“This is horrible,” old Rhathol murmured, looking out at the reconstruction efforts. All around, Fomors were running around to gather the wounded, clearing out rubble, building new shelters, and piling up the dead. The wounded were brought to his village for treatment and medicine, sometimes with limbs twisted at angles that were hard to look at. The skins forming the shelter walls were torm, and the thick sticks which had held them up were broken. People were busy with sewing, bracing, and tying things back together.

As for the bodies of the fallen, normally they would be buried in the ground as food for the plants the Fomors ate, but there were so many of them… A disease might spread if all of them were buried together; more importantly, they didn't have the manpower for it it. The bodies would probably be burned just to keep the Orcs from using them as a food source.

Old Rhathol had decided to accept it if that was what Bazarath ordered, since he was the one holding the other chiefs together right now. He understood that they were already past the point where they could make moderate decisions about how to proceed.

Meanwhile, gathered in front of Old Rhathol’s hut (since there wasn't enough room inside) were Bazarath and several other chiefs, including Neff and Fehan. The only non-chiefs present here were from the handful of villages whose chiefs were badly injured or dead.

“No, Azza is still fine,” one stand-in chimed.

“If she’s fine, why hasn't she come here? There are a few things I wanted to say to her,” Bazarath glared down at the Small Baphomet; he was taller even when seated on the ground.

“She teleported away to take out the enemy mages.”

“She what?!” Neff unfolded his arms, unable to accept what he’d just heard. “You said she went alone?!”

Well, he didn't say so, but was a spell that only brought along what a person was carrying. There were various ways to bring other people that way, but Azza knew so there was no need to specifically bring others using those roundabout methods.

The messenger scratched behind his head. “About that, the others were tired after putting up that barrier. They’re currently, erm, replenishing their strength.”

“Hmph,” Bazarath blew out a breath of hot air and crossed his arms with his huge axe tucked into his elbow. “Azza’s absence will affect our plans going forward. Depending on how her ambush goes, we might be forced into battle immediately. I can't condone a chief leaving her people and behaving recklessly, but I understand that she must want to redeem herself.”

Bazarath said it simply, but Neff felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped down his back. It was an unplaceable feeling of dread, similar to what he’d felt the other day:

Azza had spotted someone approaching the area where their camps were set up. She had said it would only take a second to deal with and had teleported away on her own. Neff had waited in the same place for only about a minute before she returned. With a scowl, she released a limp and bloody thing that was held up by one delicate-looking hand. It crumpled onto the dirt, showing none of the signs of life it had once had.

Neff looked down at the broken Human for a moment, then back up at the irritated Azza. “Did something happen?” he had asked, finding himself missing a few crucial puzzle pieces.

Azza curled her lip unhappily. “That pig bastard seems to like to use sneaky methods.”

“Sneaky how?” Neff tilted his head in wary concern. “Did he send this Human?”

“It seems like it. And he was carrying some kind of crystal,” she trailed off.

Neff prompted her, “Like a gem or a monster core?”

“I don't know,” Azza shook her head. Then, she glared down at the limp creature on the ground, “but when I tried to take it it vanished into thin air.” She shrugged, “Makes me wish I could understand Orcish or Human to ask him about it. Anyway, I don't know what that thing was, but it makes me a little nervous. I was expecting more brute force from a king of pigs.”

That incident, combined with the recent meteor strike, made it clear that the Orc Lord wasn't planning to fight a straightforward war here. No, Neff had to remind himself, It’s been like that from the start. For days, we didn't even realize that the outer villages were being systematically destroyed.

And so, Neff felt himself worrying and dreading that Azza had been lured into a trap. Cold sweat was starting to make his fur sticky, and he was no longer paying attention to the conversation.

Did they realize that we have someone who can spy on their movements with magic? Was this meteor attack just that guy’s plan to lure out and eliminate the spy so they can pick us off at their leisure?!

For better or worse, Neff was a person who thought deeply about things. On this particular occasion, the spirits seemed to want to reward (or appease) that overly cautious nature of his.

[[Conditions met. acquired.]]

Neff was startled to suddenly obtain the skill he had planned to have Azza teach him in exchange for his seed. Ironically, the first thing he used it for was to find out what had happened to her.

