A hint of early spring warmth accompanied the wind as it swept through the Blackrock Clan from the Forest of Gloom.
A month had passed since the bloody battle of Katushir; the wooden palisade on the tribe's periphery had expanded by half a mile, smoke rose from newly built Orc Boyz barracks, the goblins in their pen had grown rounder, and even the Battle Mushrooms in the mushroom field were taller than a man—but what excited the greenskins most was the goats pen on the eastern side of the tribe.
Kurzadh stood outside the palisade, watching the packed goats, his grin stretching almost to his ears.
These goats were snatched as younglings from a human caravan three years ago and raised by hobgoblins on mushroom dregs and shredded meat; now, their numbers had swelled to over five hundred.
Their grey-black wool was sleek and shiny, their horns curved like small crescent moons, and some of the rams were strong enough to arm-wrestle a goblin.
"Only a hundred!" Kurzadh slapped the palisade, his voice making the goats bleat and jump, "Bone Tree! Bring twenty Orc Boyz over, pick out the strongest rams, and slaughter them this afternoon!"
Bone Tree, who was drilling prisoners nearby, immediately responded and ran over, shouldering his great axe.
After a month of "training," the three hundred orc prisoners had already integrated into the tribe; they were currently lifting stones with the veterans, and their eyes lit up when they heard about slaughtering goats—though greenskins could survive on photosynthesis, who didn't love eating meat?
The news spread like wildfire, reaching the entire tribe within half a day.
The hobgoblins peered around the goats pen, the goblins bounced around collecting firewood, and even the Orc Boyz Guzhana had just taught to blacksmith were sharpening their iron axes, eagerly awaiting the afternoon's slaughter.
But the busiest place was the green mushroom tavern in the center of the tribe.
The green mushroom tavern was a wooden house built six months ago, with a mushroom cap roof and a crooked wooden sign hanging by the entrance, on which the words "Green mushroom tavern" were carved—Zaggur had branded them with a red-hot iron bar.
Inside, the tavern was a chaotic mess.
Zaggur was squatting by a wine vat, plucking at his hobgoblin beard in distress.
The mushroom wine Kurzadh wanted had to be moved from the cellar—the black mushroom spirits were stored in coarse pottery jars, so alcoholic they could ignite, and a single sip could make an orc shiver; the Screaming Green mushroom wine was even more troublesome, its liquid a pale green, brewed with fresh screaming mushrooms, and it would emit a "Squeaking" sound whenever shaken, requiring careful handling, otherwise, a spill would mean a night of screaming.
"Hurry up! Everyone, be quick!" Zaggur banged on the cellar door with a wine ladle, shouting at a dozen hobgoblin Boyz behind him, "The boss wants a hundred jars of black mushroom spirits! Fifty jars of Screaming Green mushroom wine! It all has to be moved tonight!"
The hobgoblin Boyz, carrying small wine jars, scurried into the dim cellar, which was piled high with wine jars, the air thick with the mellow and spicy aroma of mushroom wine.
One hobgoblin boy accidentally bumped into a wine jar, and with a clang, the green mushroom wine jar swayed, letting out a "Squeaking" scream, startling him so much he almost dropped the jar in his hands.
The tavern's back kitchen was even livelier.
Chik was bustling around the stove; the roasted mushrooms and dried fish Kurzadh wanted were all his responsibility—the roasted mushrooms required the caps of Battle Mushrooms, sliced and brushed with orc fat before roasting; the dried fish were caught from the forest streams, sun-dried for half a month, and needed to be softened with mushroom wine before roasting; and the flatbreads and bread "Acquired" from Katushir had to be roasted by the fire until crispy outside and tender inside.
"Flour! Where's my flour?!" Chik roared, his spatula almost hitting the hobgoblin handing him mushrooms, "If the white flatbreads from Katushir get burnt, I'll pull off all your ears!"
The hobgoblins were working frantically, some washing mushrooms, some flipping dried fish, some brushing oil on flatbreads; the back kitchen was thick with smoke, and the aroma wafted far, drawing passing goblins to circle the tavern, their mouths watering onto the ground.
As Kurzadh passed the tavern, he saw Zaggur directing hobgoblins to move wine jars and Chik stomping around the stove, and couldn't help but grin: "Do a good job! Let the brothers drink their fill tonight!"
Zaggur and Chik nodded repeatedly, but inwardly they were groaning—over a hundred goats to roast, a hundred jars of wine to move, plus dozens of pounds of roasted mushrooms and dried fish; they wouldn't get any sleep tonight.
