Chapter 200: Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer - Part 1
Orgrim's massive hands were stained with blood and multicolored brain matter, displaying the most primal and barbaric violence. The sight reminded the orcs of their ancestors, who, without weapons, fought wild beasts with their fists, teeth, and brawn, struggling for survival in the desolate wilderness.
Orgrim's brute force ignited the passion in every orc's heart.
"Oooooh!"
"Orgrim! Orgrim!"
Just minutes ago, these orcs had been angrily cursing Orgrim. But now, the valiant and awe-inspiring Orgrim had become the brightest star of the entire Horde.
Kilrogg Deadeye opened his seemingly cloudy right eye and said slowly, "Orgrim Doomhammer, you have cleared your name and restored your honor! Now, it's not too late for you to withdraw from the Mak'gora!"
Instead of answering, Orgrim strode forward, his bloodstained boots leaving crimson prints. He pulled a flag from a nearby tent.
It was his Doomhammer flag, belonging to the Blackrock clan.
With a flick of his wrist, the red and black war flag fell resolutely in the center of the arena.
"I, Orgrim Doomhammer, hereby commence the Mak'gora, challenging the position of Warchief! I will accept challenges from at least six warriors! Until I ascend as the Warchief, or—death!"
Despite his numerous wounds, still bleeding as Orgrim moved, his gut-wrenching roar resonated throughout the entire camp.
"Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!" The rhythmic cheers of the orcs echoed, for there was nothing more thrilling than watching a blood-soaked warrior competing for the title of Warchief.
Denial was futile—the Horde had just barely won a bitter victory.
The cunning humans had proven to be more deceptive than the orcs had imagined. The Horde desperately needed a true leader to conquer this world!
The orcs shouted and praised, raising their crude weapons and stomping their feet, as if trying to make the ground tremble in anticipation of the possible new Warchief!
A clan banner with three teeth emblazoned on it was thrown into the arena, representing the Razorfen clan, boasting a thousand warriors.
Ramlan, the chieftain of the Razorfen clan, was not a particularly strong orc. Among the orcs, he was considered small and slender.
He compensated for his lack of strength with exceptional agility.
"Orgrim—" Ramlan roared loudly, his movements reminiscent of a nimble mountain lion. Targeting Orgrim's injured right leg, Ramlan swiftly circled him.
Orgrim was indeed affected. When he couldn't keep up with Ramlan's movements, Ramlan pounced.
Two curved blades flashed with cold light, leaving a vivid red cross-shaped wound on Orgrim's broad back. Flesh ripped apart by the hooked edges of the blades, the sight was horrifying!
As Ramlan attempted to retreat after his successful strike, Orgrim retaliated.
In the sunlight, the heavy Doomhammer glinted with a dark sheen as it spun. It was unskilled but unbelievably fast.
Faster than the eye could follow.
In the blink of an eye, Ramlan's slender body was split in half by a single, overwhelming blow, as if cleaved by an enormous cleaver.
Time seemed to freeze, with Ramlan's torso and lower body still suspended in mid-air. The struck abdomen exploded into a bloody rain of gore, scattering in the direction of the hammer's swing!
It took a full three seconds for Ramlan's disbelieving eyes, along with the upper half of his body bearing the eyeballs, to slump lifelessly into the pool of blood.
Killed with one swing, exuding dominance!
"Next!" Orgrim's booming voice was no different from a war drum in the orcs' ears.
Another battle flag was thrown into the ring, and a minute later, Orgrim's shoulder bore another scar, while another body lay on the ground.
"Next!" The same killing blow, the same words, the same unchanging tone.
However, with the corpses of three chieftains paving the way, Orgrim's call took on a different meaning.
Chieftains who considered themselves weaker remained silent in response. At this moment, no one harbored any luck. Though the orcs watching were still fired up, a brief lull occurred among the truly qualified participants of the Mak'gora.
It took a full half-minute for the fourth battle flag to be thrown.
Three minutes later, the fifth one.
Ten minutes later, the sixth one!
By the time the seventh battle flag was thrown into the ring, Orgrim had become a blood-soaked figure. No one could tell if it was his blood or his enemies'.
Six chieftains lay dead, all reduced to bloody chunks of flesh.
From the little-known initial chieftain to the chieftain of a clan with thousands, the challengers escalated step by step, and Orgrim's injuries worsened accordingly.
Now, anyone who stepped up had to weigh their own worth.
As the seventh battle flag was thrown, a black-skinned orc with no left hand and a long curved blade on his left forearm appeared.
He hadn't lost his left hand in battle; he was a warrior of the Shattered Hand clan.
As one of the most brutal and ferocious orc clans in the Horde, the Shattered Hand warriors' tradition was to sever their own left hand, replacing it with a sharp blade, ever ready to face any danger for the glory of their clan.
"Orgrim, you are indeed formidable, but your path to becoming Warchief ends here, with me—Karnad Bladefist."
The Horde had its own hierarchy. Small clans had only the chieftain's right to challenge, but in larger clans, renowned warriors also had the right to challenge in the Mak'gora. For example, in 'history', Orgrim challenged Blackhand as the second-in-command of the Blackrock clan, a position equivalent to the deputy chieftain, and killed Blackhand to take his place.
Glancing at Karnad Bladefist, a hint of disdain appeared on Orgrim's rugged face.
"You're not up to it, get your chieftain Kargath to come."
"Hmph! You're tired! You're seriously injured, Orgrim!" Karnad suddenly took a step forward.
"Your caliber only warrants seeking easy prey against injured opponents." The mockery on Orgrim's face grew even more intense. "Yes! I'm tired, I'm injured, but someone like you, even if a thousand more showed up, I could take them all down!"