Chương 156: 156：The Half-Orc Slavemaster

"My Lord, the brothers are ready, but you..." Reconnaissance Captain Gary turned around to ask for final orders. But the exact moment his eyes landed on the figure slowly rising from the shadows behind him, he was so violently startled he subconsciously gripped the hilt of his shortsword! Soren was completely bare-chested. The instant he actively channeled the [Faint Blood of the Son of Titan] coursing through his veins, his bones emitted a terrifying, popping cascade of friction.

His already tall, imposing frame swelled violently. Muscles bulged like carved granite, and thick veins writhed just beneath his skin like coiled snakes. An aura of pure, primal, and savage bloodlust literally seeped from his pores. This was the natural, oppressive dominance of Titan's blood. Even though Soren's bloodline was incredibly thin, to the eyes of an ordinary orc, this pure, unadulterated aura felt even more authentic than the actual Sons of Titan!

At this moment, Soren had casually draped a freshly skinned direwolf pelt over his massive shoulders. A necklace fashioned from the polished fangs of a Two-Headed Swamp Crocodile hung heavily around his neck. Smeared across his face were streaks of blood-red mud, painted in the brutal war-patterns of a wandering raider. Just a single glance was enough. Anyone who saw him would instantly recognize him as a ruthless, half-orc slavemaster who spent his life surviving in the lawless fringes of the wasteland!

Soren understood perfectly. In a violently barbaric orc society, sheer physical mass and a tyrannical aura were the absolute best VIP passes in existence.

"Gary. Reel in your killing intent," Soren said, shooting him a freezing sideways glance.

"What you need to project right now is absolute, groveling terror toward me, your slavemaster." Empowered by the Titan's bloodline, Soren's eyes glowed with a faint, demonic crimson light in the pitch-black night. The sheer intensity of his gaze sent a freezing chill straight down the spine of a hardened veteran like Gary.

"Let's move. Tonight, this Black Iron Mine officially belongs to Greywater Village." Soren roughly snatched up a thick hemp rope, wrapping the end of it casually around the wrists of the first row of soldiers. He raised a jagged piece of bone to his lips and blew a piercing, shrill whistle. Moving with brutal, exaggerated roughness, he began driving the sixty-plus "slaves"—who kept their heads deeply bowed—straight out of their cover on the hill.

He swaggered brazenly into the open, marching directly toward the massive gates of the Blackrock Stone Forest mine! The mountain wind howled, whipping the burning pine resin in the iron braziers into a frenzy of flying sparks. Before the heavily fortified, ten-meter-tall wooden gates of the Black Iron Mine, four Black Iron Orc guards gripping massive heavy axes were standing watch. Bored out of their minds, they were casually kicking a few human skulls back and forth in the mud.

"Halt! Who goes there?!" Catching sight of the massive, towering silhouette approaching from the darkness, the guards instantly snapped to attention, hoisting their heavy axes. However. The exact millisecond Soren stepped fully out of the shadows into the firelight, the suffocating, oppressive aura of an apex predator washed over them like a tidal wave! The two Black Iron Orcs standing at the front felt their breath violently catch in their throats.

The hands gripping their axes actually began to involuntarily tremble. Their bodies reacted completely on instinct, forcing them to take a half-step backward in sheer terror. What a terrifying bloodline suppression!

"Open your blind fucking eyes, you stupid pigs!" Soren roared. Empowered by the [Orcish Mastery] Talent, every single syllable that exploded from his throat carried a deep, guttural chest resonance. His pure, barbaric orcish accent was absolutely, utterly flawless. He took a massive stride forward and mercilessly delivered a vicious, backhanded slap directly against the iron helmet of the nearest guard! The brutal impact sent the heavy-armored orc stumbling sideways.

"Get your overseer out here!" Soren bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"I've been grinding through that toxic forest for half a month and managed to bag a few dozen two-legged sheep! I'm completely out of ale! If you don't want to buy them, I'll just slaughter the lot of them right here and roast their meat!"

Hearing this brazen, arrogant abuse, and looking past him at the group of emaciated, rope-bound human refugees who were violently shivering in the cold (when in reality, the elite soldiers were just perfectly executing their acting roles), the guards didn't harbor a single shred of suspicion. In fact, Soren's wildly overbearing attitude instantly cemented his high-status identity as a ruthless slavemaster! Moments later, the Black Iron Orc Captain responsible for guarding the gate swaggered out.

He was a wildly muscular brute, missing his left eye. He cast a rough, dismissive gaze over the "goods" shivering behind Soren, but his singular eye immediately widened, practically bursting with unadulterated greed. To him, this was literally a meat pie falling straight from heaven! Recently, in a desperate bid to extract enough raw Black Iron Ore before spring, the Warband's higher-ups had issued absolute, lethal quotas.

The sickening, inhuman labor requirements meant the human slaves were dropping dead in droves from sheer exhaustion and disease. Down in the deepest pits, they barely had enough slaves left to push the heavy ore carts! Production was on the verge of driving off a cliff, and the Captain had been tearing his hair out over the inevitable punishments.

"Heh heh... Brother, you've got quite the temper," the Orc Captain chuckled, revealing a jagged row of yellowed tusks. His originally haughty posture noticeably lowered. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"But you picked a damn good time to show up. We are desperately short on meat capable of doing the heavy lifting. But look at them..." He pointed a thick finger at the group.