But no one dared to complain.
For greenskins , a feast ordered by the boss was more important than fighting.
However, greenskins loved to eat, not because they were hungry.
Kurzadh sat on a stone bench in the mushroom field, stroking Furball, who was dozing in his arms, contemplating the "Greenskin Physiology Analysis" on the system panel.
The greenskin race was inherently different from other creatures.
They didn't need three meals a day like humans, nor did they rely on eating meat like beastmen—as long as there was water and sunlight, their skin could perform photosynthesis, and countless tiny spores hidden within their green skin would convert sunlight into basic energy, enough for them to walk, fight, and steal.
But once injured, it was different.
The spores would suddenly become active, secreting a mysterious hormone imbued with chaotic energy, helping cells divide faster, and wounds would heal incredibly quickly.
However, this hormone consumed energy and needed to be replenished by eating—the more they ate, the more energy they had, the more vigorously the hormone was secreted, and the faster the wounds healed.
Just like in the last bloody battle of Katushir, Bone Tree was struck in the shoulder by Wasaga's axe, a wound so deep the bone was visible, yet after drinking three jars of black mushroom spirits and eating half a roasted wild boar, he slept for a night and was able to shoulder his great axe and drill prisoners the next day.
This was the power of the spores.
Moreover, the stronger a greenskin was, the more spores they had.
Orc Boyz had several times more spores than hobgoblins, while goblin had pitifully few, which is why orcs healed quickly from injuries, while goblin needed several days to recover from a mere scratch.
Some old orcs could even regenerate lost limbs—as long as there was enough meat and wine, a severed arm could grow back, though the new arm might be a bit smaller.
Therefore, the stronger the greenskin, the more they loved to eat.
Kurzadh himself was an example—after killing Wasaga last time, he ate an entire roasted ram and drank five jars of black mushroom spirits, and the bruise on his chest disappeared the next day.
Holding a feast after a major battle became a custom of the Blackrock Clan.
It could both help the brothers recover quickly and make everyone happy—greenskin happiness was simple: either fighting or eating roasted meat and drinking strong spirits; if they could drink and fight at the same time, it was even more exhilarating.
This feast was no different.
Over a hundred roasted whole goats, a hundred jars of mushroom wine, plus dried fish, roasted mushrooms, and human flatbreads, made it the grandest feast in the Blackrock Clan's history.
Kurzadh had initially envisioned it beautifully—watching his brothers eat meat and drink wine, while he sat at the head of the table, sipping his own wine, listening to Bone Tree boast about cutting down Wasaga, and seeing how sharp Guzhana's newly forged iron axe was.
But after just two days of preparation, he felt a headache coming on.
Waking up early, Dragu was already blocking the tent entrance, holding a crooked iron ingot: "Boss! We're out of iron ore! Guzhana says to temper Chaos Iron, she needs more warpstone, but we only have three pieces left!"
Kurzadh had just rubbed his eyes when the iron ingot was thrust at him; he could only wave his hand: "Send Keziaz with the night hobgoblins to the Black Feather Forest to look! The last time the Wasaga's horde fled in that direction, there must be a warpstone mine there!"
No sooner had Dragu left than Scarface ran over, clutching a tattered piece of paper with crooked circles drawn on it: "Boss! The hobgoblins from the Blackrock Spire outpost report that a small group of beastmen are stealthily approaching! Should we send Orc Boyz to cut them down?"
Blackrock Spire was a small outpost occupied last month, located east of the Forest of Gloom, inhabited by over two hundred hobgoblins; Stonewatch was to the west, a ruined human fortress, which Bone Tree had fifty orcs guarding.
These two outposts, recently captured, were constantly having problems.
"Send twenty Orc Boyz! Tell them to cut down the beastmen and hang their heads at the outpost entrance!" Kurzadh rubbed his temples, feeling a slight ache.
Having just sent Scarface away, Zaggur and Chik approached together, one looking distraught, the other sweating profusely.
"Boss! We don't have enough wine jars! Half the jars in the cellar are cracked, they can't hold that much wine!" Zaggur tugged at his beard.
"Boss! Not enough roasting racks! We have a hundred goats to roast, but only ten racks; we won't finish roasting until tomorrow morning!" Chik patted his stomach.
Kurzadh looked at the two hobgoblins before him, took a deep breath: "Zaggur! Send the goblin to the river to collect clay and mold their own jars! It's fine if they're not perfectly fired; a little leakage will just give the brothers something to lick!"
