The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 30: The Night of Bloodshed (1) (Thanks to Bartley_Baldinus for the Golden Tickets)

Chapter 30: Chapter 30: The Night of Bloodshed (1) (Thanks to Bartley_Baldinus for the Golden Tickets)

Gyrom Akdad is the current chieftain of the Akdad tribe and the commander responsible for leading the army tasked with capturing the defensive fortress in this region.

However, despite these titles, his influence within the Orc royal court remains limited, making it difficult for him to secure reinforcements quickly when needed.

He lacks the authority to persuade the court to provide resources or send an envoy to accompany him on long journeys, nor does he have the privilege of sending direct and private messages to the Great Shaman of the Orcs.

If that were the case, what allowed him to overcome this barrier? There could only be one hidden reason—his special relationship with the Great Shaman.

In truth, the current Great Shaman to whom Gyrom had sent the message was originally a former member of the Akdad tribe.

When he was young, he was taken to the Temple of Orc Ancestors after his unique shamanic talent was discovered, where he underwent rigorous training.

Over the years, he lost much of his attachment to the tribe he was born into, as his loyalty gradually expanded to encompass the entire orc race, in accordance with the temple’s doctrine.

However, he never entirely forgot his origins.

Over the decades, he provided occasional support to his former tribe, allowing it to rise from the bottom ranks of orc society to the status of a mid-tier tribe with respectable resources.

"But unfortunately, it seems that this favor will be the last... Perhaps this is the final time I can rely on any lingering sentiments he might have."

Gyrom stared grimly at the contents of the message, his thoughts racing.

"No matter... With this treasure, I will be able to surpass my current level and change the battlefield’s course entirely. My victory in this war will elevate the Akdad tribe into a force to be reckoned with. Once that happens, we will no longer need the Great Shaman’s protection to maintain our status as a mid-tier tribe."

He gripped the letter tightly, a faint smile forming on his lips—not one of joy, but of unrestrained ambition...

Outside, the hurried footsteps of approaching figures broke the camp’s silence.

Amid the hushed murmurs of warriors, a heavy shadow loomed near the entrance of the tent, accompanied by a group of orc guards.

Suddenly, one of the scouts knelt at the entrance, his breath ragged, his face marked with worry.

"My lord!" he called in a trembling voice, trying to steady himself but failing to conceal the tension in his tone.

Gyrom slowly lifted his gaze, staring at the scout with cold, knowing eyes, as if he had already guessed that the news was anything but ordinary.

"Speak."

The scout swallowed hard before saying, "A group of men has arrived, claiming to be envoys from the royal court..."

He hesitated for a moment before adding with even greater concern, "And according to them, they carry a special decree—directly from the Temple of the Ancestors itself!"

The moment Gyrom heard those words, his expression changed entirely. The deep frown and thoughtful look that had dominated his face moments ago vanished, replaced by exhilaration.

He rose from his chair, his sturdy bones emitting a faint creak as he moved, his voice turning into a firm command:

"Bring them in immediately!"

Gyrom stood with unwavering authority, his eyes burning with anticipation. But before he could issue another order, one of the orc guards hesitantly stepped forward, lifting his head slightly as he spoke.

"My lord... should we take them to the healing tents first?"

Gyrom’s expression remained unchanged at first, but his mind caught onto the words, as if they made no sense at all.

His eyes narrowed sharply as he fixed the orc with a piercing gaze, seeking confirmation of what he had just heard.

"What did you say?!" His voice was more of a growl than a question.

The guard lowered his head slightly and continued hesitantly, "The envoys... they are wounded. They bear visible injuries, and some can barely stand. They can only speak with great difficulty... They must have encountered something on their way."

Silence hung heavily in the air as Gyrom remained motionless for long seconds.

His gaze shifted to the scout who had first brought the report, as if to ensure this wasn’t some cruel joke or deception. But the scout quickly nodded, confirming the grim truth.

"The royal envoys... and the temple’s messengers... are injured?!"

Gyrom repeated the words slowly, as if trying to decipher an incomprehensible riddle. How could individuals sent from the royal court, carrying an order from the Temple of the Ancestors, arrive here in such a state?

