed in the face of death, now stared at the ground with a hollow look in his eyes.

The adrenaline had finally worn off.

Reality was setting in.

He had lost his arm.

His sword arm.

And for an ork, that wasn't just a wound.

It was a death sentence.

Marching Back to Camp

The surviving orks moved in packs, retreating from the battlefield with battered armor and bloodied weapons. Some supported the wounded, others dragged bodies back for the death rites.

Ghaz'Rok hoisted Druth'Rok up.

"Come on. We're moving."

Druth'Rok didn't resist, but he didn't help either. He walked as if weighed down, each step slow and heavy.

They fell into step with a group of other warriors. Some familiar, some not, but all orks of the same horde. Hardened, scarred, and brutal.

The silence among them was unnatural.

For orks, returning from battle was supposed to be loud.

They were meant to boast, to howl, to tell tales of broken enemies and crushed skulls.

Instead, they walked quietly.

Not because they had lost—they had won, barely.

But because the cost had been steep.

Then, finally, someone spoke.

A burly, scar-faced ork with a missing ear grinned at Druth'Rok's stump.

"Hah! Guess ya didn't fight hard enough, eh?"

Ghaz'Rok's blood flared. His fingers twitched toward his axe.

But before he could move, another ork intervened.

A younger warrior—strong, broad-shouldered, with dark war paint smeared across his face. He shoved the scarred ork aside with a growl.

"Shut your mouth, Groth."

Groth sneered. "What? Can't take a joke?"

The younger ork glared. "There's a difference between a joke and a fool's words."

Ghaz'Rok studied him. He didn't recognize the warrior's face, but the emblem on his armor was familiar—one of the high warbands, the veterans of countless battles.

A warrior of real standing.

Druth'Rok, however, said nothing.

Didn't even look up.

Groth scoffed but backed down, muttering under his breath.

The group marched on.

---

Druth'Rok's Silence

The campfires blazed in the distance, signaling their return to the war camp.

But Druth'Rok hadn't spoken a word.

Not since they left the battlefield.

Ghaz'Rok knew why.

At first, it had been pain. Then shock.

But now?

Now it was something worse.

Something Ghaz'Rok had seen in warriors who had been crippled before.

Doubt.

Druth'Rok had spent his entire life training for war. His entire identity was built on his strength, his speed, his skill with a blade.

And now?

His sword arm was gone.

What was left of him?

Ghaz'Rok let out a slow breath, watching his brother carefully. He knew that if he said the wrong thing, it could break him completely.

But before he could speak, another ork beat him to it.

A massive warrior with braided gray hair and armor covered in deep battle scars approached the group, his piercing yellow eyes settling on Druth'Rok.

"Hmph. I've seen that look before."

Druth'Rok flinched slightly but didn't reply.

The older ork grinned.

"You're thinking, 'I'm useless now.'"

Druth'Rok's jaw tightened.

The warrior huffed.

"You young ones think a lost limb is the end. That losing an arm means you are no longer a warrior."

He leaned in, voice low but firm.

"Then let me tell you the tale of Zroy."

---

The Legend of Zroy, the Spear-Handed

"Many years ago, before even the great Warlords of today were born, there was an ork named Zroy."

The orks around the fire grew quiet, listening.

"Zroy was a commander in the army of the War God. A warrior feared across a hundred battlefields."

The older ork grinned.

"Until he lost his arm."

Druth'Rok's eyes flickered slightly.

"Not to a blade. Not to an enemy."

The warrior chuckled darkly.

"To his own Warlord."

The group stiffened.

"The warlord called Zroy weak. Said he was no longer fit for battle. Ordered him to be cast out. But Zroy? He refused."

The flames flickered, casting deep shadows.

"So he did something no ork had ever done before."

The warrior's grin widened.

"He took a spear. A long, iron shaft with a blade sharp enough to pierce steel. And he drove it into his own stump."

A ripple of shock went through the orks.

"He made himself a new weapon."

Ghaz'Rok could see Druth'Rok's hands clenching.

The warrior continued.

"From that day on, he became known as Zroy, the Spear-Handed. He led armies. He cut down warlords. He became the mightiest general of the War God himself."

His yellow eyes locked onto Druth'Rok.

"And do you know what he said when he was asked why he did not accept death?"

The fire crackled.

Druth'Rok swallowed. "What?"

The warrior smiled.

"Because my arm was weak. But my will is strong."

---

A New Fire in Druth'Rok's Eyes

The group sat in silence.

Then, slowly, Druth'Rok straightened.

His expression was still troubled, still uncertain.

But the emptiness in his eyes was gone.

"…The Spear-Handed," he muttered. "I had heard of him. But I never knew…"

The warrior grunted. "He didn't survive because of his spear. He survived because he refused to be weak."

Druth'Rok exhaled.

Then he turned to Ghaz'Rok.

"You said you would build me something stronger."

Ghaz'Rok nodded. "I did."

Druth'Rok grinned.

"Then do it."

The system beeped.

[Long-Term Quest Updated: The Iron Fist]

Objective: Begin designing the first prototype.

Reward: ???

Ghaz'Rok grinned back.

This wasn't over.

It was just the beginning.