"Chik! Have the Orc Boyz build roasting racks with iron bars! Build twenty! If that's not enough, dismantle the wooden palisade!"
The two nodded quickly and ran off. Kurzadh was about to sit down and have a sip of mushroom wine when another goblin stumbled in, crying: "Boss! The goblins in the squig pen fought over food and broke the palisade! Three goblins ran away!"
"What?!" Kurzadh immediately stood up, Furball leaped from his arms, baring his teeth at the goblin.
goblins were the tribe's treasures; losing even one was painful.
He followed the goblin to the squig pen and indeed saw a gap in the palisade, with traces of goblins having rolled across the ground.
Three Orc Boyz were stomping their feet around the opening, while the other goblins were still fighting over food , completely ignoring their escaped companions.
"What are you standing around for?! Go chase them!" Kurzadh roared, "Let Furball sniff their trail! They can't have gone far!"
Furball immediately sniffed the ground, whimpered towards the forest, and bolted.
The three Orc Boyz quickly followed.
Kurzadh stood by the palisade, looking at the collapsed wood, and could only sigh: "Tell the hobgoblins to reinforce the palisade! Bind it with iron bars! If another one escapes, I'll throw all of you in to feed the goblins!"
By noon, Kurzadh hadn't even had breakfast.
He sat in his tent, watching the greenskins come and go outside—some carrying wood to build roasting racks, some hugging clay to mold wine jars, some leading goats to the slaughterhouse, and others moving wine jars at the cellar entrance, busy as ants.
The greenskins in the tribe numbered almost three thousand.
Years of continuous warfare, the production of the mushroom field, and various greenskins who had joined, as well as greenskin prisoners, had contributed to this number.
Adding the two outposts, Blackrock Spire and Stonewatch, the total came to nearly four thousand greenskins .
When the tribe was smaller, with only a few dozen individuals, a shout was enough to get things done.
Kurzadh used to lead his brothers in fighting and stealing every day, and at night they would drink around the campfire, having a grand time.
But now it was different.
Outposts needed guarding, iron ore needed finding, wine needed brewing, goats needed slaughtering, there were beastmen raids, prisoners needed training, and even escaped goblins required his attention.
Every day, he was busy from dawn till dusk, constantly on his feet, without even a moment to drink some wine.
He sat on the stone bench, watching the Orc Boyz building roasting racks in the distance, and suddenly felt a little tired.
Not physically tired—a greenskin's physique could run ten miles with a great axe without panting—but mentally tired.
Before, fighting just meant charging ahead and cutting people down; now, as the boss of a large tribe, there were too many things to manage, more tiring than cutting down ten Wasagas.
"When can I just have a good drink and some roasted goat?" Kurzadh stroked Furball in his arms, and Furball rubbed his hand, as if comforting him.
In the distant green mushroom tavern, Zaggur was directing hobgoblins to mold clay jars; some goblin's jars were so crooked they collapsed as soon as they were formed; Chik was leading Orc Boyz to build roasting racks, the iron bars tied so crookedly he almost hit his own foot; Keziaz was preparing to lead the night hobgoblins to the Black Feather Forest to find warpstone, and the Death Crawlers had already been loaded with bows and arrows; Bone Tree was in the training ground, roaring at the newly arrived orc prisoners, making them run with stones.
The entire Blackrock Clan was bustling for the feast, yet only Kurzadh sat in the mushroom field, watching the lively scene, feeling a bit lonely.
The wind swept through the tribe again, carrying the aroma of roasted mushrooms and the pungent smell of mushroom wine.
Kurzadh took a deep breath and stood up—no matter how tired, the feast had to happen.
His brothers were waiting to eat meat and drink wine; as their boss, he had to hold on.
"Furball, let's go!" He patted Furball's head, "Let's go to the slaughterhouse and see; tell Bone Tree not to chop the goats too small; a whole roasted goat tastes best when roasted whole!"
Furball whimpered and followed him towards the slaughterhouse.
In the distance, the joyous shouts of hobgoblins, the roars of Orc Boyz, and the squeaks of goblins could be heard.
Kurzadh looked at everything before him, and his lips slowly curved into a smile again.
Tired as he was, this was his tribe, the Blackrock Clan.
Three thousand greenskins followed him, relying on him for food , for fighting, for life.
What was a little tiredness compared to that?
At the feast, watching his brothers gnawing on roasted goat, drinking strong spirits, fighting, laughing, and making merry, all this tiredness would be forgotten.