The most sacred of all orc traditions, the ritual duel, meant to overflow with blood and roars, had been defiled.

“You dare use mysticism in a sacred duel? Chieftain! Coward! Pick up your weapon!”

“That’s no orc’s duel!”

“Face us like an orc! With steel, not tricks!”

“I challenge you too! A coward cannot lead orcs!”

The warriors, incensed by what they’d witnessed, turned their weapons on their chief.

The chieftain, however, remained still, his gaze fixed not on his raging kin, but far ahead, beyond the cold and the flame.

He was staring at the prince.

The prince walked high and proud, encased in fire, noble and imperious. Surrounded by a company of warriors, his gait regal, his expression unmoved. That image of composure amidst destruction filled the orc chieftain’s vision entirely.

“Chieftain! Are you deaf? Pick up your weapon!”

“This is a duel! Wait your turn!”

The smell of blood and sweat, stenches that had once been the scent of his people, of home,now sickened him.

Though born an orc, he now despised their savagery. The barbarity in their eyes. Their unthinking violence.

He no longer considered himself one of them.

“I have been promised a place among the Lords of the Frozen Lands. I’m no longer an orc. I am Eskimo.”

With that statement, he severed his identity, he had already become something else. The orcs responded the only way they knew how.

“Kill him!”

“Tear him apart! Hang his head outside the stronghold!”

“Kill the coward! He doesn’t deserve the title of chieftain!”

The very warriors who had once stood guard around him now roared and charged at him, weapons raised, voices howling with betrayal.

A chorus of fury collided with a chill wind. Screams met frost.

As the prince’s group advanced through the stronghold, something strange began to settle over them.

“…The orcs stopped attacking,” Sol panted, struggling to breathe in the thick heat.

“Did they all burn to death?” Andre wiped sweat from his brow. The fire’s heat, combined with the heavy humidity, made each breath a struggle.

The knights behind them seemed to ease slightly. Their tense shoulders loosened. Some even dropped their guard.

Even snowland orcs couldn’t survive such intense flame, could they?

But … 

“Do not relax,” Count Balzac said.

Ahead of them, the fire still burned, but he only tightened his grip. His instincts whispered danger. Something powerful lay beyond the flames. He stepped forward, broad back shielding the prince.

They crossed the last curtain of fire.

“…Ice?”

“The fire didn’t touch this place.”

Suddenly, the heat dropped. A sharp, cold air embraced them.

They had reached the heart of the stronghold, the innermost sanctum, where the orc chieftain’s hut stood, It was surrounded by frost.

Even now, fire still roared around it. But this place, this heart of the fortress, resisted.

“Cold, ice… blood,” someone muttered.

Only this central point breathed out freezing resistance.

Weapons were drawn. Tension surged again as they entered the cold sanctuary.

“…They’re all frozen.”

“Are they alive?”

“No way. Not in this state.”

Frozen orcs filled the hall. Some bore expressions of raw hatred. Others, wide-eyed terror. Some, unfathomable sorrow.

“…Orcs can make faces like this?”

“This is worth documenting,” one of the mages murmured.

“But look at their direction… Why are they all running inward?”

“Maybe they fled from the flames.”

“If that were the case, why such twisted expressions?”

“Could it have been… internal strife? Even now? Heh. Typical.”

The mages’ eyes glimmered with a curiosity too close to excitement.

“CRASH”!

Balzac shattered one of the frozen orcs with a single blow.

The cracking sound jolted everyone back to reality.

“Keep your wits,” Balzac said, turning to the others. “This battle isn’t over. No personal musings until the mission is complete.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Apologies.”

“Understood.”

They all straightened and followed his lead deeper into the heart of the fortress.

Along the way, they crushed every frozen statue they passed.

“If they turn, we won’t have time to react. Destroy them all.”

Knights and mages carried out the task with precision.

And through it all, the prince walked silently, calm, and detached.

As though the violence around him were scenery.

Sometimes, he glanced to the side with a look of idle boredom, as if he were out on a stroll.

Finally, they arrived at the central hall.

A grotesque throne rose before them, crafted from bones, animal hides, twisted wood.

Atop it sat an orc.

Massive. Nearly two meters tall.

“Grrh… Grrrrh…” He panted heavily.

Around him lay shattered ice and crusted blood.

He did not even react to their entrance. He scrubbed his hands obsessively. Cleaning away the blood of his kin.

Hatred twisted his face… Fury, and a strange hollow sorrow.

He muttered ceaselessly. 

Unintelligible. But the meaning was clear … 

“…Did he… kill them himself?” Balzac whispered.

“All of them?”

The orc finally lifted his head, he met their gaze.

Balzac narrowed his eyes.

This was not normal.

Orcs were brutal, yes. They devoured each other in times of hunger. But when faced with an external threat, they united.That was what made them so dangerous.

Had the prince not possessed that mysterious power… Balzac wouldn’t have dared step into this stronghold with such a small force. Not even as a Swordmaster.

The orc chieftain slowly raised his massive blade.

Balzac mirrored him, preparing to intercept.

Then … 

“My escort ends here. Now it’s my turn,” the prince said.

And with that, Breaker stirred.

From the prince’s body, a heat pulsed outward.

Fire met ice.

Balzac wanted to step forward,but he stopped himself.

“…Understood.”

He felt it, too.

This fight belonged to the prince.

Had he been saving his strength for this?

Balzac wasn’t sure.But something told him … yes.

“You wipe away orc blood… what are you doing?”

The prince’s voice cut sharp.

“Trying to deny you’re an orc?”

He sneered.

“You abandoned your warrior’s spirit. You hid. That’s why you lost. You’re already dead. No matter how much you wipe, the stink of rot and cowardice won’t leave you.”

The orc snarled.

He didn’t understand the words, but he felt the scorn.

“You’ll never be noble.”

With that, the prince leapt.

Blades clashed … Fire clashed with frost.

“What’s the difference between us?! You’re human?! So what?!” the orc roared.

“You were protected! I was too! I led warriors! I was chosen!”

The orc’s words were incoherent, but filled with rage.

“I am noble! I am no longer orc ,I am destined to be one of the Frozen Lords! I am something more! Anyone who opposes me dies! Orc or human!”

His greatsword swung with terrifying force.

It struck … Again and again.

Each blow rocked the prince’s body. He staggered, but did not fall.

He endured.

He waited.

Surely, now, he would unleash flame.

Surely he would strike back.

Everyone watching held their breath.

Finally, the prince moved, his hand lifted.

A counterattack, but not with flame.

Not with magic.

He pinched his nose , brow wrinkled.

He spoke.

“…You smell disgusting.”

A line more cutting than any blade.

“RAAAAAHHH! KRAAAAAGH!”

The orc screamed, wounded more deeply than by any steel.