The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 42: The Key in Blood

Dugril looked at the box in front of him for a brief moment, but Arthur noticed that the orc seemed distracted, as if standing before this object had brought him back to the very source of the calamity that led him here.

Arthur cleared his throat softly to remind him of his task.

The purpose was clear: he hadn’t brought him here to reflect, but to perform the required duty.

Dugril understood the signal immediately, and his expression changed. He straightened up, took a deep breath, then stepped closer and rested his palm on the lid of the box. His fingers moved slowly over the engravings, as if recognizing something long forgotten.

"The magical energy here is familiar... but it’s not the kind found among ordinary orcs," he said in a calm voice, charged with interest. "This box bears a direct influence from the Temple of the Ancestors. The symbols on it are used only in high-level rituals."

He tilted his head slightly and ran his finger along a delicate engraving in the corner.

"These inscriptions require periodic renewal, which means someone has been maintaining it and has explicit permission to do so. This box couldn’t have changed hands casually. It must have come straight from the source... or from someone who belongs to it."

Arthur remained silent, his eyes following Dugril’s every movement without blinking.

"The other symbols... most of them are defensive," Dugril continued. "But they’re not just barriers. They are encoded instructions on how to handle what’s inside. Only the high priests can place this kind of magic. And I... can only interpret a limited part of it."

"Isn’t there another orc faction, outside the Temple of the Ancestors, that might possess this knowledge? An independent group, perhaps, who sent this box?"

Dugril lifted his gaze, then shook his head with firm conviction.

"No. Among the orcs, there is no power that holds this kind of magical knowledge or the intricate professional heritage—except the Temple of the Ancestors. This form of rune carving is never taught to the public, not even to the shamans born into the great tribes. That kind of sacred knowledge isn’t shared. At most, they pass down fragments—basic theory, a few key terms, or old texts—just enough to lay the groundwork in case a shaman’s talent is discovered and they’re trained to one day enter the temple. That’s exactly what happened in our tribe.

But when it comes to hands-on training and advanced magical instruction, that legacy is passed down only through the direct line of temple apprentices, within the temple walls—and nowhere else."

He let out a slow breath, as if old memories weighed heavily on his chest.

"Before the Ark King united the tribes and built his court, the Temple of the Ancestors was the beating heart of all authority among orcs. There was no law higher than their word. They only intervened at the gravest moments—when the very survival of our race was at stake. Even the most prideful tribes didn’t dare defy them openly. And if they didn’t show loyalty in public, they still bowed behind closed doors."

He paused for a moment, his tone softening, his words more deliberate:

"The temple doesn’t just guard secrets—it safeguards history, knowledge, the very essence of who we are as a people. Everything we hold today—our rituals, spells, ways of war, even our social fabric—was born within its halls. It is our foundation. And our ceiling."

Then he turned to the box, his eyes reflecting something close to awe, and said:

Among the orcs, there’s an old saying we’ve passed down for centuries: "The temple knows more about you than you know about yourself."

I used to think it was just an exaggeration... until I began reading what the old shaman left behind in my tribe.

Only then did I realize how blind we’d been."

Arthur took a single step forward, his eyes fixed on the inscription Dugril had pointed to.

"Do you have any idea what might be inside?" he asked in a low voice, as if the answer could change everything.

Dugril slowly shook his head.

"I can’t say for certain. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it was sent by high-ranking priests. That would mean the contents are far from ordinary. While I’ve never heard of Gerom having direct ties to them, it wouldn’t be impossible for him to possess some hidden blood connection—something that might explain the rapid rise of his tribe."

He paused before a precise symbol, as if its meaning required his full attention, then pointed at it.

Several minutes passed in heavy silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing, until Dugril spoke again, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself:

"These triangular symbols here... they repeat, but at different angles, which means there’s a second layer of protection—like a box within a box, or a seal that only activates under precise conditions. This is an absolute locking method. The box can’t be opened by force. If this seal is broken, the contents will be destroyed—lost forever."

Arthur didn’t comment for a moment; his expression was unreadable. Then he gave a brief nod and turned toward the exit.

"You’ll stay here," he said without looking back. "The guards will watch over you and bring your meals. I want you to continue the analysis—and quickly."

He left without another word, leaving Dugril alone in the quiet room.

......

The next morning, Arthur entered the private room where the box was stored.

Dugril was no longer sitting on the floor as he’d left him the night before; instead, he was now standing by the side table, reviewing his notes, his eyes glinting with cautious focus.

In a moment of absentmindedness, Dugril closed his eyes and gently placed his hand on the wooden lid, then began murmuring in his ancient tongue.

"Did something happen?" Arthur asked as he approached.

