Mutton fat was sizzling on the grill as Kurzadh squatted by the slaughterhouse entrance, watching the young orcs fumble with de-fleeing a sheep. Three orcs were struggling with the wool, but instead of getting much off, they managed to yank the sheep's leg out of its socket.
Just as he was about to curse, he heard a "Cough cough" coming from behind him, accompanied by a breathy hoarseness.
"Boss, pulling the wool like this, we won't finish before dark."
Kurzadh turned around and saw an old, hunchbacked hobgoblin.
This old hobgoblin was one of the captives traded from Katushir last month; his skin was wrinkled like a dried mushroom, his entire face radiated shiftiness, his small eyes darted around, and he leaned on a crooked wooden staff, walking with a limp, looking ready to fall apart at any moment.
"What the hell do you know?" Kurzadh snapped irritably.
This old hobgoblin had been in the tribe for a month, hadn't participated in drills, hadn't moved anything, and spent every day squatting in the mushroom garden sunbathing. Zaggur said he was "lazier than a snotling."
The old hobgoblin wasn't flustered; he slowly shuffled over and pointed his staff at the sheep: "Boss, I used to work at a human trading post. To get the wool off, you gotta scald it with hot water first. The wool just pulls right off, ten times faster than yanking it like this." He spoke with a thick greenskin accent, yet his articulation was clear, even sharper than Scarface's speech.
Kurzadh was taken aback.
He truly hadn't heard of this method—greenskins usually relied on yanking the wool off, or just burning it off with fire, which often resulted in scorched meat and still-hairy patches.
He waved his hand: "Go! Tell Chik to boil two pots of hot water!"
The young orcs did as they were told, skepticism evident. When the hot water was poured over the sheep, the wool indeed peeled right off. What used to take half an hour per sheep was now done in fifteen minutes.
Kurzadh looked at the old hobgoblin, his expression shifting: "What's your name? What did you do before?"
"My name is Gazlowe Dabright," the old hobgoblin grinned, showing two yellowed teeth. "I used to help keep accounts at the trading post in Katushir, and helped trade ironware with dwarf merchants and cloth with elf merchants."
"You know human language? And dwarf and elf languages too?" Kurzadh narrowed his eyes.
Most greenskins only understood the greenskin tongue; a few could manage some broken human words. Someone like Kurzadh, who was fluent in multiple racial languages, owed it all to the "Omni-Language" system reward.
How could this old hobgoblin, a mere captive, know so many languages?
Gazlowe nodded and replied in fluent human Common Tongue: "To answer the Chief, I once traveled south with a caravan. I learned forging terms from the dwarves, inquired about herb names from the elves, and human speech was my daily practice." He then switched to stiff dwarf language, rattling off a few words like "iron ore" and "quenching," and finally hummed an off-key herb song in elvish.
Kurzadh was utterly stunned.
This wasn't just any old hobgoblin; he was a walking dictionary! Kurzadh quickly pulled Gazlowe toward the mushroom garden. Furball followed behind, baring his teeth at the old hobgoblin, only to be kicked away by Kurzadh.
"What else do you know?" Kurzadh squatted on a stone stool, staring at Gazlowe.
Gazlowe leaned on his staff and slowly replied: "I also know arithmetic. How many orcs, hobgoblins, and snotlings are in the tribe, how much food and ironware is in the warehouse—I can figure it out just by counting on my fingers. I also know deployment—who is suitable for forging, who for standing watch, and who for moving supplies; I can tell just by looking."
Just as Kurzadh was about to ask more, he suddenly noticed a blurred rune carved into the top of Gazlowe's staff—it was the "Waaagh Rune" unique to greenskin shamans! He grabbed Gazlowe's hand abruptly: "Are you a Shaman?"
Gazlowe's eyes flickered. He didn't deny it, just nodded: "I studied under an old tribal shaman for a few years when I was young. I know a few small spells, like making mushrooms grow faster or making fires burn hotter."
"Good!" Kurzadh slapped his thigh.
He had been worried about being overwhelmed by the feast preparations; this old hobgoblin knew languages, arithmetic, and Shaman magic—he was a helper sent straight from the heavens!
"I'm giving you a job—this whole roasted sheep feast, from seating arrangements to ingredient preparation, is entirely your responsibility!"
Gazlowe paused for a moment, then bowed: "I obey the boss."
Kurzadh immediately yelled at the top of his lungs: "Listen up, all of you! From today on, everything concerning the feast preparations goes through Gazlowe! If anyone dares to disobey him, I'll toss them to the squigs for a snack!"
