The moment the horned warrior stepped through the tribe's entrance, children swarmed around him, clamoring Terence's name. Tiny curved horns no thicker than a thumb sprouted atop their heads, tender as new shoots. They pressed their heads together without fighting, their affectionate fervor stirring even the steadfast warrior's heart.
On that first meeting, the children had hidden within their tents, watching him warily.
Over a decade ago, Terence had left his homeland, traveling in hiding. He was captured by human armies, witnessed the gladiator uprising, and eventually settled in the southeast. Through these twists and turns, the years slipped away. Returning to these old lands after so long, the new generation of children knew nothing of his existence, puzzled only by the curved horns atop his head, similar to those of the other adults. Days ago, he led his group to this isolated homeland. His kin raised their weapons as if facing a formidable enemy. The standoff and conversation lasted a long while, until someone stepped forward from the ranks.
"Is it you, Terence?" the clan chief removed his mask, asking in disbelief.
"It is I, Father," Terence said, embracing his long-lost father.
His father had aged considerably since Terence last saw him—a frost of white had settled over his beard and hair, his eyes were less sharp than before, and his once stern expression had softened. He nodded to his son, filled with emotion, nodding repeatedly, unable to speak.
Later that evening, Terence recounted his years of adventure by the campfire, drawing gasps from his kin. His mother covered her mouth in shock, while his nieces and nephews listened with eyes aglow, urging him to tell more of the rebellion's tales—prompting the elders, spotting their enthusiasm, to give each a sharp rap on the head.
"Do you think war is a game?!" the clan chief scolded, glancing at Terence with a mix of relief and lingering fear. In the end, he chose the familiar tone of reproach: "Ask him! Is staying here a hundred times better than wandering out there, suffering all those hardships?"
"It's boring as hell here," the little nephew muttered.
"Boredom is better than death!" his mother hissed in a warning tone. "Do you want to be captured by humans and sold into slavery?"
"Life here is certainly calmer than outside," Terence said, his tone shifting under his parents' relieved gaze. "But I've never regretted leaving, and I won't stay cooped up here forever."
"Are you leaving again?" Terence's mother asked urgently.
"Actually, I'm only stopping here temporarily," Terence said apologetically but firmly. "I'm afraid I'll be taking more people with me."
Before the Nightfall Barrier was erected, the Orcish resistance had already departed Tasmarin Province. Now they waged guerrilla warfare deep within the heartland of the Erian Empire. This small yet highly mobile force operated like ghosts in the empire's remote frontiers, striking suddenly at gladiatorial arenas, brothels, and prisons where their kin were held captive. They struck and vanished without a trace, never engaging in prolonged combat. Once their people were freed, they fled without a second thought, never confronting the empire's might head-on.
This orcish band called themselves "Spring of Nature."
"Our kin still suffer outside," Terence said, revealing his whip-scarred shoulder. "Many aren't as fortunate as I. Father, closing our eyes won't make the outside dangers vanish. We can't hide here forever, praying we won't be found."
"But those are Imperial armies!" the chieftain's voice rose as he sprang to his feet. "I saw human iron hooves flatten tribes ten times larger than ours! My father led our remnants through death itself to find this sanctuary. You want to drag us back into the mud to face that colossal beast?!"
"We have faced that colossus before, and we prevailed! That is why we stand here today, bringing back a kin who was once clutched in its jaws!" Terence rose too, ignoring his mother's tugging at his sleeve. "How long has it been since you last heard news from the outside? The dungeons in the southeast have firmly established themselves in Tasmarin Province. An area spanning one-fifth of the empire is now teeming with all manner of alien races—human and non-human alike. Whether they choose the forests or the towns, they find refuge there. The armies of the Erian Empire attacked with iron dragons and steel puppets. I had the honor of fighting in that war. I stood on that battlefield and fought them until we defeated them!"
The clan members gathered around the campfire listened in stunned silence. The success of the uprising and escape was already the most perfect victory in their hearts. No one had imagined that the alien tribes could engage the imperial armies head-on. Terence's kin still clung to the pride and civilization of the beastmen, yet the shadow cast by the human empire had taken deep root. It had made these reclusive tribes timid and cautious, rarely daring to confront or even engage with outsiders—this was precisely why the young, impetuous Terence had stormed off in defiance after his father's scolding.
