I Refused To Be Reincarnated-Chapter 866: Adomash??

The red cloth of the tent fluttered with the leader’s pull. Inside, Adam saw neither the carpets nor the luxurious furniture he expected. There weren’t even bones like those scraping against each other with each rustle of the cloth. Instead, braziers crackled along a path to a heavy, ash-burnt colored table. The timber was broad and heavy, covered with maps annotated with orcish words circled in red.

The leader tugged on Adam’s chains, dragging him inside. The rest of the patrol team didn’t follow, didn’t seem to want to follow. Adam found out why when the leader flung him to his knees beyond the table.

He raised his face to a throne of wood and steel spikes. Seated on it, two red eyes shone beneath the hood of the first robed orc he saw. But there was something more—a faint, disturbing, stomach-churning feeling in the air surrounding him. It was as if the ever-present mana drifted around the orc, as if it refused to approach him.

He glanced at the leader; on that orc, mana dripped into him from every pore, strengthening muscles, tendons, and organs. Strange. Even impossible for mana to drift away from a magical species that thrived on mana. It would be as if air consciously avoided him. It must be one of the shamans Diane had described. But how did it all work?

He leaned forward, just as the shaman struck his staff on the ground. With the dull sound, the bones dangling from ropes rattled against the elongated skull crowning the weapon.

"Copper skin? Where did you find this... relic of a distant past? Mhh. Interesting. Impossible." The shaman leaned forward on his throne, and Adam did too, both glaring at each other, both fascinated by the anomaly each other represented.

"On the slope by the village. He killed Uzar in single combat." The orc leader stepped between them, drumming on his right chest to honor the dead before continuing. "He wounded Drog and Murg before yielding. I questioned him. He’s clueless about our culture, leaders, orcs themselves. Either he lost his memory, or never ventured out of wherever he had been hiding. I lean on the first. No one can survive alone for decades in our gorge."

He opened his arms wide, his voice growing solemn as the shaman nodded. "The ancestral ritual fight begins today. He’ll replace Uzar to honor our patrol team."

The shaman rubbed his chin pensively. For three heartbeats, silence. Then, he pulled his hood down, revealing a broad smirk. "I would have preferred to... study this rare specimen."

Adam knew what the shaman meant from his look alone—the curiosity of a collector for a rare insect. It so happened that he considered conducting his own experiments to understand why mana behaved so strangely. Would the shaman burst if he injected some directly into him, or would it simply vanish? What fueled his growth? How did he fight? So many questions.

But the shaman shook his head, voice heavy with reluctance.

"But we can’t befoul our traditions. If he wins, someone else will have the opportunity. If he loses..." His eyes narrowed on the leader. "You’d better bring me his corpse before it cools."

While the leader nodded, the shaman approached Adam. "What’s your name?"

Adam tilted his head. "Does it matter for someone who’ll likely die?"

The shaman erupted into hearty laughter. "You were right. He’s clueless," he said to the leader before smirking at Adam. "Names are the recipients of our honor, remembrances of those who wear them and those who gave them. They’re all we leave behind us, what people remember. You wouldn’t remember a nameless hero, would you?"

Adam saw in the leader’s solemn nod that orcs valued their names so much that none would refuse to give his when asked. He couldn’t give his real name, though. Too human. It could expose him to curses, not that he was afraid of them. Just felt like a waste of energy.

"Call me however you want."

"Why not?" A furrow creased the shaman’s brow. "Mhh. Not a shred of fear since you entered. Your eyes and hair are clear like the sky. Uncommon. So shall your name be. Adomash." He nodded to himself. "Yes. Adomash fits you." He turned to the leader. "Escort Adomash to his cell. It hurts me to see an unarmed orc. Provide him with a weapon. And feed him, lest they say I dishonor our tradition by making him fight on an empty stomach."

"I have a question," Adam interjected as the leader tugged on his chains. "What’s the difference between me and the others?"

The shaman grinned. "Skin and eye color... and everything. Strength, resistance to spells, ferocity—we are miles ahead of you. What you are, Adomash, is our primitive form, what we shed to adapt to this world. But fret not. Win and continue winning until no one dares stand before you. Even though I find it a pity to lose a rare specimen like you, you might get a chance to become like us." He ended the conversation with a decisive wave of his hand. "Take him out."

Adam frowned as the leader dragged him, then tied him to the central pole of a small tent. It wasn’t far from the shaman’s, right between it and the market. If he tried to escape, the structure would fall on him, alerting the entire village. Smart. But he wouldn’t even try to. Too interested in this ritual fight. What was it? Why was it held? Why now? The timing surely couldn’t be a coincidence with his classmates raiding the gorge’s smaller villages.

The orcs’ evolution continued to intrigue him as well. Judging from the shaman’s words, it seemed triggered rather than natural, as he had suspected it when he first transformed. Another reason to win this ritual.

The leader slammed Uzar’s axe onto the ground before him, the sound of metal slicing rocks shattering his thoughts.

"Your weapon. Food will come soon, Adomash. You fight when the sun burns brightest."

Adam rolled his eyes at the name. No debate, his original one was the best.