New Warchief

Just as Duke arrived in Southshore, ready to sweet-talk the Barovs out of their grain, a thunderclap of a development rocked the Horde.

Judgment Day!

"TRAITOR!"

"Orgrim – you're a stain on the very honor of the Orcs!"

The cacophony of enraged roars filled the entire tribal camp, a primal scream that could curdle milk. Every single warrior's eyes were bloodshot, bulging like ripe berries, and their necks seemed to be stuffed with two thick, throbbing veins, ready to burst. They opened their fanged maws and bellowed at the top of their lungs, a chorus of pure fury.

In the dead center of this seething cauldron of rage, kneeling on both knees, was Orgrim Doomhammer – once the Warchief's right-hand man, now a pariah, a traitor in the eyes of every loyal Orc.

The colossal war horn, summoning all the chieftains, continued its mournful blare. Its solemn, drawn-out wail seemed to mourn the Warchief's untimely demise, and simultaneously, to fan the flames of righteous anger in every Orcish heart.

Countless stones, ranging from pebble-sized insults to fist-sized projectiles, rained down upon Orgrim, who remained stoically on the ground. These rock-hard greetings, even the largest ones, wouldn't deliver a fatal blow to Orgrim's granite-like face, but they certainly stung like a swarm of angry wasps.

Yet, the physical pain was a mere tickle compared to the gut-wrenching anguish in his heart. It was the heartache of watching a hundred thousand elite warriors burn to cinders, the crushing sorrow for the unknown, terrifying fate of the Orcs, and the chilling dread of knowing that once Gul'dan returned, he would lead the entire Horde straight to hell in a handbasket.

The scene from that fateful day still replayed in Orgrim's mind, a tormenting loop. The voice and the knowing grin of his closest friend, Durotan, echoed in his skull:

That day, Durotan had arrived, looking as grim as a winter storm. He'd laid it all out for Doomhammer – the unholy pact with the demon lords, the vile, soul-corrupting nature of Gul'dan's power, the Shadow Council's treacherous betrayal of their own clans. The chilling, ignominious end awaiting the Orcs: to be nothing more than cannon fodder, meat shields for the infernal legions of the Burning Legion.

Orgrim had listened, trying to keep his broad, craggy face impassive, his posture as solid as a mountain, befitting a Warchief's lieutenant. Yet, within his thick, muscled chest, his heart beat a frantic rhythm, pounding as violently as his famous Doomhammer upon human skulls.

Could this possibly be true?

This sounded like a tall tale spun by some idiot who'd passed through the Dark Portal and gotten his wires crossed by the void's unknown energies. Demons? Dark contracts? What a load of hogwash!

But, that's what Durotan had said.

Durotan wasn't just one of the wisest, bravest, and most honorable chieftains in the Horde; he was an old friend, a brother-in-arms whom Orgrim had trusted with his life more than once. And Durotan had repaid that trust time and again with his sheer greatness, courage, and unwavering integrity. If these words had come from any other Orc, Orgrim would have knocked their teeth out for even suggesting such blasphemy. But coming from Durotan? Orgrim's gut answer was – believable!

And then, in the agonizing days that followed, Durotan paid the ultimate price for his integrity and loyalty to the Horde. He and his mate, Draka, were brutally assassinated by the Shadow Council! Whenever that memory clawed its way back, Orgrim's hands, usually as steady as bedrock, couldn't help but tremble.

Orgrim couldn't help but ask himself, a desperate plea echoing in his mind: "Am I going to die? Am I going to bite the dust so miserably, branded a traitor? No – I've still got too many irons in the fire! If I die like this, then no one will be left to keep Gul'dan on a short leash. That true traitor of the Orcs will drag the entire tribe into the abyss of death and shamelessly sell the souls of every Orc to the devil himself!"

The thought ignited a furious fire in Orgrim's belly. He suddenly let out an earth-shattering roar, a sound that ripped through the air like a thunderclap.

