Praise the Orc

Chapter 187: God Slayer (2)

Something abnormal was happening in Geherard. The Temple of the Sun God, symbolizing and justifying Geherard's existence, was burning.

"Everyone evacuate!"

"What on earth is happening?"

"Fire, fire!"

The first ones to react were the worshippers in the prayer hall. Flames erupted from the altar, which contained the Eternal Fire, and quickly spread throughout the temple.

The worshippers screamed and fled, followed by the temple guards who fled along. The blacksmiths also hurriedly left their workshops. Crockta and his group, who were in the temple archives with the high priest, also made a quick exit as the temple suddenly heated up.

"What in the world..."

"My goodness."

"Oh, Sun God!"

Those who evacuated first stood dumbfounded, gazing at the burning temple. Crockta turned to look at it.

The entire building seemed to be engulfed in flames, becoming red hot. Yet, the temple itself did not burn at all. It glowed red-hot like a massive piece of iron but every little part of it remained unharmed, and even its flags were fluttering amidst the fire, fully intact.

Surrounded by red flames, the temple stood unchanged.

"The Sun scorches his enemies and embraces his children. Even in an eternal inferno, those who believe in Him shall not be harmed," the high priest murmured.

People turned their eyes toward the high priest.

"It's exactly as the legends of the Sun God's power describe. His flames burn the foes but do not harm the innocents."

"Ahh..."

"Has the Sun God awakened? His power is unmistakable."

"Could it be, at last..."

The grand temple remained intact amidst the blaze, a sight that could only be attributed to divine power. The talks of the revival of the Sun God were already making their way through the crowd.

Then, someone spoke up, decisively.

"No, that's not it."

"Rastard?" asked the high priest.

It was Rastard. His expression was unreadable, with his eyes on the fence between joy and bitterness.

"This isn't the revival of the Sun God."

"Pardon?"

"This is the Eternal Smithy.'"

Everyone looked at him. Only the high priest seemed to understand what Rastard meant, nodding in agreement.

"I see. So, this is the Eternal Smithy."

"What do you mean? Was the smithy we’ve been using not the Eternal Smithy, then?"

One of the blacksmiths asked Rastard, who shook his head.

"The forge beside the prayer hall was purely for show. The true Eternal Smithy mentioned in legends doesn't always exist nor can it be used at our whim. It is a legendary smithy that only appears along with the sacred flame of the Sun God when the Eternal Fire blazes.

The expression on Rastard’s face turned into a clear smile.

The true Eternal Smithy will only appear under three conditions: when the world needs the Eternal Smithy, when a blacksmith worthy of wielding their hammer inside it emerges, and..."

He glanced at Crockta, who flinched. Rastard grinned, revealing his fangs.

"When a warrior worthy of wielding its creations appears. Only then does the Eternal Smithy truly turn up."

As Rastard finished, a hush fell over the crowd. They were unaware that what they were witnessing could very well be a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

Then, it began to rain.

Tssss...

Steam rose as the temple's flames met the rain, engulfing it in a cloud of mist that was thick enough to render the people blind. Amidst this unbelievable scene, they heard the sound of metal clashing.

Clang!

The noise grew louder.

Clang!

Amidst the burning temple and pouring rain, the sound of the blacksmith's hammer echoed throughout Geherard.

Clang!

* * *

After the oracle was given, the public opinion, which had been wandering without a direction for a while, was gradually moving toward a conclusion.

All the temples declared Crockta as an enemy and the orcs as targets to be eliminated, following the will of the gods they serve.

"Do you think there will ever be a day again when all the Gods whisper the same message?" A man clad in steel armor asked.

The Duke of the empire, Christan, looked at him and stroked his chin.

"I believe this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I shall go."

The man in front of Christan was one of those he had taken under his wing.

Christan values talent highly. If he found someone desirable, he spared no material support to bring them under his command. The greatest archmage, Moggslin, is a prime example.

And the man before him was no different.

A paladin chosen by the War God. The champion of the War God, Arcran, who annihilated enemies under the blessing of his god, was the most enthusiastic about this oracle. His expression showed he was eager to rush out with his weapon in hand, to eliminate Crockta and the orcs.