"They're nothing but walking skeletons. They'll probably die in the pits before they push a cart for three days. What's your price?"

"Cut the bullshit," Soren coldly snorted, dialing his arrogance to the absolute maximum.

"Ten bags... no, make it five bags of the cheapest, shittiest rye flour you have in the Blackstone camp! Give me that, and they're yours! I have to rush back and sleep with a widow from the Bloodaxe Tribe, I don't have the fucking time to haggle with you!" Five bags of low-tier rye flour?! That was the literal price of a herd of sick livestock! The Orc Captain was so ecstatic his heart nearly burst. Terrified that Soren would suddenly change his mind, he immediately waved a massive hand.

"Deal! Open the gates! Let them in!" Accompanied by the ear-grating screech of grinding wooden axels, the massive gates of the mining camp slowly groaned open. Gary, Meyer, and the rest of the frontline elites kept their eyes glued to the dirt. Allowing seven or eight hulking orc guards to violently push and shove them, they stumbled and staggered their way into the death pit. CRACK! Heavy leather whips bit into their seemingly frail backs.

But hidden entirely beneath their rags, the tightly compressed [Cotton Armor] flawlessly absorbed the blunt-force trauma, reducing the stinging pain to practically nothing. Yet, these battle-hardened veterans—who had waded through mountains of corpses—instantly let out shrill, bloodcurdling screams, playing the role of fragile, beaten refugees with Oscar-worthy perfection.

The second they entered the heart of the mining basin, a nauseating, suffocating stench of stale urine, dried blood, and sour sweat completely assaulted their senses. Hundreds of torches bathed the massive, excavated depression in a blindingly bright glow. Gary feigned absolute exhaustion. His foot "slipped," and he dropped heavily to his knees in the rancid mud. But the absolute second his head went down, his peripheral vision turned terrifyingly sharp.

In the blink of an eye, he permanently branded the entire tactical layout of the compound into his brain. [Four wooden watchtowers holding the four highest vantage points. Two heavy crossbowmen stationed in each.] [On the flat terrain in the southeast corner, dozens of crude wooden shacks linked together. The Orc Garrison Barracks.] [Deep inside the main pit, radiating a faint, bluish-black gleam under the torchlight... the main Black Iron Ore extraction face.] Using the motion of the other "slaves" pulling him back to his feet, Gary discreetly flashed several modern Special Forces tactical hand signals to Meyer and Darion by his side. There was absolutely zero need for words. Meanwhile. As the generous slavemaster who had hand-delivered the exact solution to their labor crisis, Soren—disguised perfectly as a half-orc—was being lavishly hosted by the Orc Captain. He was led into a semi-open, crudely built wooden command shack.

Roasting over a blazing iron brazier was the massive thigh of some unknown beast. Sizzling grease dripped steadily onto the hot coals, popping and hissing.

"Brother, your orc blood is impressively pure! Come, have a taste of our strongest ale!" The Orc Captain laughed boisterously, handing over a massive wooden tankard.

"As long as your 'goods' can dig out five hundred pounds of raw ore tonight, we'll swap the flour right at dawn, and you can be on your way!" Soren let out a hearty, rugged laugh, grabbing the tankard and tilting his head back. He expertly faked chugging the entire thing, while discreetly allowing the ale to flow entirely down his dense, fake beard and into the thick collar of his beast hide.

"Damn good brew! But this big brother must've eaten something rotten last night." Soren suddenly clutched his stomach, acting incredibly agitated as he shot up from his seat.

"Where the hell is the latrine in this dump? No—your meat is cooking too damn slow! I'm going to the kitchens to see if there's any pre-roasted meat to line my stomach first!" The Orc Captain, currently drowning in the sheer ecstasy of having bought dozens of slaves for pennies, waved him off without a single ounce of suspicion.

"The kitchen is in the biggest tent right behind the barracks. Go ahead! Just try not to scare the goblin cooks to death!" A cruel, predatory smile flashed across Soren's face. He turned and swaggered his way toward the rear of the camp. Behind the barracks, the thick, heavy scent of stewed meat completely masked the lingering stench of blood. In a massive, wind-sheltered pavilion, five colossal iron marching cauldrons—each large enough to fit two whole cows—were propped over roaring fires.

Boiling meat broth bubbled violently inside, a thick, greyish-white layer of fat floating over the top. Three elderly goblin cooks responsible for tending the fires were currently dozing off, only occasionally using massive wooden ladles to lazily stir the stew. Soren's footsteps instantly became as light as a feather. He moved like a ghost, completely devoid of sound.

His [Danger Sense] flared and swept the perimeter, confirming with absolute certainty that there wasn't a single pair of eyes locked onto his position. He didn't even bother drawing his dagger to silence the sleeping goblins. Instead, he slipped flawlessly into the absolute blind spot of the shadows. His long fingers reached into the lining of his belt, wrapping around the clay pot filled with the concentrated neurotoxin Darion had extracted just hours ago.

This was an apex, lethal cocktail distilled from Red-Cap Swamp Caps and Deadwood Bane. Even a single, microscopic drop of this nightmare was enough to completely paralyze the nervous system of an adult warhorse.