The clamor of battle gradually faded. As Kurzadh walked over the corpses towards Katushir, the morning sun in the east had climbed overhead, transforming into a scorching midday sun.
The winter wind carried an icy chill, but the warm sunlight filtered out most of it, leaving a slight warmth on the skin.
Yet, even the most scorching sunlight couldn't disperse the thick smell of blood lingering in the air—a mixture of dark green beastmen blood, dark red human blood, and the light green blood of greenskins . It clung thickly to every inch of air, making one's throat tighten.
Kurzadh walked alone through the battlefield; the ground beneath his feet was already soaked with blood, squelching with every step.
His vision was filled with layers upon layers of corpses, mostly beastmen—some were split in half, their internal organs mixed with dark green blood spread on the ground; others were gnawed to mere skeletons by squigs, with bits of flesh still clinging to the bone seams; and some were twisted by Chaos magic, their limbs contorted into grotesque angles, their faces still bearing the fanaticism of their dying moments.
He kicked aside the curled-up corpse of an Ungor, looking at its distorted goat head—the erosion of warpstone caused these creatures to be born with deformities, their goat-headed, human-bodied forms, short fur covering their entire bodies, and sharp beast claws, every part revealing "non-human" characteristics.
Perhaps in the distant past, they were once normal humans or beasts, but due to the warpstone's pollution, they became like this, suffering discrimination and expulsion.
"What a pity," Kurzadh murmured, but quickly shook his head.
From the moment these beastmen wielded great axes to plunder villages and towns, offering humans as sacrifices to evil gods, they were no longer "victims," but monsters whose minds had been twisted by Chaos.
Arson, murder, looting, and a bloodthirsty nature, even cruelly killing newborn infants to please the evil gods of another dimension—such beings were unforgivable.
He recalled a Chaos legend from his previous life's TikTok and couldn't help but sneer, "Of all people to believe, they chose those four interdimensional hawkers."
To the greenskins , the Four Chaos Gods were merely a bunch of "Businessmen" who only knew how to stir up trouble, relying on promises of power to turn perfectly good creatures into anti-civilization, anti-social lunatics.
"It's better to believe in Gork and Mork with me; at least fighting is more enjoyable, and even if you die, you can go to Valhalla to keep chopping!"
The wind carried bits of flesh past, and Kurzadh's gaze fell on the other side of the battlefield—greenskin corpses were scattered there.
There were burly Orc Boyz, their iron axes still in their hands, with fatal wounds on their chests from the great axes of Bull Warriors; there were hobgoblin spearmen, their small bodies pierced by orc arrows, their long spears lying beside them, their fingertips still clutching half of an unfinished dried mushroom; and there were night hobgoblins' Death Crawlers, their spider legs severed, the rider on their back long since lifeless, yet their quiver of poisoned arrows was still bulging.
Kurzadh knelt down and wiped the blood from an Orc Boyz's face.
This Boy, named "Stone," had joined the Blackrock Clan three months ago. He always liked to ram his head into trees, saying he wanted to develop a head as hard as Gork's.
Now, Kurzadh's eyes were closed, but the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned. There was no pain on his face, but rather an inexplicable serenity.
Not just Kurzadh, but all the fallen greenskins were like this.
There was none of the beastmen's ferocity before death, nor the fear of human soldiers; their faces either bore smiles or expressions of contentment, as if they were merely asleep, and the next second they would spring up, shouting "WAAAGH!" and rush into battle.
A warmth rose in Kurzadh's heart.
For greenskins , dying in battle was never a tragedy.
They grew up listening to the legends of Gork and Mork—Gork was the best fighter among the orcs, and Mork was the most cunning among the hobgoblins. The two great bosses lived in Valhalla, piled high with weapons and mushrooms, their daily joys being fighting, drinking, and plundering.
greenskins firmly believed that as long as they died on the battlefield, their souls would float to Valhalla, where they would continue endless fighting with Gork and Mork. That life was a hundred times more enjoyable than gnawing on mushrooms and plundering loot in the tribe.
"Rest easy. When you get to Valhalla, remember to help me chop down a few more of Gork's opponents." Kurzadh patted Kurzadh's shoulder and stood up.
He didn't need to give specific instructions—the goblin and hobgoblins clearing the battlefield were already in motion. They carefully carried their green skin comrades' bodies onto wooden planks, some bound with vines, others carried directly on shoulders, humming off-key greenskin war songs.
These bodies would not be left on the battlefield.
According to the Blackrock Clan's rules, all fallen greenskins would be brought back to the mushroom field and buried in its soil.
Their flesh and blood would nourish the mushrooms, growing sturdier and more delicious fighting mushrooms; their bones would be collected by Dragu and forged into weapons or tools—this was the greenskins' unique "return," their bodies becoming part of the tribe, continuing to fight and plunder with their brothers, never truly leaving.