His flushed face and determined eyes showed it.

"Hmm, is that so?"

Christan pondered.

The deeply religious elves and dwarves had already begun preparations to march.

It was a revelation through the oracle, and it drew in voluntary soldiers instead of the regular soldiers. Those who knew how to fight, soldiers or former soldiers, and those who wished to make a name for themselves, such people started to form groups.

A potential sense of glory on top of the divine revelation served as a splendid reason. Using the oracle as an excuse, those seeking fame and honor lined up.

Their target was Orcrox, the land of the orcs.

Arcran, standing before Christan, hoped for battle driven by both his belief in the god and his honor.

"If that is your wish, I cannot stop you."

Although Christan had spoken negatively about this fight to the emperor, it was necessary to maintain appearances.

However, just going along with the trend did not suit his taste. He was a starter of fires, not one to join in and merely add kindling to an already blazing inferno, and Arcran was the perfect person to ignite that fire.

Belief in the War God. That alone was the reason for Arcran's existence. Such fanaticism would spread among the people like a disease.

"Adantadore also wishes to join me."

"He does?"

"Yes."

Adantadore had secluded himself after being wounded in battle with Crockta.

Was it because of a desire for revenge? Or had Arcran's madness also infected him?

"That would be good as well."

The truth was that it didn't matter. Adantadore, if anything, was closer to the emperor's faction. There was no significant connection with Christan, so it was better to send him away if possible.

"You know, I can't send regular troops or knights. In the empire, it's not the Gods but the emperor who stands highest. That's why."

"I understand."

"But I can't stop you from recruiting volunteers. Gather people together with the temple of the War God, then do as you wish. I'll speak to the emperor. If soldiers wish to join, they will be allowed."

"Thank you."

Arcran bowed deeply.

"I regret leaving before I could fully repay your kindness."

"It's not like you're leaving forever. Return with a victory report. That would be enough."

"Yes, my lord!"

"Go on, then."

Arcran stood and bowed once more to Christan before turning to leave.

Christan thought to himself. May this war escalate, so that everyone is wounded, and it ends with no victors, just devastation spread across.

"Will the orcs be exterminated, causing the balance of the continent to collapse?"

The thought of such turmoil occurring in his lifetime was exhilarating.

Christan smiled.

"What do you think?"

Then, as if out of nowhere, a man appeared next to Duke Christan. It was the archmage Moggslin, draped in a robe.

"I would bet on the orcs being eradicated from the continent."

"Don’t the orcs have enough monsters on their side?"

"They may have their monsters, but their opposition is the gods. All the gods have opposed the orcs. Who could withstand that?"

"I guess you’re right."

"Even if they have a fallen God behind them, it's of no use."

According to Moggslin, during the battle where Crockta opposed the empire, a strong presence of the Fallen God was felt from him, shocking all the Gods and prompting this action.

"I am glad to have you with me."

Moggslin's magic was at its peak, capable of connecting even with the higher beings, the Gods. He was practically Christan's spy, eavesdropping on their conversations. Without him, they would have known nothing about the full story behind this event.

Moggslin smiled and bowed at Christan's praise.

"But what if that Crockta wins this time too? He has managed to do the impossible and succeed over and over again. Despite being an enemy and an orc, I do respect him. I understand that we have the Gods on our side, but it feels uncertain."

"This time, even he won't be able to do anything. Even if he is the greatest warrior who defeated Adantadore, the gods are not beings that can be cut down with a sword."

"Beings that cannot be slain with a sword... That's reassuring."

Christan laughed.

Across the continent, those who followed the oracle were rising.

For people like Christan, it was a splendid opportunity.

* * *

In Geherard, the rain didn’t stop for a while. Despite that, the flames encircling the temple were not extinguished. People attempted to approach the temple, but the heat prevented them from entering. The abnormal spectacle continued, and the sound of hammering on metal continued to echo throughout all of Geherard.

Clang!

Clang!

"Are you sure Jakiro is alive?"

