CHAPTER 50: THE CONVERT’S TALE

The captured orc scout had been silent during the march back to camp, but Arthur noticed how his yellow eyes kept tracking the enhanced soldiers’ movements. The way they moved, the casual display of superhuman strength—it clearly unsettled and fascinated him in equal measure.

"Your Majesty," Hawklight approached as they secured the prisoner. "Want me to handle the interrogation?"

"No," Arthur said, studying the orc. Despite being bound, the scout held himself with dignity—scarred green skin marked by countless battles, tusks unbroken despite his capture. "Bring him to my tent. Alone."

Hawklight frowned. "That’s not—"

"He won’t harm me." Arthur let a fraction of his presence leak out, just enough to make his point. The orc’s eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees despite no one forcing him down.

"*Mak’thar nei*," the orc whispered in his guttural language.

Arthur’s system translated instantly, thanks to Beatrice’s research: "The strong one comes."

Ten minutes later, they sat across from each other in Arthur’s command tent. The orc—who’d identified himself as Grashk—hadn’t stopped staring. Arthur had dismissed the guards, confident in his ability to handle any threat.

"You speak Common," Arthur noted, pouring two cups of wine. He pushed one toward the orc.

Grashk looked at the cup suspiciously. "Poison?"

"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need poison." Arthur took a sip from his own cup. "Your people have legends, don’t they? About a figure who would come to unite the clans?"

The orc’s eyes widened. "You know of the *Mor’gath Prophecy*?"

Arthur leaned back, letting his supernatural presence fill the tent—not threatening, but undeniable. "Tell me."

Grashk took a shaky sip of wine, clearly wrestling with loyalty and something deeper. "The shamans speak of it. When the clans grow weak, divided, a Demon King will rise. Not orc, but more than orc. He will carry the blessing of ancient powers and make the clans strong again."

"And you think I’m this Demon King?"

"I..." Grashk struggled. "When you stood before us in the forest, your presence... it was like the old stories. The way the shadows bent to you. The way my bones knew to kneel before my mind did."

Arthur’s system chimed softly:

**[Cultural Insight Unlocked]**

- Orcish Prophecy: Mor’gath (Demon King) Legend

- Religious Significance Discovered

- Conversion Potential: Significantly Increased

"Your chieftain’s son prepares to fight me," Arthur said.

"Warchief Gorak is young. Proud. He doesn’t believe the old stories." Grashk’s expression turned calculating. "His father, Chief Bloodfang, would have been wiser. He took half our warriors south, left his pup to guard our home."

"And if I defeat this pup?"

"*Grathar’nok*," Grashk said immediately. "Those who witness your strength will follow. It is our way. But..." He hesitated.

"Speak freely."

"The shamans resist. They say you’re a false demon, a human trick. They prepare rituals to bind your magic." Grashk leaned forward. "But I know their secrets. Where they keep their *tok’ran*. How to disrupt their casting."

Arthur smiled. Beatrice’s research confirmed again. "And why would you help me?"

"Because I’ve seen empires rise and fall. Humans, elves, dwarves—they all treat orcs as monsters to be slain or slaves to be used." Grashk met his eyes. "But a Demon King who fulfills the prophecy? He would make us part of something greater. Not slaves. Warriors in a mighty host."

"You’re gambling your people’s future on a legend."

"No," Grashk said firmly. "I’m gambling on what I felt when you captured us. You could have killed us all. Instead, you showed mercy—but mercy from strength, not weakness. That’s... that’s what the prophecy speaks of."

Arthur stood, decision made. "Then kneel, Grashk of the Bloodfang Clan. Swear your *grathar’nok* to me."

The orc dropped to both knees without hesitation, pressing his forehead to the ground. "*Mor’gath nei. Grathar’nok mei’tash. Lok’tar ogar.*"

The system translated: "Demon King mine. Honor-bond I swear. Victory or death."

Power flowed between them—not a full bond like with his harem, but something else. A connection of loyalty and purpose. Arthur felt Grashk’s absolute sincerity, his desperate hope for his people’s future.

**[First Conversion Achieved]**

- Grashk Bloodfang: Loyalty Bond Established

- Orcish Military Unit Unlocked: Berserker Scouts

- Cultural Bridge: +25% conversion rate for orc encounters

"Rise," Arthur commanded. "Tell me about the shamans’ defenses."

Grashk stood, and Arthur noticed he already looked different—standing straighter, eyes brighter with purpose. "Five shamans total. Three elders, two apprentices. They keep their *tok’ran* in the ritual cave beneath the stronghold. Destroy those, and their magic breaks."

"And Warchief Gorak?"

"Strong. Trained by his father since birth. He wields *Dragonrend*—a blade carved from ancient dragon bone. But he’s young. Proud. He’ll accept single combat to prove himself." Grashk paused. "There’s... something else."

Arthur waited.