Neff closed his eyes tightly and focused. He looked around in the woods in the direction the Orc Lord’s fortress was. It really was a spell with a high Magic Power consumption. He couldn't do this for more than a minute without passing out. Luckily, or unluckily, she wasn't hard to find…

Because she was sprawled out on the ground, surrounded by a colorful variety of Orcs, backed by an army of about thirteen hundred at a glance. After the meteor strike, the fighting forces of their twelve villages (which didn't include Old Rhathol’s villagers, who weren't exactly combat ready), was only about twelve hundred.

Clearly the meteor strike wasn't just to lure out Azza. Our numbers would have more than doubled theirs.

But more importantly than that, Azza was already…

“Hey, kid, are you paying attention?”

Fehan suddenly jabbed Neff in the ribs with his elbow, breaking his spell concentration and bringing his thoughts back to reality. He wasn't in any frame of mind to protest “I’m a buck already!” and just stared up at the Fomor spearmaster listlessly.

Bazarath noticed the unusualness and tilted his head. “Is something wrong, Neff?”

“Ah, I just used to check on Azza.” Bazarath raised his eyebrows, but Neff continued even without his prompting, “She’s dead. The enemy army is about thirteen hundred strong with at least three unusual Orc species leading at the front.”

“Azza, dead? Are you sure you saw it right?” The messenger from Azza’s village gave Neff a clearly mocking smile. Even if they were from different villages, an ordinary villager shouldn't take that kind of tone with a chief. Bazarath also supported that style of civil conduct, so he shot a reproachful glare at the stand-in.

Still, Bazarath sighed. “It’s hard for me to believe as well. Wouldn't she have teleported away if things looked bad?”

Neff replied with all the solemness he could conjure up, “I’m certain of it.”

Bazarath blew out a breath of air and shook his head. “That isn't a light blow to us. Their numbers can still be dealt with, but only if we’re able to take out the strongest ones quickly. In order to keep any of their leaders from rampaging among our ordinary fighters, let’s lay out a rough strategy.”

Neff nodded drearily and they all listened carefully to Bazarath’s ideas, interrupting with improvements when they could think of any. After a few minutes of that, they went on to discuss more about the allocation of resources and the ongoing repairs.

“I'm sorry,” Neff said, getting to his feet. “I don't feel well, I'll send someone over as a stand-in, so please excuse me to go rest at my camp.”

Bazarath nodded his head and opened his mouth to allow it, but the stand-in from Azza’s village cut him off.

“A chief can't just run off in the middle of a war meeting. Just bear with it for a little longer.”

Neff felt something cold drip down his back. Why was a fellow chosen, a villager from Azza’s village, looking at him with such condescending, no, such malicious eyes? Hadn't he and Azza come to an agreement just before her death? His village should have seemed credible in this stand-in’s eyes. Why question his mettle as a chief at a time like this?

“Yimis,” with perfect timing, Bazarath intervened. “Keep in mind: you are not a chief. This isn't a place where you may say whatever you like.” Directing a plain and calm look at Neff, he spoke again, “You may go. You will be expected to comply with any decisions made in your absence.”

“Thank you,” Neff bobbed his head and briskly walked off.

So many bad feelings in one day, he mused. Then, if only to appease his worries, he cast and looked in the direction of his camp.

***

Yimis got the short end of the stick, being chosen as Azza’s stand-in when Bazarath called a meeting. He had to miss an event that only occurred once every several years.

“I feel a little bad having a feast without him,” a female Small Baphomet said with a shy smile, trotting beside her fellow chosen as they moved between camps.

“That guy prefers swords over magic anyways,” the male beside her shrugged.

“Honestly, I was surprised,” a second male threw in. “For a while, I thought Azza was going to let this village stay. And doesn't the timing seem a little bad?”

“No, the timing’s perfect isn't it?” Yet another Small Baphomet said. “We get to strengthen the new kids just in time for the battle.”

Besides the small group of fourteen leading the Small Baphomets, there was a larger group of thirty behind them. They were all new chosen who had flocked to Azza’s village. The camp that they were going toward belonged to one of their fellow chosen, Neff, but that didn't imply that their visit would be friendly. Azza had already given her orders: “Steal their magic power, they’re useless anyway.”

These Demonic attribute creatures were naturally inclined to be bloodthirsty in the first place, so rather than feeling bad about killing off Fomors who had been their neighbors and friends, they were excited about gaining more Magic Power. None of them even considered for a moment that Azza had meant to borrow Magic Power through transfer, rather than literally steal it by killing. She was no longer around to correct her rage-induced word choice.

