Chapter 1050: Existing in the Past
The Grand Chieftain's voice boomed, exaggerated and furious as he loudly cursed the orcs of the Goldtop Tribe.
"Come, warriors! The grand bonfire feast we've prepared for you awaits—juicy roast meat and spicy wine are ready for you..."
As he spoke, the Grand Chieftain tried to pull everyone outside.
Suddenly, Leon interjected.
"What exactly is going on with this world—or rather, this wasteland?"
The Grand Chieftain paused, but before he could reply, Leon pressed on.
"And what's the deal with that valley? What about the Goldtop Tribe—why are they attacking the Bloodfang Tribe?"
The Grand Chieftain slapped his forehead as if suddenly enlightened, then smiled and began to explain.
"Those fools from the Goldtop Tribe have been our sworn enemies for ages. They must have heard about our recent battle with the demons and decided to seize the chance to attack us."
Leon smiled.
"Grand Chieftain, no matter how deep the hatred between the Bloodfang Tribe and the Goldtop Tribe, it’s still a feud between two tribes. If outsiders disguised themselves as Goldtop orcs to launch a sneak attack, they'd be cursed by their ancestors and despised by every clansman."
With one sentence, Leon exposed the Grand Chieftain’s lie.
The others watched the Grand Chieftain with blank expressions, waiting for his explanation. Everyone was wondering: how do we escape this damned place, and what’s the deal with those ghost-like undead that can appear anywhere on the prairie?
Dida La asked grimly.
"Grand Chieftain, we need to know the truth. How do we leave this world?"
The Grand Chieftain’s smile faded. After a long silence, he sighed.
"No one can leave this wasteland. Some have tried to escape, but when they reached the edge, they vanished forever—never to return.
We’ve lived here for who knows how many years, and no clansman has ever left, nor is it possible to leave. No one knows what lies beyond the wasteland."
As for the Goldtop Tribe, our feud goes way back. Whenever there’s a chance, we attack each other. We knew the Goldtop Tribe would return to strike at us.
We just didn’t expect them to use outsiders. Both our tribes have a legend: whoever unites the wasteland will receive the ancestors’ blessing—and might even find a way out.
Our numbers keep dwindling, and the wasteland grows more barren. We have to search for new lands and carve out new territory.
So both we and the Goldtop Tribe keep attacking each other, trying every trick. Whoever wins becomes the final victor—the one blessed and protected by the ancestors.
Leon Merlin, what are you getting at? Do you actually know what’s going on with this world?
The Grand Chieftain rambled on, but in the end tried to drag everyone off to celebrate. The group all declined, citing exhaustion from too much magic use.
Instead, everyone gathered together to discuss what they’d just learned.
Dida La’s face was grim—he looked anything but optimistic.
"There’s something wrong with this world—seriously wrong."
With that, he looked at Leon, who’d first questioned the Grand Chieftain.
"Archmage Leon, I’m sure you’ve noticed plenty of issues. Let’s hear your thoughts."
Leon rubbed his brow.
"I think we’re in serious trouble. That Grand Chieftain might still be hiding something. Most importantly, I don’t think this is a complete world—it might just be as big as this wasteland..."
As soon as he said this, everyone was shocked.
Leon continued, undaunted.
"First, the orcs here have no concept of planes, nor do they understand the path between planes. It’s like they don’t even know there are other worlds beyond this one.
The Grand Chieftain spoke of this wasteland, not the world itself. Think about it—when we first arrived, we were chased by undead, but we’ve never actually left the wasteland.
This wasteland is huge, but it’s nowhere near the size of a whole plane.
So, I think this is an incomplete world—a broken plane.
Second, the Bloodfang Tribe and Goldtop Tribe are the oldest orc races of the Blazeforge Realm. They only existed in that era.
Third, that valley is identical to the Charred Scar. Rafael, you’ve examined the area around the Charred Scar, right?"
Rafael’s expression soured, but he nodded.
"I’ve checked—the valley is exactly like the Charred Scar, and the surrounding terrain is almost identical too. If the area around the Charred Scar hadn’t been mined, it would look just like this place!"
Diras sneered at Leon.
"Matthew Merlin, what are you getting at? Do you actually know what’s going on with this world?"
Leon frowned and delivered his final conclusion.
"My guess is this broken world exists in the past of the Blazeforge Realm—in its ancient era."
Everyone was stunned by this.
"Merlin, you mean this world exists in the past?"
Leon nodded.