"I—AM—NOT—A—TRAITOR—"

Orgrim's voice was a booming cannon shot, so loud it completely drowned out the enraged din of the thousands of Orcs present. Every Orc's face suddenly froze, their roars caught in their throats, unable to escape.

"If you're not a traitor, then who, pray tell, is the traitor?" A deep voice rumbled, inhumanly cold, as if it were carved from ice, betraying the owner's barely contained fury.

Kilrogg Deadeye, Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow Clan, had been forced to temporarily hand over his army to his deputy and rush back with his personal guards due to the Warchief's 'accidental' demise. Today, with the Blackrock Clan having taken a massive hit, the Bleeding Hollow Clan's voice had undoubtedly become a force to be reckoned with. Among the dozens of chieftains present, Kilrogg's authority was practically top dog.

Orgrim hauled himself to his feet, meeting Kilrogg's remaining eye with an unyielding gaze. For a fleeting moment, Orgrim was on the verge of shouting, "Gul'dan is the viper!" But just then, Duke's face, with that infuriatingly mysterious smirk, flashed into Orgrim's mind.

Edmund Duke – the most powerful wizard and the most cunning mastermind on the human side. He was the one who'd pulled the strings, sending 100,000 Orcs to their doom and putting the Warchief Blackhand six feet under. Without him, the Orcs might have put up a good fight, but there would never have been such a tragic, bitter victory for the humans. Orgrim now had a crystal-clear understanding: the only one who could go toe-to-toe with a mystic of Duke's caliber was another mystic, like Gul'dan! Neither he nor any other chieftain in the Horde could lay a finger on Duke.

The thought made Orgrim swallow his words. Instead, he burst into a booming, guttural laugh.

"Hahahaha! Hahaha! Kilrogg, you crack me up! Why in the name of the ancestors would you think I'm a traitor who'd sacrifice 100,000 of my own kin for a bunch of soft-skinned humans? Why would you rather buy the lies of humans than believe the loyalty of an Orc? Why are you so quick to trust a despicable wizard who keeps setting our camps ablaze like a pyromaniac on a sugar rush?"

Orgrim's blistering rebuttal stunned all the chieftains and the thousands of leaders, big and small, standing around him. Orgrim had hit the nail on the head: Duke was an arsonist, and a damn good one at that.

Grom Hellscream strode forward, his massive frame radiating barely contained fury. "How do you explain the fact that more than one living Orc nearby testified that the Warchief called you a traitor before his death? And why did your own people attack the Warchief's guards, huh?"

"Don't you think," Orgrim countered, his voice dripping with mock innocence, "that this scene of suddenly going berserk and attacking one's own people seems... awfully familiar?"

It had to be said, Orgrim had a flair for the dramatic, a true actor at heart. And yes, the scene was eerily familiar. It was precisely what happened when Orcish Warlocks used their fear spells on human soldiers, turning them against their own.

"You're saying Gul'dan betrayed us!?" Grom's brow furrowed, a thundercloud forming on his face.

"I never said that," Orgrim replied smoothly, a cunning glint in his eye. "But you may have noticed that human tactics and equipment have been improving by leaps and bounds. So, it's not exactly out of the realm of possibility for them to have picked up some Warlock tricks of their own, is it?"

The Orc chieftains fell into a deep, unsettling silence, their minds reeling.

At this moment, Kilrogg Deadeye stepped in front of Orgrim again, his single, milky eye fixed on the Doomhammer. "My 'Deadeye' tells me you're not meant to die here as a traitor. I also know you're one of the wisest warriors among the Orcs, and you've got the ambition to climb to the top. I can give you a shot at proving yourself, as long as you join 'Bagrash'!"

Orgrim's heart hammered violently, threatening to burst from his chest. Even Duke, with all his future knowledge, had no idea that his cunning trickery had inadvertently pushed Orgrim to initiate a ritual that had never, ever appeared in any 'history' – the Bagrash.