Dugril didn’t raise his eyes immediately. He paused for a moment, then said in a low but serious voice,

"Yes... it responded."

Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking from the box to Dugril again.

"Responded? How?"

The orc closed his notebook and stepped a few paces toward the box. He reached out and touched it gently, then said,

"The symbols aren’t just locks—they’re communication mechanisms. What I did last night was an attempt to open a channel... and the result wasn’t random. One of the engravings lit up—twice."

"Does that mean you can open it?" Arthur asked cautiously.

Dugril shook his head in denial, then said,

"Not exactly... but it revealed something extremely important. There’s a central seal, stronger than the others. It’s not just defensive magic—it’s a coded condition... a seal that only responds to a specific source of blood."

Arthur studied him intently. "Blood? Whose blood?"

Dugril sighed slowly, then said,

"Most likely Gerhom’s blood, since he’s the intended recipient."

Arthur was silent for a moment, then asked,

"Would a single drop be enough? Or do you need more than that?"

Dugril responded after a moment of thought,

"A single drop should be enough to test my theory. If the seal responds, we’ll know we’re on the right track... and if it doesn’t, it means someone else—perhaps a more precise bloodline—is required."

Not long after, the guard returned, accompanied by two other soldiers, holding a tightly sealed vial. Inside, a dark liquid swirled—a substance that was unmistakably blood.

"Sir, we managed to extract it after some resistance from Gerhom," the guard said as he handed the vial to Arthur.

Arthur took it without a word, then extended his hand toward Dugril, who accepted the vial with great care, as if it were a precious treasure or a relic from a forgotten past. He turned it slowly in his hands, carefully observing the movement of the heavy liquid inside.

He contemplated it in silence, the complexity of the moment reflected in his eyes. It was true—he hated Gerhom.

Hated him with a rage that made him want to tear the man apart without mercy.

Gerhom had been his fiercest rival, the commander who had tried time and again to push him aside and failed.

The enemy who sought to break and replace him.

And now? He had been reduced to a pathetic creature—an imprisoned beast, humiliated and exploited, powerless and broken.

Yet despite everything, Dugril couldn’t suppress a bitter twinge in his chest.

His old enemy—no matter their past conflicts—had once been a leader of the orcish army, had fought and bled for the cause... and now he was like a wounded animal in a cage, degraded and disgraced.

That flicker of pity and confusion quickly vanished, though, when the bitter truth returned: Gerhom had been the direct cause of the massacre of Dugril’s tribe.

He was the one who handed his people’s fate to ruthless enemies. And in that moment, Dugril’s hatred returned—pure, searing, and undiluted, just as it had always been.

He pressed his lips together and whispered, his gaze still fixed on the vial:

"If his blood holds the connection I believe it does... we’ll find out now."

He approached the chest and pulled from his satchel a thin tool resembling a flat-tipped needle. Carefully, he dipped it into the blood, then ran its edge across the intricate rune he had pointed out the night before.

The moment the blood touched the glyph, a faint pale green light flared to life, and a small spiral of symbols began to swirl around the point of contact.

Dugril took a step back as the magical glow intensified, spirals of light and energy circling and pulsing in the air, building momentum—until, just as suddenly, it all died down... and faded into stillness.

Silence returned to the room, but the glyph that had sealed the chest now seemed to vanish—as if the secret lock had been undone—leaving behind a faint aura of energy... quiet, yet charged with anticipation. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

"It worked," Dugril murmured, staring at the fading runes as they sank into the metal, dissolving as if melting into its depths.

He reached cautiously toward the lid, his breath slow, eyes fixed on the chest. But before his fingers could touch the surface, Arthur’s hand shot up and grabbed his arm firmly.

"Wait."

Dugril froze, his eyes darting sharply between Arthur’s hand and his face—now more serious than usual, exuding a coldness that was hard to break through.

"Your part is over. You may leave."

Dugril didn’t move. On the contrary, he stepped back toward the chest as if guarding it, his voice flaring with suppressed fury:

"I am not your servant, human... I fulfilled my part of the deal. Now it’s your turn—you gave me your word!"

His gaze locked with Arthur’s, who showed no sign of being moved. Instead, he replied in a calm, unwavering tone:

"I haven’t broken my word, Dugril. I said I would show you the real reason your commander acted so recklessly... and endangered the army. You’ve seen it. I even let you decipher it and study it to your heart’s content—and that’s exactly what you did."

The orc felt as if he’d been slapped by those cold, emotionless words—pure, calculated human cunning. He clenched his fist, then stepped forward, challenging Arthur with eyes that sparked with defiance:

"But I’m the one who solved the runes! And I’m likely the only one who can understand what’s inside that chest... or even interpret it!"