Chapter 1063: Pilgrimage
The place necromancers hate the most is anywhere ruled by orcs. At best, they can only sneak into orc cemeteries and dig up piles of orc bones—excellent material for raising undead.
But unfortunately, the souls in those bones have already returned to the embrace of the earth. Even the strongest necromancer, when raising orc undead, can only produce ordinary skeleton soldiers.
Even the remains of powerful orcs, once reanimated, still turn into skeleton soldiers—just a bit tougher than the rest, that’s all.
And for necromancers, these ordinary skeleton soldiers are nothing but cannon fodder—just more bodies to throw into the meat grinder of undead warfare.
Besides, necromancers don’t dare touch the bones that have been transformed into ancestral guardians for the tribe. If they tried to turn those into skeleton soldiers, it’d be like strapping a homing beacon to themselves—just waiting for the orcs to hunt them down.
So, no matter how brutal the war or how many orcs fall, the tribe never has to worry about their dead being raised as undead and causing disaster.
The first time the orcs saw this endless tide of orc undead, every single one of them was stunned. Not a soul moved as the undead charged toward them.
The Grand Chieftain’s expression was a tangled mess of grief and relief. Surrounded by the unending undead, he produced the Bloodfang Tribe’s newly forged Totem.
As soon as the Totem Pillar, inscribed with the names of orc ancestors, appeared, it was as if something drew it forth. The pillar radiated a gentle glow, and countless voices—like murmuring souls—rose in the air.
The Totem Pillar was covered in dense, writhing glyphs—living words that seemed to crawl and tumble over each other, as if even more ancient script was surging up from within, eager to be seen.
"Warriors of the orcs, I, Krom Bloodfang, welcome your souls. May your deeds be remembered by every orc, and may your spirits find rest."
The Grand Chieftain gripped the Heritage Totem Pillar tightly and let out a thunderous roar.
Then, with his gravelly, booming voice, the Grand Chieftain began to chant an ancient orcish ballad—a song sung after battle, to mourn and celebrate the tribe’s heroes.
Aged, indomitable, the will to fight, the will to protect...
A pack of Orc Wolf Riders drew their curved blades, slicing open their own cheeks so blood streamed freely. Brandishing their weapons, they joined the Grand Chieftain in a near-howl, chanting the ancient orc ballad.
On the human side, many had steeled themselves for battle. Dilath even pulled out his cracked Shadow Cloak, ready for anything.
Leon watched it all in silence, his gaze lingering on the bloodshot orcs howling their ballad. He sighed softly in his heart.
Their blood ran hot, their will as steady and unyielding as the earth—they would never retreat. Blood and scars were their medals; only the strongest warriors earned the tribe’s respect and awe. Cowards were spat upon by all orcs.
In the most ancient days, a legendary orc swung a battered totem and roared—a fury that carved itself into the soul of every orc.