And so, a group of forty-four of Baythes’ chosen stormed into Neff’s camp. The occupants did nothing to hinder them. In fact, the wounded and demoralized Fomors looked hopefully at the large “relief force” which had come to share the work. The veterans at the front of the group smiled at this convenient situation and explained nothing. They simply continued rushing forward, killing as they went. Neff’s villagers were unable to process what was happening, and there was no one around who could give them orders. Some found weapons and tried to fight back; others tried to flee to a different camp; some of the more injured ones simply gave in to their fate, or were unable to move to change it.

The minor horde of Small Baphomets laughed at their easy subjugation of a fallen chief’s forces, marveling how they managed to get away with it scott free. For them, this was a party: an event where they could harvest as much Magic Power as they could get their hands on. Events like this, for the sake of discretion, they called feasts.

This particular feast happened to have a witness. He was far away, standing still as a statue, with his vacant eyes trembling in horror. He could see what was happening, but he couldn't help keep his followers from being slaughtered.

Slaughtered like pigs, Neff thought dazedly.

Neff, who had seen his benefactor die at the hands of the Orc Lord’s army and his subjects die at the hands of people he thought were his allies, with miraculous decision-making ability, gave up on the South Forest entirely. Though it might have been a decision made through a combination of acute logic and devastating, heart wrenching trauma. He used the rest of his Magic Power to teleport as far away as he could.

No stand-in was ever sent to fill Neff’s place. Indeed, his troops were soon discovered to have been mysteriously eradicated. Neff himself was nowhere to be found. Bazarath had to worry about their fighting strength decreasing every time he closed his eyes, but he somehow managed to keep the others from devolving into chaos.

***

Just as expected: after facing my magic, the Fomor army turned to damage control. I saw various Fomors cleaning up rocks and distributing water and medicine.

They're actually pretty cute to watch from afar like this, and their cries sound just like how goats would cry. But I really do have to eradicate them, right? I'm kind of regretting it…

I tried to look closer at where some grey things were being dragged onto large mounds. Maybe it was because I’d evolved into a flying Race, but my long distance vision had gotten pretty good. After watching closely for a minute, it became clear that those were piles of bodies.

They gathered them all up nicely for us, didn't they? Hm? What's that over there?

A group of Small Baphomets was slaughtering a group of Fomors in one of the camps.

“An internal struggle? They're doing my job for me.”

More importantly, there were a lot of Small Baphomets on the offensive side. It was nice that the number of enemies was decreasing, but it wasn't exactly to our advantage if the survivors were getting stronger because of it.

Even more importantly, keeping my body aloft in thin, high-altitude air was a brute feat of endurance, rather than a graceful task. I’ve said it before, but I'm heavy, and my hips are starting to cramp up. To add wings without reducing the overall mass at all… what a half-assed flying Race I was part of. Ah, but if it had reduced my mass, I would have lost my edge in ground battles.

Well, that’s that, but I wonder if it would be fine to rest for a moment. I know I promised to follow the others’ strategy exactly, but… Uuu, fine! I'll just think of this as a workout! I'm training my wings right now!

___________(Extra)___________

“How is it?” Varoon asked the returning scout.

“Ah, they're putting their forces back together. It doesn't look like they're going to settle down for a while.”

“Hmm. Then we’ll wait until they rest.”

There were sounds of discontent. About half the fighters present were subject to , and they wanted to quickly secure more meat instead of just eating tree bark and twigs.No, they were literally eating tree bark, twigs, and tree needles off the ground to fill their stomachs, but that’s the type of thing they’d be doing even if they weren't waiting around in a place like this. Anyway, they didn't like to hear that they might miss dinner.

“...Is there something more filling here that they could eat?” Irsha asked.

Varoon looked down at Azza’s body. “That’s the only meat around here.”

Fiara interjected. “Better not. The chief might want it for something. In fact, we should leave the bodies of all the most skilled ones intact. It'll be too late after we eat them.”

“Can't Lord Vyra have the next one?” an Orc troop complained while gnawing on a stick. “I'm so hungry~”

Meanwhile, Oolga, the only person among them whose evolution had made the symptoms of worse instead of better, shot a bloodthirsty glare at the simple troop who had spoken.

“If I don't get to eat it, nobody does,” she said in a frigid voice. The Orc squealed and backed up, imagining that he saw waves of killing intent emanating off of her.

Varoon sighed and looked back at the scout. “Go back to observing. Return here when a good time to strike presents itself.”