The sun gradually set in the west, and the battlefield was mostly cleared.
The greenskins , carrying their spoils and their comrades' bodies, walked towards the Forest of Gloom.
Kurzadh did not follow. He patted the dust from his body and turned to walk towards Katushir's North Gate.
The bloodstains on the city walls had not yet been cleaned; fragments of griffon armor, orc arrow shafts, and the black marks of solidified gold soup were particularly dazzling in the sunlight.
The city gate was tightly shut, and the city walls were lined with soldiers. Dozens of longbows were uniformly aimed at Kurzadh—the bowstrings were fully drawn, the arrowheads glinting coldly. If he took another step forward, a rain of arrows would instantly fall.
Kurzadh stopped, a grin spreading across his face.
How amusing—to defend Katushir, the Blackrock Clan lost hundreds of greenskins , and he, their chieftain, killed the enemy's Bull Warriors and drove away U's beastmen army. Yet, before he could even wipe the blood from his face, he was being targeted as an enemy.
He understood.
For thousands of years, the deep-seated blood feud between humans and greenskins could not be resolved by a single battle, could it? In human eyes, greenskins were a group of savage, greedy monsters who only brought destruction—they stole food , burned villages, killed humans, sweeping across the land like locusts, never satisfied.
beastmen were like cancer cells; encountering them meant death.
greenskins were like a fungal infection, incredibly annoying.
Kurzadh found it quite apt: beastmen brought destruction, instant death; while greenskins brought chaos, a persistent nuisance like flies.
Regardless of which, in human eyes, neither was good.
He didn't move, just stood there, watching the soldiers on the city wall.
Some soldiers looked wary, their hands clutching their bows trembling slightly; some were full of anger, cursing "Greenskin scum"; others had complex expressions, looking at the greenskins clearing their comrades' bodies on the other side of the battlefield, wondering what they were thinking.
The sunlight fell on Kurzadh, casting a long green shadow.
His leather armor was still dripping blood, his iron knife was stained with dark green beast blood, and Wasaga's head on his back had already been taken by the hobgoblins as a trophy, leaving only his empty hands.
Yet, as he stood there, he was like an unshakeable mountain. Though only one man, he kept the dozens of soldiers on the city wall from relaxing even an inch.
"Hey!" Kurzadh shouted towards the city wall, his voice booming, "Where's your Lord? I helped you drive away the Long-Haired Monsters, shouldn't you invite me for a cup of ale?"
The soldiers on the city wall exchanged glances; no one dared to answer.
They didn't know how to treat this "reinforcement"—to call him a friend, but he was a greenskin; to call him an enemy, but he had just saved Katushir.
Just then, footsteps echoed from the arrow tower above the city gate.
Caelesal, riding a white griffon warhorse, appeared at the top of the arrow tower.
Her silver-white armor had been wiped clean, but the scratches on it were still visible. Her golden hair was tied back, and she held the knight's sword with a chipped edge in her hand.
Caelesal's gaze fell on Kurzadh, her eyes complex.
She looked at this greenskin chieftain—greenskin, torn leather armor, covered in blood, and those eyes that shone with cunning and ferocity.
It was this greenskin, leading a group of barbaric companions, who had charged out at the most critical moment, driving away the arrogant beastmen.
"What do you want?" Caelesal's voice was clear and cold, but without the previous hostility.
Kurzadh smiled and pointed to his stomach: "I'm hungry. After fighting all night, shouldn't I get something to eat? Also, so many of my brothers died, shouldn't you give us some 'compensation'?"
greenskins never did business at a loss.
Helping Katushir defend the city wasn't out of kindness, but for the spoils, for the Blackrock Clan's reputation, and for the trade route Antonio had promised.
Now that the battle was won, the compensation naturally couldn't be less.
When the soldiers on the city wall heard the word "Compensation," they immediately erupted into chatter.
"Greenskins are so greedy!"
"Why should we give them compensation?"
"They're probably trying to seize the city!"
Caelesal raised her hand, silencing the soldiers' discussions. She looked at Kurzadh, was silent for a moment, and then said, "Wait. I'll go report to the Lord."
With that, she turned her horse and disappeared behind the arrow tower.
Kurzadh stood his ground, continuing to be targeted by dozens of longbows.
The sun was still warm, the smell of blood still thick, but his mood had lightened considerably.
He knew that the people of Katushir wouldn't dare to attack him—without the Blackrock Clan, if the beastmen returned, this city truly couldn't be defended.
From the direction of the distant mushroom field, the joyful singing of hobgoblins could be heard.
Kurzadh looked up, as if he could see the fallen greenskins fighting with Gork and Mork in Valhalla, their faces bearing the same serene smiles as on the battlefield.
He grinned, made a face at the soldiers on the city wall, which made many of them grit their teeth in anger, yet they still dared not fire their arrows.