"Chief Bloodfang left more than just his son. His daughter, Urzara, remains in the stronghold. She’s... different from other orc women. Trained as both warrior and shaman. Some say she should have been warchief instead of her brother."

"Why wasn’t she?"

"Tradition. But also..." Grashk looked uncomfortable. "She speaks of the prophecy often. Too often. Her father feared she would welcome the Demon King rather than resist him."

Interesting. Arthur filed that information away. "What else can you tell me about the stronghold’s defenses?"

They spent the next hour in detailed discussion. Grashk drew maps in the dirt, marking guard positions, hidden passages, and weak points. His intelligence was invaluable—and proved Beatrice’s research about orcish honor. Once sworn, their loyalty was absolute.

"One more thing," Grashk said as they finished. "If you truly are the *Mor’gath*, you must prove it through *mak’thor*—personal combat. No tricks. No overwhelming numbers. When you face Gorak, it must be blade to blade."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Grashk pressed. "Your human armies, your magic—none of that matters if you don’t prove personal strength. Even if you take the stronghold, without *mak’thor*, you’ll only rule through fear."

Arthur smiled, letting his presence fill the tent again. This time, Grashk saw deeper—the predatory nature beneath the human facade, the ancient power coiled within. The orc’s eyes widened with religious awe.

"I think I can manage personal strength," Arthur said dryly.

Grashk actually laughed—a harsh, barking sound. "Yes. Yes, I think you can." He sobered. "When you take the stronghold, be mindful of Urzara. She’s waited her whole life for the prophecy. She might... complicate things."

"Complicate how?"

"Orc women who believe a warrior embodies the *Mor’gath* will offer themselves completely. Body, soul, and blade. It’s the highest honor they can give." Grashk shrugged. "Her father kept her isolated because of it. She’s never shown interest in any orc warrior, no matter how accomplished. She waits for the prophecy."

Arthur’s system pinged with interest:

**[Potential Bond Identified]**

- Urzara Bloodfang: Daughter of Chief, Warrior-Shaman

- Prophecy Believer: Predetermined Loyalty Possible

- Strategic Value: Orc Clan Integration

- Warning: Cultural Implications Significant

"Thank you for the warning," Arthur said neutrally. "Now, let’s discuss how you’ll help during the assault..."

As they planned, Arthur couldn’t help but think about the implications. An orc chief’s daughter who’d been waiting for him—or rather, for what he represented. It would certainly make converting the stronghold easier, but it would also add another layer to his already complex network of relationships.

Still, as Grashk sketched out the ritual cave’s defenses, Arthur smiled. Each piece was falling into place. Tomorrow, they’d take their first step toward empire.

And apparently, he might gain more than just a stronghold in the process.

Outside the tent, the war camp buzzed with preparation. But inside, an orc and a demon king planned the future of the continent, one converted soul at a time.

The assault was about to begin, but Arthur had other plans.

"You want to do what?" Hawklight stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

Arthur continued stripping off his enchanted armor, replacing it with simple leather taken from their supplies. "I’m going in ahead. Alone."

"Your Majesty, that’s—"

"Necessary." Arthur checked the balance of a plain steel blade—not even enhanced, just good honest metal. "The shamans can sense magical auras. If I go in powered up like a beacon, they’ll know exactly where I am. But like this?" He gestured at his mundane appearance. "I’m just another shadow in the night."

Elliott, standing nearby with the climbing team, frowned. "You’re suppressing your powers? All of them?"

"Not suppressing. Just... not actively using." Arthur’s supernatural senses still worked—he could feel the life forces in the stronghold, hear heartbeats from impossible distances. But the active abilities that made him inhuman? Those he’d keep locked away. For now.

"This is insane," Hawklight muttered.

Arthur grinned. "No, this is smart. Twenty-five years of playing stealth games is about to pay off."

Before anyone could ask what ’stealth games’ were, Arthur melted into the darkness. Even without supernatural speed, his movement was liquid smooth—every step calculated, every motion efficient. The prince’s body might have known swordplay, but Arthur’s mind knew something more valuable: how to think three steps ahead.

The stronghold loomed before him, torches casting dancing shadows on rough stone walls. Arthur circled wide, avoiding the main approach where Klaus would soon stage his distraction. His analytical mind catalogued everything: guard positions, torch placement, architectural weaknesses.

*There.* A drainage grate near the kitchen waste chute. Orcs were massive, built for strength—they’d never consider someone using such a small entrance. Arthur smiled. Time to think small.

The grate was locked, but locks were just puzzles. Arthur pulled out thin metal picks he’d prepared earlier. In his previous life, he’d learned lockpicking from YouTube videos out of sheer boredom. Who knew procrastination would save lives?

*Click.*

The drainage tunnel reeked, but Arthur had crawled through worse during company team-building exercises. He moved through the muck, mapping the stronghold’s foundation in his mind. Stone construction, probably three centuries old. The weight distribution would be... yes, there. A crack in the foundation that led up into—