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his tent, his gaze fixed on the horizon. In the distance, a group of orcs was leading the wounded envoys toward him.

Some leaned on others for support, their faces pale, their clothes torn and covered in dust and blood.

Among them was Akar, his trusted advisor, speaking with one of the envoys.

But Gyrom cared little for any of that.

His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned the scene with keen intensity, searching for anything unusual. He wasn’t just looking at the envoys—he was inspecting what they carried, checking if there was a chest, a sealed package, or anything of importance among them.

One of the envoys came to a stop. He appeared to be their leader—and in truth, he was. This was Drazgh, the commander of the royal envoys.

Lifting his head with visible effort, Drazgh locked eyes with Gyrom before speaking in a hoarse, barely audible voice:

"You... are Commander Gyrom?..."

But before he could finish his sentence, Gyrom moved with startling speed.

Without hesitation, he grabbed Drazgh by the collar of his armor and yanked him forward with brute force.

His teeth clenched, his eyes blazing with fury as he roared:

"What happened?! Where is it?!!"

For a moment, Drazgh froze, stunned by Gyrom’s audacity. But his shock quickly twisted into restrained fury.

How dare this commander treat him in such a manner?!

Drazgh was no mere messenger—he was a royal envoy, a newly established position created to serve the new Orc King.

It was not an ordinary role but one that carried immense privileges, shielding its holders from frontline battles and making them far less exposed to danger than common soldiers.

More importantly, royal envoys were not chosen at random.

Most who held the title were sons of the great orc clans or had indirect ties to the new king himself, granting them an air of prestige—and an unshakable arrogance.

As for their combat strength? Loyalty? Skills or professional competence?

Those were always secondary in importance. In truth, most envoys were not exceptional warriors—except for those from impoverished backgrounds, who were specifically chosen for dangerous and sensitive missions.

Thus, Drazgh had never expected Gyrom to grab him in such a humiliating manner!

"How dare you?!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes burning with rage.

But Gyrom did not back down. Instead, he tightened his grip further, his voice like the roar of a beast:

"Answer me, you worthless scum! Where is my special chest? The one you were supposed to be carrying?!"

Drazgh’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Gyrom, seething with fury. How dare this field commander treat him in such a way?! If it were anyone other than Gyrom, they would have paid dearly for such insolence.

But Drazgh was in no position—nor in the right condition—to assert his authority now.

His breathing was ragged, his body weighed down by injuries, and his companions were barely able to stand. Under normal circumstances, he would have never tolerated such humiliation.

But right now, he had no choice but to endure it... at least until he could explain what had happened.

Lifting a trembling hand, Drazgh shoved against Gyrom’s chest, forcing some distance between them. Though his voice was hoarse, it was filled with defiance and resentment:

"Do not touch me, Commander! I am a royal envoy, not some lowly soldier in your army!"

Tension surged between them, the air crackling with hostility as their gazes locked like clashing swords.

At that moment, Akar stepped forward, attempting to diffuse the situation.

He didn’t fully understand the reason behind his commander’s sudden outburst, but he knew things could spiral out of control if he didn’t intervene quickly.

"Sir, this is not the time for conflicts. Let’s hear what he has to say first."

Gyrom did not seem immediately swayed by Akar’s words. But after a long, tense pause, he exhaled sharply, loosening his grip slightly—though his piercing gaze remained fixed on Drazgh.

"Enough nonsense. Tell me what happened."

Drazgh took a deep breath and pressed against his wound, trying to appear as if he was suppressing the pain. Then, in a tense voice, he said:

"We were ambushed on the way. We were on our way to retrieve the item you requested, and everything was going as planned, but..."

He paused for a moment, his expression hardening, as if merely recalling the event was enough to reignite his anger.

"A group of those damned human soldiers was waiting for us. They were organized and professional, striking with lightning speed, giving us no chance to prepare. Half of my men fell within the first few minutes, and we had no choice but to retreat."

He hesitated briefly, then continued in a tone that he tried to make sound confident:

"It seems they weren’t targeting us specifically. Our route was secret—no one should have known about it. They must have been setting a trap for your forces, sir, and we were just unfortunate enough to fall into it."

Drazgh went on, skillfully altering the details of the story to downplay his own responsibility for engaging the hidden Fenris forces.