The young still harbored curiosity and a competitive spirit toward the outside world, much like the Terence of old, and like the younger generation today.
The leader of this rebel force was no longer a reckless youth. Terence, weathered by trials and tribulations, extended his hand, pointing beyond the flickering firelight into the shadowy night.
"Our ranks have traversed the empire from southeast to northwest, ventured to Erian's farthest west and north, and now circle back eastward. In forests and wastelands, we've found traces of our kin—all huddled in isolated corners of the wilderness, cut off from the world, mistakenly believing they stood alone. But no! Our strength far exceeds what you imagine, and our kin far outnumber what you suspect."
He recounted every land traversed by the "Spring of Nature," lifting the fog of fear and uncertainty from his people, shattering illusions of demons. The empire was indeed a colossal beast, yet it possessed a tangible form that could be struck, powerful yet vulnerable. Rescued tribespeople now received treatment within the tents. The wounded chatted and laughed in another large tent, while some rebel fighters rested and others stood guard. Living proof stood right here.
"Father! Times have changed," Terence declared. "Open your eyes and see!"
The chief stared blankly at his once-tongue-tied youngest son. Terence stood before him, the once-small figure now towering above him—had his son grown tall and strong, or had the father's own frame begun to stoop and waste? Perhaps both.
In that moment, the old chieftain recognized for the first time how truly old he had become.
"I can no longer control you," he said bitterly, shaking his head.
Terence smiled and patted his father's shoulder. "I will always be your son," he said. "Whatever happens, please trust me."
Like the gentle drizzle of spring, "Nature's Spring" silently soaked the soil, awakening seeds buried three feet beneath the earth.
In the imperial military's reports, they were bandits stirring up unrest. In the casual conversations of imperial civilians over tea and meals, they were a foreign revolutionary force causing disturbances yet largely irrelevant to most. Among the growing number of orcs joining their ranks, they were hailed as the pioneers of the Orc Liberation Movement. Organized and disciplined coordination unfolded across the wilderness, linking scattered tribes that still existed, transforming isolated dots into a vast, interconnected web.
Druids brought news from distant lands, while the Empire's network of spies in the dungeons and the rebel forces engaged in mutually beneficial exchanges of intelligence. The rescued elderly, weak, and infirm were settled among safe tribes. Even as the human Empire's borders stretched across the entire continent, certain regions belonging to nature remained unknown to men.
This deeply troubled the Empire. Once scattered troublemakers were now organized, slippery as eels. Slaves were taken, leaflets and traces left behind—these folk arrived silently but departed with a roar, ensuring locals knew exactly what had transpired. They fought while retreating, spread their message while fleeing. The scale of this struggle was neither large enough to stir widespread outrage nor small enough to be ignored.
The Spring of Nature had not been extinguished; instead, driven from place to place, it grew ever more intense.
Terence finally succeeded in sating the children with stories and promises. Like a pack of puppies fed their fill, they departed contented yet reluctant to leave. He strode into the tent, but a small tail followed him in. His young nephew, Seville, remained silent and refused to leave.
"How long do you intend to follow me?" Terence sighed, sitting down on the felt bed.
"Until you agree," Seville said, his face stern.
Terence ignored him.
Before long, the boy lost his patience and spoke again. "Let me go too, Uncle!" he pleaded. "I want to go with you to save our kind and kill humans!"
"Hey, hey, I'm still here!" the wounded man on the felt bed said, a mix of laughter and exasperation.
"So why is there a human here in the first place!" Seville fumed, pointing angrily at the pure-blooded human bandaging his wounds. "Why would a human infiltrate the Beast Liberation Army?"
"Humans have their good and bad sides. What did I teach you?" Terence said helplessly. "Mr. Ludwig is an important ally. And you—you're too young. You're not ready yet."