This was a ceremony designed to prove the honor of an Orc suspected of treachery. The ritual was brutally simple, violent, and bloody. In the presence of at least 100 Orc warriors, seven recognized champions would plunge seven daggers into the body of the accused. The daggers could not cause fatal injuries, break bones, or pierce vital organs. Then, the accused would fight a life-or-death duel against a recognized warrior, usually a chieftain, all while those seven daggers remained embedded in their flesh. Only if the accused won the duel would they be cleared of suspicion and their reputation restored.

No one truly knew why Kilrogg had proposed the Bagrash for Orgrim. If one absolutely had to give Kilrogg a reason, it was his 'dead eye' – the one that could no longer see the present, but glimpsed the future. Kilrogg had been born into the Bleeding Hollow clan on Draenor. When his people faced annihilation at the hands of the arrogant Arakkoa, Kilrogg had refused to bend the knee. Under his injured father's guidance, he'd followed the clan's ancient tradition: he found the hidden chamber named after his clan and performed a terrifying ritual, sacrificing his left eye in exchange for seeing his future destiny. During the ritual, Kilrogg had seen that his own death was far, far off in the future, assuring him he would survive this ordeal. Inspired by fate's glimpse, he'd seized control of his clan, led the Bleeding Hollow to crush the Arakkoa threat, and then marched them to countless victories. In the years that followed, he'd ruthlessly eliminated any dissidents, even his closest kin, always hoping that his fated death would come to him, step by agonizing step.

Though Orcs were brutal, most were deeply superstitious. With no shamans currently in the tribal camp, Kilrogg's 'Dead Eye' carried an undeniable weight. Without a moment's hesitation, high-ranking warriors like Grom Hellscream and Samuro all grunted their agreement to Kilrogg's grim request.

"Orgrim Doomhammer! Do you accept Bagrash to prove your innocence?" Kilrogg's voice was cold, carrying the fierce, oppressive aura of a warrior who had literally walked out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. He was old, but no one could deny that he was still one of the strongest, most terrifying warriors in the Horde.

"I accept!" Orgrim's voice boomed, echoing through the doubtful gazes of countless Orcs. "Not only do I accept it, I also demand that while I undergo Bagrash, I simultaneously participate in Mak'gora!"

"Hiss——" A collective gasp rippled through the thousands of Orcs. This wasn't just a challenge; it meant Orgrim would have to face challenges from at least seven chieftain-level warriors, all while stuck with seven daggers, and he could only stop once no one dared challenge him anymore. Of course, if Orgrim succeeded, he would become the second Warchief of the entire Horde, second only to the late Blackhand!

Unconcealed surprise plastered itself across every broad Orcish face. Either Orgrim was the most ridiculously suicidal madman to ever walk Azeroth, or he was about to become the most powerful warrior in the entire history of the Horde, no doubt about it!

"COME!" Orgrim suddenly hammered his chest, producing a resounding THUD that vibrated through the ground!

Kilrogg didn't speak. Instead, he pulled out a long, curved bone blade with his backhand. This dagger was at least a foot long. With a flash of bone-white light, the entire dagger had been inserted diagonally above Orgrim's left clavicle, slicing through muscles as thick as a city wall, and emerging from above his left shoulder blade.

Blood splattered, a shocking crimson spray against the dusty ground!

"Hu——" Orgrim didn't even let out a groan of pain; he merely clenched his fists, his knuckles white.

Grom Hellscream stepped forward, his expression grim, and plunged a dagger into Orgrim's right arm, carefully avoiding tendons and bones.

"Oh..." Orgrim grunted, a low, pained sound.

Samuro, the blade master of the Burning Blade clan, followed, driving a dagger into Orgrim's right thigh.

Then came the fourth, the fifth... the seventh warrior. Each one left a dagger embedded in Orgrim's body. At this moment, Orgrim had become a blood-soaked pincushion, a hedgehog of pain and fury.

"Who!? Who dares to use the life of Orgrim Doomhammer to prove their bravery? Who dares to claim this Doomhammer in an upright manner!?"

Orgrim's roar was like a booming war drum, echoing throughout the entire arena. Not many Orcs were willing to kill a potentially dishonorable Orc unless they could gain real, tangible benefits. And Orgrim, as it happened, had a very tempting benefit. Not many Orcs could resist the allure of the Doomhammer! Especially after Orgrim had personally dispatched no less than 500 warriors of various races with it. As the commander of legions of Ogres, giant lizards, earth dragons, and even humans, Orgrim had indirectly proven the hammer's terrifying power with his brilliant battle record.

Suddenly, a battle flag was hurled into the middle of the field.

"I, Galar of the Shattered Sands, will fight you, and damn the honor!"

Seeing this opponent, who was more than a head taller than him, Orgrim felt a flicker of disappointment. Galar was merely the chieftain of a small clan with a few hundred souls. But as a suspected traitor, Orgrim really couldn't be picky.

In the sky, cirrus clouds churned ominously. On the earth, the war horn sounded a long, resonant note. Whether it was Mak'gora or Bagrash, nothing captured an Orc's attention more than the most Orcish, bloodiest, and most passionate duel. Only those who dared to face life and death head-on would earn the respect of the martial Orcs. Only this raw, unpretentious fight could truly clear Orgrim's name.

"COME!" Orgrim roared, and the little chieftain Galar charged, a blur of green muscle.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" The solid ground vibrated with the thunderous impact of Galar's heavy footsteps. The sheer momentum of Galar's charge gave the onlookers the illusion that a mountain was collapsing right before their eyes.

"GO TO HELL--" Galar bared his fangs, swinging a massive machete that whistled through the air. That was enough power to cleave Orgrim in two. But Orgrim's keen eyes flashed with disappointment once more.

Weak!

Too weak!

Whether it was strength, speed, or skill, Orgrim was profoundly underwhelmed. For some reason, he thought of the human, Anduin Lothar, who had killed Blackhand that day. Though at a disadvantage in speed and raw power, Lothar had used his flawless force-redirection skills and incredible footwork to fight the Warchief to a standstill. Looking at such a flimsy opponent, Orgrim wasn't willing to waste another second.

To outsiders, it looked like he had simply dropped the heavy Doomhammer. Only those who knew the score could see that he didn't take Galar seriously at all. Just as Galar's blade was about to descend, Orgrim suddenly pushed off with his intact left leg, surging forward into Galar's arms. His fist shot out, landing perfectly on the enemy's knife-wielding wrist. The next second, he clapped his hands together with a sickening CRUNCH.

Galar's head was pulped between Orgrim's palms. It was like a watermelon smashed by a sledgehammer...

Orgrim lifted his head, his voice a triumphant roar. "NEXT!"

With his massive hands stained with blood and colorful brain matter, Orgrim displayed the most primitive, brutal violence, a visceral reminder to the Orcs of their ancestors – weaponless, using only their powerful bodies, fists, teeth, and arms to fight wild beasts and carve out a meager existence in the desolate wilderness. Orgrim's direct, no-nonsense attack ignited a primal fire in every Orc's heart.

"Ooooooh!"

"Orgrim! Orgrim!"

Just minutes ago, these very Orcs had been spitting insults at Orgrim. But mere moments later, Orgrim, who had just showcased his raw bravery and terrifying majesty, instantly became the brightest star in the entire tribe.

Kilrogg Deadeye slowly opened his cloudy right eye. "Orgrim Doomhammer," he rumbled, "you have cleared your suspicion and restored your reputation! Now, if you wish to withdraw from Mak'gora, it is not too late!"

Orgrim answered with action, taking bloody steps and tearing down a battle flag from a tent on the edge of the field. That was the flag of Doomhammer, the leader of the Blackrock clan. With a flick of his wrist, the battle flag, a stark red background with black patterns, fell to the center of the venue.

"I – Orgrim Doomhammer! I begin Mak'gora here and now, and I challenge the position of Warchief! I will accept the challenge of at least six warriors! Until I ascend to the position of Warchief, or – I die!"