"Only orcs from that era wouldn’t know about planes and planar roads. Only in that era would the Bloodfang Tribe and Goldtop Tribe exist."
The Bloodfang Tribe and the Goldtop Tribe once fought for dominance in the Blazeforge Realm. Only after their extinction did the lesser tribes rise, paving the way for the Blazeforge Emperor and the eight great orc tribes that now rule.
Likewise, only in that era would the Charred Scar look like this within the Blazeforge Realm.
There can't be two identical realms, and besides, a demon lord exists there.
Given the history of the Blazeforge Realm, this place can only be the Blazeforge Realm itself—and it exists in the past!
Leon Merlin kept an even more terrifying suspicion to himself. These matters would have to be discussed thoroughly with the Grand Shaman soon.
No one refuted Leon's deduction—because it was the only truth that made sense. There was simply no other explanation that fit all the facts.
Yet this truth cast a shadow over everyone's faces. To shape reality so profoundly required a power far beyond their reach—and knowing it offered no clue for escaping this world.
"Leon Merlin, you talk and talk, but what good does it do? It's all pointless. We still don't know how to leave this damned world, or what those cursed undead and orcs are really about..."
Diras was growing irritable—anyone trapped here with no way out would be. Leon, who seemed to be making things even more confusing, became the perfect outlet for his frustration.
Leon ignored Diras's agitation, simply pointing off into the distance.
"We may not know, but someone does. The Golden Orcs have been Blazeforge royalty for years. They've entered the Blazeforge Battlefield more than anyone else, and if they're here now, they must know more—maybe even how to escape this cursed world."
Diras scoffed, unimpressed.
"Leon Merlin, are you naive or just foolish? You actually think asking the Golden Orcs is a good idea? Do you really believe they'd happily tell you anything?
The Golden Orcs are the current rulers of the Blazeforge Realm, and their hatred for humans runs deep. The only greeting we'd get is a sword or a spell—if we're lucky, maybe a curse before they kill us.
You want to ask the Golden Orcs? Are you out of your mind?"
Leon gave Diras a calm, indifferent look.
"With all due respect to Diras's limited imagination, perhaps you've never heard of torture. We round them all up. Sure, some orcs have souls as unyielding as steel and serve shamanic faith to the bitter end—but not all of them. Someone will talk. Someone always does."
Diras's face grew dark and cold, but before he could say anything, Dida La made a decision.
"Alright, we'll go capture those Golden Orcs and see if their souls are tougher than their bodies. They're at the Goldtop Tribe now, so we'll attack and seize every last one."
Rafael, standing nearby, looked troubled and shook his head.
"What about the undead? The Goldtop Tribe's location is easy to find, but how do we get there? Those damned orc revenants won't go near other orcs, but they'll erupt from the ground to ambush us. If we don't solve the undead horde problem, we can't reach the Goldtop Tribe."
Everyone shook their heads. The situation was getting complicated. If they wanted to escape the wasteland, they'd have to find the Golden Orcs—who might be the only ones with an answer.
As for simply walking out of the wasteland—who knew if that meant leaving the world or dying outright? The Bloodfang Tribe had been here for years, and anyone who left vanished forever. No one knew if they'd died or truly escaped, and no one dared risk it.
To catch the Golden Orcs, they'd have to attack the Goldtop Tribe. But the undead horde was a massive problem—if they got surrounded out on the prairie, even someone as powerful as Dida La could be buried alive beneath endless waves of the dead.
Leon fell silent, lost in thought. Suddenly, he remembered the Grand Shaman. If the Grand Chieftain was hiding things, the Grand Shaman surely knew even more—and hid it deeper.
Among the orc tribes, ancestral power and tradition were everything. Humans, though, saw the orcs differently: as devout followers of shamanic doctrine.
The Prophet and the Shaman were the two pillars of orc society. The Prophet guarded the tribe's knowledge, while the Shaman, strictly speaking, was the keeper of its faith and soul.
In matters like this, it was obvious—the Shaman always knew more. Last time had made that painfully clear.
Leon stood up and left the room, determined to seek out the Grand Shaman.
When Leon found the Grand Shaman, the old orc was sprawled on a wooden bed. The walls were covered in blood-painted runes, and aside from the bed—scorched black by countless lightning strikes—there was nothing else in the room.
Clearly, the Grand Shaman had drawn too much lightning power; his body held more than he could contain, and now it leaked out in unconscious bursts.
As Leon stepped inside, it was as if the lightning in the room sensed him—suddenly, every spark on the Grand Shaman's body erupted, surging straight toward Leon.