The greenskins erupted. The young orcs frowned—let an old hobgoblin boss them around? Scarface immediately shouted: "Boss! That old thing can't even lift an axe, why should he be in charge of us?"
"Because I said so!" Kurzadh glared, and Scarface immediately shut his mouth.
By greenskin law, what the boss says is absolute. Even if they were unconvinced, they had to swallow it.
Gazlowe didn't seize the opportunity to be arrogant. He slowly walked to the open space, his small eyes scanning the surrounding greenskins . Suddenly, he cleared his throat, and his voice rose sharply: "Young orcs! Go chop down twenty thick logs right now and build ten long tables. Each table seats twenty people. The veterans sit at the head, and the new recruits sit on the sides—if anyone builds a crooked table, don't expect to eat roasted mutton tonight!"
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority, making him seem like a completely different person from his previous shifty appearance. The young orcs stared blankly for a moment, then actually grabbed their axes and went to chop trees.
Next, Gazlowe turned to the hobgoblins: "Zaggur! Take ten hobgoblins to the cellar and bring the booze. Black Mushroom Grog goes on the veteran tables, Green Mushroom Brew goes on the recruit tables, ten jars per table. If one jar is missing, you drink enough to make up the difference! Chik! Take five hobgoblins to wash mushrooms and soak dried fish. Flatbreads are rationed per head: two for veterans, one for recruits, half for snotlings—if you burn one, you eat it yourself!"
Zaggur and Chik were about to argue, but seeing Kurzadh nodding nearby, they could only comply obediently.
Gazlowe then shouted at the snotlings: "You lot, go gather firewood and stack it next to the grills, organized by grill. If one stack is missing, you get no meat tonight!"
The snotlings scattered in fear to find firewood. In just half an hour, the chaotic preparation site was organized perfectly by Gazlowe.
Kurzadh sat on the stone stool, secretly amazed by what he saw.
Gazlowe not only distinguished priorities—seating the veterans at the main table to give them face—but also accounted for differences in treatment: veterans got more flatbread and stronger grog, recruits less, and snotlings the least, perfectly aligning with the greenskin rule of "the strong get more."
Even more remarkable was that when assigning manpower, he could accurately state the number of people in each squad and their specialized tasks. He even knew exactly how many jars of booze Zaggur had in his cellar and how much flour Chik had in the kitchen.
"How do you know how many people and how many supplies the tribe has?" Kurzadh couldn't help but ask.
Gazlowe chuckled: "I haven't been idle this past month. Squatting in the mushroom garden sunbathing was actually just counting—how many orcs drill in the morning, how many hobgoblins move stuff at noon, how much grog the tavern sells at night, how many iron ingots are piled in the warehouse. I kept track of it all." He said, drawing a few crooked lines on the ground with his staff. "For example, there are currently five hundred and ninety-seven orcs, nine hundred and twenty-eight hobgoblins, and one thousand five hundred and forty-two snotlings, totaling just over three thousand—boss, you said you wanted three thousand greenskins , and now you have the number."
Kurzadh was completely convinced.
This old hobgoblin not only knew arithmetic but also secretly took inventory; his mind was as sharp as a hobgoblin's finger. Kurzadh suddenly remembered something and asked: "Were you a Shaman from a big tribe before? How else would you know so much?"
Gazlowe's eyes dimmed, and he sighed: "My old tribe was scattered by Chaos beasts. I followed a caravan for a few years, then I was captured by beastmen and sold to Katushir." He didn't elaborate, and Kurzadh didn't press him—it didn't matter what his background was, as long as he could work.
Over the next few days, Gazlowe completely took over the feast preparations.
He set up the long tables in the center of the mushroom garden. The main table was constructed from thick logs and covered with coarse cloth traded from Katushir; the recruit tables were simple wooden planks, but they were neat.
The food preparation was even more meticulous—one hundred whole roasted sheep: twenty for the veterans, fifty for the recruits, and thirty for the snotlings and hobgoblins. Mushroom grog was allocated by table, with five extra jars of Black Mushroom Grog placed on the main table. He even calculated the placement of the grills to face the wind, ensuring the smoke wouldn't blow onto the diners.
Once, Scarface, feeling resentful, deliberately stole a few flatbreads meant for the recruits and was caught red-handed by Gazlowe .
The old hobgoblin didn't call for Kurzadh. He simply stood in front of Scarface, leaning on his staff, his small eyes fixed on him: "Veterans must protect recruits; that is the tribe's rule. Stealing a recruit's bread breaks that rule—either return the bread, or you won't sit at the table tonight."