Despite being stabbed multiple times, despite each wound still weeping blood with every movement, his soul-stirring roar still echoed throughout the camp, a defiant challenge to the very heavens.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!" This was the rhythmic, guttural cheering of the Orcs. Nothing could make their blood boil more than a brave warrior fighting a bloody battle for the chieftain's mantle. No matter how much they denied it, it was an undeniable fact that the Horde had just scraped by with a tragic, costly victory. The feeble humans were far more cunning than any Orc had imagined. The entire tribe desperately needed a true king, a leader who could guide the Horde to conquer this strange new world!

The Orcs shouted and exclaimed loudly, holding their crude weapons high, stomping the ground with their feet, as if they wanted the very earth to tremble and cheer, welcoming the new chieftain who might appear at any moment!

A clan flag, adorned with three jagged teeth, was hurled into the field. It belonged to the Bladefang Clan, a group of a thousand warriors. As a smaller clan, their chieftain, Ramlin, was not a particularly strong Orc. Among his brethren, he was definitely on the scrawny side. What he lacked in brute strength, he made up for in lightning-fast agility.

"Orgrim--" Ramlin bellowed, but his movements were those of a nimble mountain cat. Targeting Orgrim's injured right leg, Ramlin moved at blurring speed, circling Orgrim's compromised limb like a shark. Orgrim was indeed affected; the moment he tried to turn and couldn't keep up, Ramlin pounced. Two crossed scimitars flashed with cold, deadly light, and an incredibly scarlet, cross-shaped blood mark suddenly appeared on Orgrim's broad back. The flesh was torn open by the barbs on the scimitar blades, a truly horrifying sight!

When Ramlin succeeded in striking and tried to retreat, Orgrim counterattacked. In the sunlight, the heavy Doomhammer spun with a dark, menacing gleam. There was no fancy footwork, no intricate skill involved, only raw, unadulterated speed.

Incredibly fast.

Crazy fast.

It was so fast that Ramlin's naked eyes couldn't even track it. In the blink of an eye, his slightly slender body was split in half by just one powerful blow, as if he'd been hit by an impossibly huge machete. Time seemed to stand still for a moment; Ramlin's chest and lower body remained suspended in the air, but the abdomen, where the hammer had struck, instantly exploded into a bloody rain of flesh and bone, splattering outwards in the direction of the hammer's strike!

It seemed as if three agonizing seconds passed before Ramlin, his eyes still wide with disbelief, his upper body with its still-staring eyeballs, fell dejectedly into a pooling crimson mess.

One-shot kill, pure, unadulterated dominance!

"NEXT!" Orgrim's loud voice sounded like a drum to the Orcs' ears, a call to arms.

Another battle flag was thrown into the field, and a minute later, there was another fresh scar on Orgrim's shoulder and another mangled corpse on the ground.

"Next one!" Same killing blow, same voice, same unyielding tune.

However, with the bodies of three chieftains as a grisly backdrop, Orgrim's cry took on a different, more chilling meaning. The chieftains who thought they were weaker responded with a deafening silence. At this moment, no one was still hoping for a miracle. Although the watching Orcs were still roaring with excitement, a brief, tense silence fell among those truly qualified to participate in Mak'gora.

It took a full half-minute before the fourth battle flag was thrown down. Three minutes later, the fifth. Ten minutes later, the sixth!

When the seventh battle flag was finally hurled into the battlefield, Orgrim had become a walking, bleeding mess. No one could tell whether the crimson coating him was Orgrim's own blood or the blood of his vanquished foes. From a little-known chieftain at first to the chieftain of a ten-thousand-strong clan, the challengers were getting stronger, and Orgrim's injuries were piling up like bodies on a battlefield. Now, whoever wanted to step up had to seriously weigh their chances.

