I Refused To Be Reincarnated-Chapter 869: The Grip of Tradition

"Kill him, Adomash."

The crowd chanted Zul’Rakhan’s command with religious fervor. Adam heard them call Grash’Thul’s name as if this orc entity had watched the battle, or as if it were the profane god they worshipped.

He took notice of it before focusing on what mattered: how had Zul’Rakhan brought both axes to his hands without using a trace of mana? Scrutinising the hooded shaman gave him no answers. Like in the tent, mana kept its distance from Zul’Rakhan, flowing around his frame like wind around a volcanic peak.

For a heartbeat, he considered Haldris. But then, he shook his head. What he couldn’t feel from the rector was the space shift or even ripple when he teleported students. Mana still flowed through his mana circuits and erupted from his heart when he summoned the demon’s soul trapped in his card. Not the same mystery. Then how?

A voice from the crowd sliced through his thoughts like rocks smashed on skulls. "Don’t make Tragg’s defeat uglier than it already is. An honorable death he can hope for."

The orcs parted to let another hooded figure through. His staff produced dull sounds against the rock as he approached. Crowning it was a magical beast skull from a different species than the one on Zul’Rakhan’s, but the somber robes were the same. Another shaman?

"Zul’Gora has witnessed you fight. You’re cunning like a serpent and agile like a frost tiger. Not how we usually fight, but you’re different both inside and outside. My village admits defeat." Zul’Gora’s praises whispered of suppressed humiliation. Of anger, too. Not at Adam, but Tragg, and surprisingly, at Zul’Rakhan.

The chant grew stifling, all eyes boring into Adam. He glanced at the axes, one square, the other half-moon shaped, then at Tragg. The massive orc lay on his stomach, the blood from his broken nose smearing his features.

Adam could kill him. They had fought; Tragg had lost. From Daoists to pragmatic mages’ teachings, everything pushed him to. Things like: being merciful to your enemy is being cruel to yourself, or magical creatures are just that—creatures. He agreed. There was not a shred of moral hesitation in him. He had killed humans and beasts. Most guilty of terrible crimes. A couple simply because they had attacked him.

No, what made him hesitate was the frustration bubbling in his veins. When had he ever obeyed commands? Never. Somehow, he began to understand why Virgo had refused to act until he had said please.

He threw his axes to the ground, the blades clanging against stone. "I won’t."

Silence engulfed the village. Eager gazes turned into disgusted glares.

After a moment, Zul’Rakhan’s red eyes burned beneath his hood as he hissed. "You dare defile our sacred rites?"

"Kill... me..." Tragg spat through his wounded throat. But Adam smirked, mana rumbling beneath his copper skin.

Upon realising he had no intention of answering, Zul’Rakhan pointed his staff at him. "Heresy! Die with him then!"

The infiltration into the orc villages would end before it truly began. A pity.

As Adam’s energy surged through his mana circuits, Zul’Gora slammed his staff behind him. "Enough!" He raised his right hand, squeezing his fingers as if he were clenching a rotten fruit.

Adam’s spells were ready to erupt.

"ARGH! Master, please!"

Before he needed to, Tragg let out a soul-chilling scream. Adam snapped his gaze to the ground, only to see the orc’s arms convulse as if he were resisting something. Deep marks appeared on his triceps. His pleading grew more vehement—the crunch of shattering bones was even louder. His thoracic cage collapsed, and blood forced upwards. It streamed from his eyes, ears, and broken nose for a heartbeat, but the influx was too strong.

With a disgusting pop and wet splashes, Tragg’s head exploded.

Wide-eyed, Adam leapt away from the pieces of face hurled like shrapnel and the rain of blood and brain matter.

Amidst the shuddering crowd, he only saw Zul’Gora’s now completely tight fist. The deep marks must have been his fingerprints on Tragg—no doubt, he had squeezed him to death. But how? Surely not magic... He could crush someone with gravity, but not with the same brutality and efficiency. The mystery deepened, making him crave answers. But not now.

Zul’Gora seemed to smirk at him in the shadow of his hood. "Don’t be so petty, Zul’Rakhan. You said it yourself—Adomash is clueless about customs. Where did you find an unevolved orc?" He shook his head. "We’ll talk on the way. Or do you wish to kill your promising champion on the first round of the ancestral ritual fight?"

"What I do doesn’t concern you." Zul’Rakhan snarled before his voice grew sardonic. "On the way?"

"We’ve raised and pitted hundreds of champions against each other. We grew bored, brother, insensible, but the custom never changed. The defeated can join the victor on his journey to Thaur’Gorath as we did in the ritual’s first days." Zul’Gora glanced at Adam, then back at Zul’Rakhan. "And I can’t leave a mad orc like you alone with your champion, or the next thing I hear about him will be about the long gash carved across his torso."

"I would have stitched him very well," Zul’Rakhan harumphed. Then, sighing heavily, he raised his staff. "Traditions and rites are to be respected. Prepare our fastest warg for our guest."

"Pick your weapons up. You might have escaped with it today, but no one will save you if you pull something like this again." He glared at Adam, then stormed inside his tent.

The crowd began to scatter, torn between smiles and grimaces as the heat of the ritual fight cooled. Not Zul’Gora. He walked to Adam before the patrol leader could.

Adam raised a brow as the shaman circled him. "Yes?"

"Interesting for an orc to feel anything but fear in front of us." Zul’Gora shook his head. "You defeated my champion because you were more than blind rage. I believe you can reach Thaur’Gorath—if you don’t let your adversaries live, that is. Steel your heart. Kindness has no place, means nothing compared to honor."

"Oh, thank you for your advice, but I don’t mind killing them. I just hate being ordered around." Adam stretched his wrists to the approaching leader to be chained and brought back to his cell.

Zul’Gora’s eyes flickered beneath his hood. For a moment, remained silent. Then, his robes fluttered and his shoulders danced in wild amusement. "I’ll keep it in mind. No need to chain him. Zul’Rakhan is anything but patient, and our friend doesn’t seem to want to run. Follow me to the gates, Adomash. We’ll talk once we settle on our mounts. Did you ever ride a warg?"

"Never heard of it." Adam shrugged.

"You should like it then. After all, we tamed them even back when our skin was still like yours."

Adam followed the chuckling Zul’Gora, curious about warg, and wondering about the structure of the ancestral ritual fight. From what he had gathered, villages raised champions to challenge other villages. The winner proceeds deeper into the gorge, toward the orc capital, while challenging villages along the way. Was it to evaluate the shamans’ ability to raise powerful warriors, a sort of tournament in which the strongest gets an opportunity to learn shamanic arts, or something else?