"I can hunt on my own already!" Seville lifted his chin, flaunting his two finger-thick antlers. He pointed again at the pale, frail human on the bed, his face twisted in disgust. "I could take down this weakling with one hand. Why can he go to war and I can't? Hey, what kind of injury did you even get? That tiny scratch doesn't look like it came from any weapon at all!"
"Oh, I lost my footing on the stairs and fell, hitting my head," Ludwig replied honestly.
"Good heavens, you hit your head!" the orc boy exclaimed. "Even my six-year-old sister doesn't fall that easily! How could you possibly wield any weapon in that state?"
"I fight with my pen," Ludwig smiled good-naturedly, adjusting his round glasses.
"Fight with a pen?" Sever frowned. "Are you pulling a fast one on kids?"
"Mr. Ludwig's pen is mightier than an army," Terence said earnestly.
Ludwig was a painter.
He created promotional artwork for "Spring of Nature," sometimes taking risks by leaving large graffiti pieces at event sites. The paintings Ludwig produced for the Beast Liberation Movement differed greatly from his previous work. Sacrificing precision for speed, these pieces would likely be mocked as shoddy craftsmanship and unfit for galleries if displayed there.
These paintings weren't heavy or impassioned; quite the opposite, they made people laugh out loud. Crude, amusing caricatures and comics tinged with dark humor were left at "Spring of Nature" events, then published in newspapers, becoming a vibrant splash of color on dull political pages. Words and slogans might be painted over, but images spoke a universal language.
These instantly comprehensible works carried the beastfolk's cries for equality and freedom, their questioning of human slavery, and their call to the oppressed.
Whether out of concern or mere curiosity, even the indifferent couldn't help but glance at them. The beastfolk—a race hidden under tables, scorned and ignored—were finally brought out into the open.
As the wealthy discuss the rampant orc bandit uprisings, pets nestled in their masters' laps prick up their ears, hearing for the first time of another way of life for their kind. When newspapers fill their pages with orc stories and news, the orc servants ironing their masters' papers glance at the images—they see their kin in the forests and wilds. Yes, most domesticated orcs remained safely within their mansions, fearful of being caught up in such turmoil. But in some, in corners of their hearts they hadn't even noticed, a small spark was lit.
In the dead of night, they imagined the sky beyond their gilded cages.
The rebel leader sent his angry nephew away and returned to have the painter check his bandages. He paused briefly before saying, "Though it may be presumptuous, I wish to ask a similar question."
"How does one wage war with a brush?" Ludwig quipped.
"Why did you choose to join us in such a perilous war?" Terence asked earnestly. "You could have remained in Tasmarin, where your friends and supporters await, your bright studio and finest tools at your disposal—a place of absolute safety and peace."
"Yes, my friends are there..." the painter murmured, his gaze drifting toward some distant horizon. After a pause, he inquired, "Do you know Valke?"
Terence considered this. "I've heard of the Valke Artists' Association. You're a member, aren't you?"
"Indeed I am," Ludwig murmured, pressing his lips together. "Lady Laura and Miss Quentina founded this association to honor Valke, the painter who perished unjustly in prison. He was an exceptional painter and a good man, full of passion. Because he created works calling for the liberation of orcs and denouncing slavery, and because he preserved them and acknowledged his authorship, he suffered... unjust treatment."
Terence remained silent for a while before saying, "When I can return to Tasmarin Province, I will pay my respects to Mr. Walke."
"Quintina and the others are working hard to redraw and restore the burned paintings. By the time we can return, perhaps we'll see them exhibited." Ludwig gave a pale smile, his gaze drifting distant. "Wacker and I were friends. We participated together in the Call of the Wild exhibition. But when the news came, I was among those who burned all the paintings."
Unlike Wacker, Ludwig was born into wealth.
He was the youngest son, and his family indulged his "rebellious ways," letting him hang with unsavory types and dabble in graffiti. But when word spread that General Cyril would arrive at Lake Rebe, his family issued their first stern warning. Burn the paintings, sever ties with those who refuse, stay home and behave—Ludwig had resisted these orders, but to no avail. In the end, he had to yield. His path to becoming an artist had faced little opposition, so he remained dependent on his family. Once they turned against him, Ludwig was utterly powerless.