The seventh battle flag landed with a thud, and out stepped an Orc with no left hand, a long scimitar blade grafted below his left arm, and skin as dark as midnight. It wasn't because his left hand had been lost in battle; it was because he was a warrior of the Broken Hand Clan. As one of the cruelest and most vicious Orc clans in the Horde, the tradition of the Brokenhand warriors was to deliberately cripple their left hands, replace them with sharp blades, and be ready to go through hell and high water for the glory of the clan at any given moment.

"Orgrim, you are indeed very powerful, but your journey to become the Warchief ends here, with me, Kargath Bladefist."

The Horde was also divided into different ranks. Only chieftains of smaller clans had the right to challenge, but in large clans, recognized warriors also had the right to challenge Mak'gora. For example, in history, Orgrim had challenged Blackhand as the deputy chieftain of the Blackrock clan, a position akin to a general, and had slain Blackhand to succeed him.

Glancing at Kargath Bladefist, a hint of disdain flickered across Orgrim's rough face. "You're not up to snuff. Send your chieftain, Kargath, instead."

"Hmph! You're tired! You're seriously injured, Orgrim!" Kargath took a sudden, aggressive step forward.

"You're only good for taking advantage of wounded opponents," the sarcasm on Orgrim's face intensified, a sneer twisting his lips. "Yes! I am tired and injured, but even if there were a thousand more runts like you, I could kill them all!"

The roar of the crowd was thought to have reached its peak long ago, a deafening crescendo. But who would have thought that after Orgrim's words, behind that seemingly insurmountable peak, a higher mountain of heaven seemed to appear out of thin air, piercing the clouds. The sound waves echoed in the sky hundreds and thousands of times, and the entire tribal camp, even the very earth beneath their feet, shook violently.

What a display of sheer, unadulterated heroism! As long as there was breath in his body, there would be a bloody battle! Once upon a time, no one thought highly of Orgrim, Blackhand's mere deputy. But now, every Orc had changed their tune. With fierce admiration – no, this was no longer mere admiration, this was outright worship.

"Orgrim – Orgrim –" The roar of thousands of Orcs in the audience ignited the emotions of every single Orc in the entire tribal camp. Even the Orcs in the distance, unable to see the spectacle, knew from the booming voice of their leader that perhaps a new Warchief was about to be born.

Kargath pounced. Although Orgrim had dismissed Kargath with his words, he was actually putting 120% of his energy into this fight. None of the guys from the Broken Hand Clan were a hard nut to crack. The Broken Hand Clan was originally a group of Orcs enslaved by Ogres. These Orcs had been imprisoned by Ogres in a massive, crude, yet incredibly solid circular arena, forced to fight as gladiators. Fighting non-stop, day in and day out, to entertain the Ogres and a group of 'higher races' – that was the sole purpose of these Orc gladiators' existence. The Ogres had promised freedom to any Orc slave who killed a hundred Orcs in the arena, and Kargath Bladefist had done just that.

However, the Ogre had reneged on his promise, condemning Kargath to a sunless dungeon until his death. Kargath, imprisoned, his left hand shackled to a prison pillar with steel handcuffs, chose to destroy his own hand to break free. Kargath had then led the Orc slaves who, like him, chose to sacrifice their left hands and replace them with sharp fist-blades. They fought like the Spartacus slaves who rebelled against the ancient Roman Empire before Duke traveled through time. They slaughtered the Ogres who enslaved them, and Kargath, carrying the head of the Ogre leader, announced the formation of a new clan. A clan that yearned for freedom and fought for it – the Broken Hand Clan. Therefore, each of these Orcs from the Broken Hand Clan was a super elite, forged in a sea of blood and corpses.

With just one charge from Kargath, Orgrim realized that this was not an opponent he could defeat unscathed. Out of the corner of his eye, Orgrim saw several famous chieftains or heroes who had been watching from the sidelines: Grom Hellscream, Kilrogg Deadeye, Samuro... Orgrim couldn't be sure whether the strongest warriors in these tribes were planning to make their move, but he had to prepare for the worst.

He had to fight quickly and decisively!