He even suggested that the loss wasn’t due to his poor judgment but rather the result of a well-executed trap originally meant for Gyrom’s forces—one that they had unknowingly stumbled into.

"And were you able to escape with the chest?"

Drazgh hesitated for a moment before looking directly at Gyrom and answering in a quiet but firm voice:

"No."

Silence filled the room for a few tense moments before Gyrom’s expression twisted into a mask of pure rage.

His fist trembled, and the sound of his knuckles cracking echoed through the tent as he clenched his hand tightly.

"You useless fool..."

Akar raised a hand slightly, speaking in a cautious tone, trying to calm the explosive fury filling the room:

"Based on the description given, sir, the armor of those human soldiers matches that of the new Iron Bastion forces."

Gyrom’s breath caught for a moment before he let out a furious growl, slamming his massive fist onto the table, shattering its surface into splintered fragments.

The impact’s echo filled the tent, sending a wave of tension through everyone present.

"This is unacceptable!" His voice was like the roar of a beast ready to pounce on its prey. He turned to one of his guards and issued a sharp order:

"Summon all the commanders immediately!"

Then, his burning gaze locked onto Akar, his eyes glowing like embers, and his voice grew darker and more menacing:

"We’re changing the original plan... We won’t wait! We attack the fortress with full force tonight! We won’t leave a single one of them alive... Those humans dared to steal what belongs to us, and they will pay the price dearly. We must retrieve the chest... no matter the cost!"

.....

Arthur sat in his ancient chair inside the Iron Bastion’s great hall, where dim light filtered through the windows, casting shadows over his stern features.

Beside him, Victor and Gabriel stood in silence, watching the scene tensely.

Before them, Fenris knelt on one knee, carefully placing the chest—the object of everyone’s attention—before Arthur.

"My lord..." Fenris began in a low voice, recounting the details of their expedition across the ocean.

He spoke of their discovery of the orc squad, the battle they fought against them, and how they ultimately secured the chest, forced to hasten their return for fear of being pursued by the orc camp if they lingered too long.

Arthur listened intently.

He hadn’t expected this routine mission to take such a turn. His sharp gaze rested on Fenris as he asked in a dry tone:

"Why weren’t you able to capture any orcs alive? And did you learn anything about this chest or their suspected mission?"

Arthur understood that Fenris, as a summoned soldier, was utterly loyal to him. But loyalty didn’t always equate to competence.

Ever since the summoned soldiers had become real individuals, each had begun to develop their own distinct personality, leading to unexpected talents.

Gabriel, for instance, had proven his administrative prowess, making him an indispensable personal aide. Meanwhile, Victor excelled in military strategy, demonstrating remarkable ability in leading his forces with efficiency.

But with these abilities, there were also weaknesses. Just as some had skills that perfectly aligned with their roles, others were not as fortunate.

When Arthur realized this truth, he knew he could no longer assign tasks to the summoned at random—he needed to reassess them carefully.

He could no longer ignore mistakes or overlook them as if everything was reversible, as it had been in the game.

This was now a real world—there was no reload button, no second chances.

Moreover, he had come to understand something else: even though these soldiers remained absolutely loyal to him, they had gained independence in their thinking. They no longer followed orders with the same rigid obedience they once had.

For that reason, Arthur decided that from now on, he would not just observe—he would hold them accountable, questioning and investigating any shortcomings, just as he was doing now.

Fenris responded quickly, "Apologies, my lord. We were unable to obtain that information. As for the orcs who were killed, the enemy outnumbered our soldiers, forcing us to focus on eliminating them as a necessity."

He took a deep breath, hesitated for a moment, then added, "In truth, my lord... though the enemy was weaker than us, their combat prowess was still enough to turn the tide of battle if given the right opportunity. This made it difficult to capture them or prevent them from escaping."

Arthur remained silent for a moment after hearing Fenris’s words. Then, in a calm yet authoritative voice, he said, "Very well. I shouldn’t be greedy. You did a good job and made the right decisions. And now, having killed some of the orcs and stolen this chest—which seems important to them—is already a significant achievement."

As his conversation with Fenris concluded, Arthur shifted his gaze toward the chest before him.