Scarface initially wanted to fight, but he was intimidated by the authority in Gazlowe's eyes—it wasn't the look of an old hobgoblin, but rather an old tribal shaman, radiating an aura that commanded obedience. Scarface eventually returned the bread, muttering, "That old thing is such a hassle," but he didn't dare cause trouble again.
Kurzadh saw this and was delighted.
He could finally take a break—no longer having to worry if the grills were set up correctly, no longer having to rush Zaggurto move the grog, and no longer cursing the young orcs for being too slow at pulling wool. Every day, he just needed to go to the tavern for a cup of mushroom grog, check on Gazlowe's progress, and spend the rest of his time watching Bone Tree forge iron at the smithy or teasing Furball in the squig pen.
"It's so much easier having someone in charge," Kurzadh thought, sitting in the tavern, drinking the Green Mushroom Brew handed to him by Zaggur, and watching the busy greenskins outside. The young orcs were setting up the long tables, the hobgoblins were hauling jars of grog, the snotlings were collecting firewood, and Gazlowe moved among them, leaning on his staff, occasionally giving instructions. Even the laziest snotlings didn't dare slack off.
He suddenly felt that Gazlowe was more important than Bonetree or Scarface.
In greenskin tribes, there were plenty who could fight—Bonetree could charge with a giant axe, Scarface could lead hobgoblins in a sneak attack, and Kex could command the night hobgoblins in skirmishes. But those who knew management and production were pitifully few.
When the tribe was small, he could manage, but now with over three thousand greenskins and two strongholds, relying on himself alone would eventually kill him from exhaustion.
It was like Skarsnik—that equally shifty-looking hobgoblin was treasured because he knew how to dig tunnels and set traps. Now there was Gazlowe, who knew languages, arithmetic, and management; he was a treasure among treasures.
"Boss, we're running out of grog!" Zaggur ran over, sweating profusely. "There are only fifty jars of Black Mushroom Grog left in the cellar, not enough for the main tables!"
Kurzadh was about to tell someone to start brewing when Gazlowe walked over: "Boss, I calculated it. Twenty people at the main table, two jars each is enough to drink. Fifty jars leaves exactly ten jars remaining, which we can save as a reward for the veterans after the feast. The recruit tables will use Green Mushroom Brew mixed with a little water; they aren't used to strong grog, and diluted is just right."
"Diluted?" Zaggur's eyes widened. "Won't that just be weak grog?"
"Weak grog is better than no grog," Gazlowe said slowly. "Recruits need to learn the rules; they can't compete with veterans for the strong stuff—this is both a rule and a reminder that if they want good booze, they need to fight well and become veterans."
Kurzadh slammed his hand on the table: "Do exactly what Gazlowe says!"
Although Zaggur was reluctant, he went to dilute the grog. Kurzadh looked at Gazlowe, growing more satisfied by the minute: "Once the feast is over, I'll put you in charge of the tribe's resource allocation, and have you teach the hobgoblins arithmetic and languages."
Gazlowe's eyes lit up, and he bowed: "I thank the boss! I will work hard to make life in the tribe smell better than roasted mutton!"
As the sun set, the long tables in the mushroom garden were ready. Fat rams were placed on the grills, and the smell of roasting meat mixed with mushroom grog drifted far away.
The greenskins milled around the long tables, their eyes full of anticipation. Even Furball squatted next to the main table, staring at the roasted sheep and drooling.
Kurzadh sat in the main seat, watching the lively scene, and then looked at Gazlowe moving among the greenskins —the old hobgoblin was still hunched and bent, but he no longer looked shifty. Instead, he resembled a wooden pole holding up a tent, steadily supporting the order of the entire feast.
He suddenly felt that the rise of the Blackrock Clan wouldn't rely solely on iron axes and bloodshed, but also on these "treasures"—Bone tree, who could forge iron; Skarsnik, who could dig traps; and Gazlowe, who could manage.
With them, the tribe could be like the sheep on the grill: the more they cooked, the stronger and more fragrant they would become.
"Start the feast!" Kurzadh raised his jar of grog and yelled at the greenskins .
The young orcs roared in agreement, rushing to tear at the roasted mutton; the hobgoblins circled the grog jars, waiting to distribute the drink; the snotlings stood on tiptoe, hoping to get half a flatbread; and Gazlowe leaned on his staff, standing to the side, watching the chaos with a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips.