The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 41 : The Deal

Arthur’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp:"What use are you to me, Dugril?"

For a heartbeat, Dugril’s mind went blank.

Dugrel fell silent for a moment upon hearing Arthur’s question, like a dam breaking, doubt and fear as if the words needed time to take shape within his scattered mind.

Then, with a shaky voice, he finally replied:

"Before anything else... I want to know why our leader made the decision to attack so quickly and recklessly, even sacrificing most of our warriors without hesitation."

Yes... that was what still fueled the fire of anger and confusion in Dugrel’s chest.

He knew Gerhom well—not just as a strong warrior, but as a commander with a strategic mind, reinforced by the sharp intellect of his advisor, Akar. He was never a fool.

In fact, Dugrel himself, as one of the tribal leaders and Gerhom’s rivals, was well aware of his usual caution in decision-making.

And that was precisely why his actions that night... seemed strange.

The sudden charge, the separation from the main army, the direct advance toward the human commander... all were signs that only deepened his suspicions. It was as if he had become a different person.

And sadly, nothing helped after their capture.

Not the interrogations, nor the curses, nor even the threats. Gerhom remained silent, like a stone statue, explaining nothing. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Now, Dugrel’s only remaining hope lay in the human sitting before him.

Arthur was surprised by Dugrel’s question, then let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

"I didn’t expect one of the orc commanders to ask me a question I should’ve been the one asking."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with mockery:

"Could it be that your commander used you all as tools? Throwing you into any danger he pleased?... How unfortunate. I thought I might extract some useful information from this conversation, but it seems I’m just wasting my time with you."

He rose from his seat slowly, his eyes gleaming with a chilling, deadly calm.

"It’s better I focus my efforts on finding other ways to extract the truth from Gerhom himself. As for you and the rest of the prisoners... I’ll start getting rid of you, one by one."

Then he added in an emotionless tone:

"Maybe I’ll squeeze some information from the last one left alive... but I doubt you will be that person. Given your large size and gluttony, you consume more resources than you’re worth.

With our food supplies running low and no clear date for the supply convoy’s arrival from the nearby garrison, we’ll have to make practical decisions... unfortunately."

Arthur’s words weren’t just a threat — they reflected a conviction that had begun to solidify in his mind.

He genuinely felt a sense of regret. The orc prisoners — excluding Gerhom — seemed completely useless.

It was clear they knew nothing about the ambush or the stolen box from the envoys. They likely weren’t even aware of its existence.

Which made it highly unlikely they had any idea of its contents or any means to open it.

As for more critical intelligence — like the locations of the rest of the army or any secrets about the unified orc command — Arthur was almost certain they had none.

In fact, the nearby human garrison probably held more valuable information than these low-ranking orcs.

Upon hearing Arthur’s words, Dugril’s eyes narrowed, and a deep, genuine fear crept into his heart.

It wasn’t just the fear of death...It was the fear of dying in ignorance.

To be killed without knowing the reason behind the devastating fall of his army.

To go to the grave without understanding why Gerhom had acted so recklessly that night...And why hundreds of his clan had died.

That truth.Was more bitter than the threat itself.

Dugril clenched his fists, his lips trembling with anger, but he didn’t utter a word. He knew full well that his position as a prisoner didn’t afford him the luxury of replying or showing rage... not now, at least.

But inside, he was boiling.

"That human bastard..." he thought to himself. Even so, he wasn’t foolish enough to let his last chance slip away.

He slowly raised his head, eyes narrowed with caution and suspicion as he looked at Arthur.

"Wait..." he said in a rough, hesitant voice, "You might need information about orcish magical symbols. I saw some of your men... they came to me carrying parchments with those symbols, asking what they meant."

Arthur stopped at the cell door. He didn’t turn around, nor did he reply immediately.

Several seconds passed.

Then he spoke, his voice calm and devoid of emotion:

"Speak. I’ll give you no more time than it takes a single candle to burn."

Dugril hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath, as if weighing his words carefully.

"I don’t understand all the magical symbols of our race... but the ones your soldiers brought—those aren’t ordinary orcish marks. They’re the kind used by the priests in the Temple of the Orc Ancestors."

He looked at Arthur directly, his eyes steady, as if the words he was about to say carried great weight.

"The symbols your soldiers brought... they’re often used in orcish magical tools—those crafted by shamans. Only the shamans who create them know how they work. There aren’t many of us. And I... am one of them."

He paused for a moment, then added for make Arthur trust him more ,"And you’re wondering—why do I know all this? "

Arthur asked in a neutral tone,

"Yes, why?"

Arthur didn’t mind diving into the details of this orc’s life. Perhaps he could extract some indirect information. Even personal details could reveal something useful if viewed from the right angle.

Dugril hesitated briefly, as if doubts had gathered in his mind before he decided to continue speaking.

"The tribe I now lead," Dugril began, his voice low but steady, "was once home to one of the great shamans—one who rose to become a high leader in the Orc Ancestor Temple centuries ago. That shaman has long since passed, of course, and over time, the strength of our tribe faded into near obscurity.

"But before his death, during his final visit to the tribe, he left behind a legacy—a collection of books, hidden secrets... a treasure trove of knowledge. He believed that anyone born with the gift of shamanic talent had a duty to use it wisely. So they wouldn’t waste their lives walking the same winding, fruitless paths that he once followed."

Dugril lowered his head slightly, the weight of old regrets pressing down on his shoulders.

"When I became the chieftain of the tribe, I was finally granted access to that lost knowledge. But the problem wasn’t only in the generations before me, who lacked magical talent. The fault was also mine.

"Drunk on pride after claiming leadership, I squandered the opportunity. I spent years fumbling through the teachings, trying to unlock the secrets of shamanic magic—and made almost no progress. Time dragged on. My strength barely grew.

"And in the end..." he paused, a bitter edge creeping into his tone, "...I found myself under Gerhom’s command."

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. He stood still, as if silently granting Dugril permission to continue.

Dugril went on, his voice gaining strength and conviction with each word.

"You’re looking into the meaning of those symbols for a reason. I can see it in your eyes—it’s not just curiosity. I suspect it’s connected to Gerhom’s sudden decision to launch that attack... the one that cost us everything."

He took a breath, steadying himself.

"No one else can help you with this but me. I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m not even asking for your cooperation. All I want... is the truth. The source of all that’s happened."

His gaze sharpened, the pain behind his eyes now wrapped in resolve.

"Even if my time has come, even if I have to pay with my life—I refuse to die ignorant. Not for my sake alone... but for my tribe. For the sons and daughters we lost."

He finished his words, holding onto a hope for a response, though he wasn’t sure if Arthur would accept his proposition.

Finally, Arthur turned slowly toward him. With a quiet but firm tone, he said:"You may have something worth hearing... but don’t think I’ll trust you so easily. All I’m offering you is a chance."

Then he gestured to Gabriel."Use the strongest restraints. Bring him."

. . .

Arthur led the prisoner through narrow, dimly lit corridors, passing several guard posts.

The soldiers posted there bowed respectfully at Arthur’s presence, though their eyes lingered on the orc with visible suspicion.

Arthur didn’t pause to explain. His gaze alone was enough to keep questions at bay.

After several minutes of walking, they arrived at a heavy iron door guarded by four soldiers clad in black armor—members of the elite unit.

Arthur gave a brief nod, and one of them stepped forward, opening the door using a special method.

The two entered together into a dimly lit room, illuminated by torches embedded in the stone walls. At the center of the room sat a massive iron chest atop a stone platform.

It was wrapped in metallic threads resembling a net, each thread etched with a distinct magical symbol. The aura it emitted was far from ordinary—Dugril felt it instantly.

"There it is," Arthur said calmly.

"The object Gerhom fought for... and the reason your tribe and most of your army died."

Dugril stepped forward slowly, his eyes fixed intently on the chest before him.