After weeks of confinement, Ludwig emerged only to learn of Walke's death.
He couldn't face his friends.
"It wasn't your fault," Terence comforted him. "There was nothing you could have done."
"True," Ludwig replied with a bitter smile. "But..."
The family forced him to burn the painting, confined him under house arrest, and prevented him from sharing both the joys and hardships with his friends... Telling himself this would indeed make things easier. But Ludwig was a sensitive artist; he had to confront his own thoughts.
Hadn't Ludwig felt relieved that he was forced to burn the painting, sparing him the choice to abandon his convictions?
Ludwig was sheltered by his family, confined at home where he could vent his temper on servants and household staff instead of suffering torment in a dark dungeon. Wasn't he grateful for that?
Ludwig had no room to struggle, so he didn't have to remain silent amid guilt over unjust atrocities, nor did he have to fight valiantly only to lose his life. When he later visited the graves of those friends, gazing upon the tombstones of those who chose to shatter like jade rather than yield, did he not feel a flicker of relief?
He did.
The rebellious, dashing young Master Ludwig discovered his own weakness and impotence.
He couldn't blame the family that had protected him, nor could he face the friends who had survived. Ludwig chose self-exile, enlisting in the Orc Revolutionary Army.
"It still isn't your fault," Terence said. "No one should feel guilty for surviving."
"Thanks. It feels better to say it," Ludwig withdrew his gaze, shook his head, and smiled. "But even if my reasons for joining weren't entirely pure, at this point, I'm honored to be one of you."
Things had changed.
The young master accustomed to expensive art supplies and studios began learning to sketch with charcoal and even pebbles on walls and ground during the army's nomadic campaigns. Ludwig, once skilled at rendering ornate scenes, swiftly shed his superficial, powdered elegance after witnessing countless harrowing realities. Vibrant, eye-catching colors remained, sharp lines were extracted, transformed into sketches that captured essence most powerfully, grabbing attention instantly. Beneath his biting, caustic humor lay a deafening cry.
Ludwig questioned, inquired, and sought debate.
And he got it.
Discussions about slavery slowly gained traction, gradually shifting toward neutrality. The questions and inquiries in his paintings stirred readers' thoughts and elicited a steady stream of responses. The imperial elite finally sensed trouble and began banning newspapers from printing scenes captured on the ground. Yet the "unknown orc painter's" works had already gained notoriety. Famously banned books always circulated more fervently underground—those who discovered the paintings secretly copied and documented them, while others paid to acquire these small prints, binding them into volumes for clandestine sale and dissemination.
Among the initial buyers were dungeon spies posing as collectors. Once others discovered the profitability of this trade, they too entered the fray.
In corners where imperial military control was weak, these lowbrow pamphlets proliferated everywhere. Toilet reading material falsely attributed to the anonymous beastman artist sprang up like mushrooms after rain. In truth, Ludwig's sketchbook wielded far greater influence than anyone in his era could have imagined. For over half a century, it was hailed as "the doodles that saved countless souls." A genuine copy fetched absurdly high prices, commanding more than the oil paintings of the time that were celebrated by high society.
But that was all yet to come. In this very moment, the only thing that mattered to Ludwig himself was that he had finally discovered his true purpose and worth.
That saved him.
Shifting focus to present-day Tasmalin State, the Walke Artists' Association thrived just as vigorously. Lady Laura remains its patron, while Quentina, Walke's lifelong confidante, serves as its chairwoman. Beyond restoring the burned paintings, the association undertakes other initiatives.
Each year, its artists hold themed exhibitions and auctions, raising funds to support promising painters overlooked by the mainstream. The entire process resembles angel investing, though it operates non-profit. The association's sole purpose is to sponsor artists themselves, encouraging them to speak out. Funds are not only used for grants but also to hire lawyers and bodyguards, ensuring artists' creative freedom—as far as Tasmanian sources know, they're secretly preparing for official crackdowns, providing underground escape routes akin to resistance networks for any artist at risk of being silenced by higher authorities.
"For free will. Yes, our slogan is 'For Free Will,'" Quentina stated plainly during a press interview. "To protect everyone's right to free expression, to safeguard every work of art that defies the boundaries of good and evil, right and wrong. Neither the power of the Abyss, the Celestial Realm, nor the pinnacle of the mortal world can alter my brush or my heart—this is Valc's final wish, and we shall uphold it."
What a humble yet grand aspiration, Tasha mused.
What heights would this idealist's association reach in the future? Tasha watched with anticipation.
The Dungeon did not fully control the Orc Liberation Army; their relationship resembled allied forces providing mutual support rather than a command structure. Beyond offering public support and sharing intelligence, the Dungeon's very existence proved invaluable.
When the imperial army suppressed the Orc Rebellion, it also had to account for the pressure from the province of Tasmalin. A portion of the forces guarding against invasion and the magical weapons had to remain stationed at the Tasmalin border, and energy reserves had to be constantly maintained. Imperial leadership must also navigate Tasmalin Province's stance. Though Tasmalin consistently denies responsibility for the Orc Rebellion's actions, whenever the Empire intensifies its crackdown, Tasmalin begins military drills.
What, never seen a military parade before?
The underground city of Tasmalin is a peaceful, developing metropolis. Military drills are conducted for parade purposes—parades prevent troops from rusting away during prolonged inactivity, and they look impressive. Why hold parades at the border? Because there happens to be a vast open field there. It also allows our friendly imperial neighbors to observe the fruits of our military training, fostering mutual prosperity and development.
Of course, this has absolutely nothing to do with any actions by the orcs or the Empire.
Does the Empire believe it?
Whether they believe it or not, they haven't launched any large-scale troop movements to encircle us. Their main forces watch the Dungeon's parade at the border. Armored soldiers who haven't touched their mounts in years twitch at the corners of their eyes, cursing countless times at the sight of armored vehicles rolling back and forth, calling them good-for-nothings.
Discussions about holding a parade of their own dragged on among the upper echelons before ultimately fizzling out—using only infantry and cold steel would look pitifully inadequate compared to their neighbors; deploying large-scale magical weapons would burn through far too many magic stones. Every ounce of the Empire's mana had to be used where it mattered most—there was no room for such extravagant waste.
In the end, the empire adopted an economical solution for dealing with roaming beast bandits: recruiting adventurers.
"For the sake of the Erian Empire, heroes must rise once more!" proclaimed the Chancellor.
More accurately, they were recruiting professionals.
After the original spellcasters were eliminated, other professionals continued to dwindle until their numbers reached an awkwardly small scale, insufficient to form a proper army. As stability grew, the troubles these stragglers caused outweighed their benefits. The concept of "professional adventurers" faded, and adventurers largely vanished from the historical stage. A stable, unified empire had no need for such unsettling elements. By the time the Sandstorm descended upon the continent, adventurers had dwindled to wandering old knights and traveling circus troupes taking odd jobs.
The ban on spellcasters was lifted in the year of the "Nightfall Address," and now, after years of prohibition, adventurers' guilds have regained their legal status.
Adventurers' guilds have reopened, and the registration systems for all professions have been reactivated. The empire has invested heavily, establishing profession testing centers in every town. Mercenaries operating in the gray zone received generous conscription offers. Archives were dusted off to retrieve intelligence on every profession, including training methods, which were now freely shared in schools.
Professionals slowly emerged from across the empire, weighing its sincerity like cautious rodents.
The imperial upper echelons were overjoyed by the unexpectedly high number of professionals.
"So few people, and they're already gloating?" Victor sneered. "Compared to the past, let alone even a lateral comparison, it's laughably arrogant. Right?"
"Fair enough," Tasha nodded in understanding. "Then let's conduct another census of professionals in Tasmarin Province."
Everyone entering Tasmalin Province had to register, and Tasha had even tricked quite a few into signing contracts, so she had a rough idea of the province's professional population. Still, another census couldn't hurt.
The results came in a quarter later, and surprisingly, the numbers were far higher than Tasha had anticipated.