Kargath also held a warhammer in his right hand. It wasn't as colossal as the Doomhammer, only slightly smaller. However, Orgrim dared not underestimate it. The same hammering motion, but Kargath's movements showed a sense of rock-solid precision that came from a thousand, thousand hammerings. He took a step, raised his left arm, swung his right arm, and exerted force suddenly. At first glance, there was nothing surprising about it. Only a warrior who had experienced countless battles would realize that Kargath made no unnecessary movements. The angle, strength, and speed were all exquisitely executed, and there was room for Orgrim to adapt his tactics for any counterattack.

With no other choice, Orgrim swung his hammer, meeting Kargath's hammer with a thunderous clash.

"Bang--" The deafening clang of the two largest hammers colliding almost shattered the eardrums of the Orcs watching the battle. The metallic ringing forced most of the Orcs to cover their ears.

No one expected Kargath to suddenly drop the sledgehammer in his hand and thrust out with his left hand. His left arm was his ace in the hole, his killer move, and after closing the distance, the scimitar blade, as long as a human arm, was unexpectedly flexible. Although Orgrim's Doomhammer was sharp, such a massive hammer was never a good defensive weapon. In the next moment, the Shattered Palm Clan's unique scimitar was poised to pierce Orgrim's chest.

At this critical juncture, a giant hand, the size of a palm leaf fan, suddenly blocked the path of the scimitar...

"Puff!"

Blood erupted everywhere. The sharp blade easily penetrated Orgrim's left palm and stabbed into the muscle on his chest, but it could not pierce into the most fatal part of his heart. Because Orgrim's left palm clenched suddenly, and even with his palm pierced, he still held the scimitar tightly at the bottom of his arm.

"I got you." An indescribable, chilling coldness laced Orgrim's voice.

Kargath tried to retreat, but the giant hand held his arm in an iron grip. With both sides so close, using a sledgehammer was a joke. There was simply no room to generate force.

Too close!

Orgrim had a more direct method. Just like he had done with Galar's right hand, he too discarded his Doomhammer almost immediately. His right hand transformed into a hardened cone, piercing Kargath's throat.

"Cough--" The gurgling, unclear sound in Kargath's throat was his last in this world.

The next moment, Orgrim curled his fingers into hooks and ripped out Kargath's entire throat. Simple! Brutal! Full of barbaric aesthetics! This was what the Orcs loved most, this was what the Orcs worshipped!

"Oh oh oh oh——" The boiling sound waves rolled straight into the sky, as if crossing countless light-years and the endless void, reaching the distant planet Draenor. He withdrew his left hand from the scimitar and kicked away Kargath, who was rapidly losing life and becoming a lifeless corpse. Orgrim raised his blood-soaked fists and let out a seventh magnificent and shocking roar.

"WHO? WHO ELSE!?"

Orgrim cast his gaze upon the faces of the top figures in the Horde – Grom, Kilrogg, Samuro... At this moment, covered in wounds, Orgrim would admit he wouldn't have more than a 50% chance of winning against any of them. But he couldn't, and wouldn't, back down! This wasn't just about his life and his honor; it was because he felt he was shouldering the final instructions of his best friend, Durotan, and the heavy responsibility of leading the Horde to carve out a path in this strange, unfriendly world.

Besides the raw excitement, his eyes were full of chilling clarity! Orgrim's god-like gaze swept across the faces of the strong men in the Horde, one by one. There was no provocation in his stare, only a silent demand for obedience.

A strong man lowered his head.

Two strong men lowered their heads.

Three...

Ten!

When Orgrim's gaze fell upon Samuro's face, Samuro punched his own chest, the traditional Orcish salute to the Warchief. Kilrogg and Grom exchanged a glance.

Kilrogg: "My 'Dead Eye' saw that Orgrim is not meant to die here. I will not sacrifice my life for an irreversible destiny." With that, Kilrogg also saluted.

Grom: "I am perfectly content with my position as Chieftain of the Warsong Clan." He then saluted, a grudging respect in his eyes.

At this point, the second Warchief of the Horde was born!