"Judging by the fact that the sound keeps coming..."

"Does he keep up with his meals?"

"..."

"What a remarkable fellow. I would have been burnt to a crisp if it were me. Ugh."

Claaang!

According to the priest and Rastard, Jakiro was currently forging weapons with the power of the Eternal Fire. It seemed to be a kind of divine power descending upon him.

However, to Crockta, Tiyo, and Anor, it just seemed like a crazy blacksmith engrossed in his hammering, skipping meals, and hammering metal all day long. Inside must be incredibly hot; he could very well have been charred black by now.

Fortunately, the continuous sound of hammering indicated he was safe. However, the fact that it went on day and night was an issue.

"That’s that. By the way, my father said he's going north."

"That's correct," replied the priest, taking a swig of beer.

With the temple aflame, the priest had lost his dwelling and temporarily stayed at the inn with Crockta's group. There was no rule against priests drinking. The priest heartily drank the beer. Despite maintaining a polite demeanor, he was still a dwarf, a fine drinker at heart.

"I remember him passing by and mentioning there's someone up north who knows the old myths quite well."

"That's my father, alright. Always roaming around."

"He told me he had followed him from the north all the way to the south of the continent, then to the Western Sea, and now he was headed back north again."

He was practically making a full circle around the continent.

"But, if it's north from here..." Tiyo looked at Crockta.

"It leads to the land of the orcs, doesn't it?"

"You’re right," Crockta nodded.

Heading north from Geherard would lead to Orcrox and Basque Village.

As if someone was guiding them, their destination once again pointed toward that place.

"It's been a long time since I returned."

Orcrox was the place where everything began. Crockta and his companions were finally set to return there.

"But when will Jakiro finish the sword? I'm worried."

"Indeed, but Crockta is lucky. Isn't this, like, receiving a sword from the Gods?"

"Perhaps it's a legendary sword?"

They all looked at Crockta.

The entire ordeal had started because of Crockta's Ogre Slayer. What kind of weapon was being forged to cause such an event?

Crockta scratched his head.

"Umm... I'm not exactly sure..."

He was genuinely ambivalent.

The prospect of receiving an incredibly cool weapon was exciting, but the sudden burning of the temple, the steam, and the continuous hammering inside made it somewhat daunting at the same time.

Then, someone pointed something out.

"Hey, did you notice that the hammering’s... stopped? I think it’s been quiet for a minute now."

A dwarf sitting next to them spoke up.

Indeed, the sound of hammering ceased.

"..."

It was indeed quiet.

Everyone stood up.

"No way!”

"This is!"

"Let's go!"

The group hastily left the inn.

The rain was still pouring down.

And amidst the rain, the temple had lost the steam and heat it had been emitting and had returned to its original form. The flames that shocked Geherard had died down.

Crockta's group ran toward the temple. As they got closer, they saw a man emerging from the temple's doors.

It was Jakiro.

His body was charred all over, but his eyes shone brightly. Spotting Crockta's group, he started walking toward them.

His steps were weary, indicating his extreme fatigue.

In his hand was a greatsword.

Crockta approached and faced him.

"... It must’ve been one tough job."

Jakiro stopped. He looked up at Crockta and grinned.

No more words were needed.

Jakiro, the blacksmith of the Golden Anvil tribe, a prodigy who earned the title "Slayermaker" at a young age, handed over the weapon, into which he had poured his all.

"...!"

The moment Crockta accepted the new sword, he realized.

This was no ordinary greatsword. It was unlike any kind of item he had known before. A weapon beyond weapons, an armament beyond armaments.

The standards he knew for legendary swords shattered. Holding it, he understood what kind of miracles this sword could perform.

For a warrior, it was the ultimate gift.

Crockta gathered the thrill coursing through his entire body and looked at Jakiro. What thanks could he possibly offer to a craftsman who had created such a divine weapon?

"Jakiro..."

Crockta barely managed to speak.

His lips involuntarily curled into a smile.

Struggling to suppress his grinning, Crockta continued.

"Oh man, you really shouldn’t have..."

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