Blake hunched and huddled directly behind his new minion as the creature led him into the maze-like series of halls. The construction shifted back and forth from carefully dug square corridors to squalorous tunnels fit for rats.

They passed several orcs, all of whom merely grunted and didn't take so much as a second glance at Blake or his minion as they scuttled by. And always at the edge of different halls or tunnels there was a huge open cavern filled with commotion and sound.

The air grew thicker and even more revolting as they went. Blake thought he saw the bottom of a massive forge in the open cavern, molten metal and sparks flying and sometimes dripping down.

They passed rooms that looked like barracks, others that looked like children creches—tiny beds filled with tiny orcs, all infused with the stink of cloistered, underground life.

Then they were at the bottom, or nearly. It reeked like a sewer, and Blake soon realized it basically was. There was some kind of extremely basic plumbing, with all kinds of holes leading to a dark drop and deep cavern, filth everywhere. Blake covered his mouth and nose. He could see some other passages down there, though they might have been for sewage.

"Where on earth did you bring me, Smith?"

The big orc turned and blinked. "King's ally says no orcs. No orcs here."

Blake would have sighed but that meant inhaling. What the hell was he even doing down here? He got a sudden feeling of panic, of swiftly decreasing time. He had to assume this king was coming down and would rally orcs to scour every nook and cranny of the tower until Blake was found.

He could climb down into the sewers and hope for the best, giving Mason and the others as much time as possible. That seemed a perfectly reasonable option, but it picked at Blake's pride. No, he decided. He was going about this all wrong. His current powers weren't going to get him out of this. He needed something new.

That meant he needed to level. And quickly.

"Smith," he said. "I've changed my mind. Take me somewhere with orcs. Lots of orcs."

The big creature blinked and shrugged, then led him back up the ramp.

* * *

Mason deflected a spear with his new ‘sickle’ claw, then hacked off the wielder's hand with his sword. The creature roared, and the line of four warriors raised their shields and blocked Mason off, thrusting and holding their ground.

These orcs were infuriatingly disciplined and well-trained. Their wooden shields were thick with a metal boss, their bodies often covered in metal rings or scales. Unlike in the movies, armored targets did not die easy.

Over at the tunnel, Mason could see the players holding their ground against a similar line of orcs, both sides thrusting spears and hacking at shields without much movement or success. But the orc’s armor didn’t take mana to upkeep, and the player’s shields did.

Nassau needed some bloody offensive casters and ranged killers—anything that wasn’t people who had to run up and fight a target in a cramped, swirling melee. That current weakness had never been more obvious.

Mason fell back and dropped a trap, but the creatures clearly saw him do it and understood. They just withdrew, a few tossing daggers right on the spot Mason had lay his trap as if to mark it.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Son of a bitch.

He didn't have the mana for another blast, at least not one worth the effort. All he could do was mark with Nature's Wrath and take them down one at a time. Or, he supposed, he could activate Duality of Life. But there was no one target worth it, except perhaps the shaman. And the truth was, he just didn't want to unless things got truly dire.

Something about how he'd felt with the power active...like he was losing himself, giving too much power to whatever changes the system was making to his mind and body. He finally understood, perhaps, the people who feared Blake. If someone was manipulating your mind, how would you know? And what the hell could you even do about it?

No. He wouldn’t use it unless they had no choice. And they weren't beaten yet. It might be a slow, brutal grind against these orcs, but they could win.

Mason decided to get more aggressive. He advanced with far less caution, hoping to rely on his Sleeves and maybe Shield Gem to protect himself. Then he made a run at the orcs nearer his friends, coming in with a fast and high blow at an orc's shield, then dropping low to hack his shins with a Predator's Strike.

He severed a foot then swatted a spear away with his forearm before dropping back, the orc growling in anger as they pulled their wounded warriors away. It was clear they cared for their comrades just like humans, or at least were efficient enough to not want disruption in their formation.

One down, Mason thought grimly. Over thirty to go.

"How are we doing?" he shouted over the din to anyone fighting at the tunnel.

"It could be worse," Carl shouted back. "We could be stuck in a giant underground worm tunnel."

Mason grinned before remembering Blake was stuck in that damn dungeon, and that Carl and the others had abandoned him. He gripped his sword and sneered at the orcs just trying to hold him off with a line of shields, then he roared and attacked again.

* * *

This time Smith brought Blake to a boisterous hall of orcs that smelled practically as bad as the sewer. All sorts of the creatures sat at tables or on the floor, some with clay plates and cups, others with dirty cloth. It was apparently a kind of cafeteria.

He waited at the edge of one entrance as a few orcs moved in and out without really noticing him. They moved to a haphazard line at the far end, where cooks served some kind of meat and bowls of slop into crude trays. Then the orcs would take a seat at one of the dozen tables or find an open spot of floor, and start stuffing their face with abandon.

Blake activated Mental Influence and practically went blind at the wall of text. He started simply, just trying to get a few names and to see his options. It seemed basically no different than his choices for humans, which was slightly disappointing as he'd been hoping for more direction.

"Smith," he whispered to his new friend. "Are there...multiple tribes, or clans, or families here? Are there orcs who might be enemies? And how can I tell?"

"Hmm." Smith grunted. "Only Clan Stoneblood. But many families. Some squabble."

Blake frowned, hoping for more to work with. He looked at his mana and drummed his fingers on his gem. He could simply Mind Control more warriors as he had with Smith, but it was costly. He could only take so many. And he had no idea what would happen to his control, and the strength of his story, if he pushed the power too far.

The feeling again of running out of time struck him like a blow. He felt sweat on his armpits and brow and clenched his teeth with impatience. He just didn't have time to screw around and be cautious. He needed a solution, now—a new power to help him hide or blend in before he was caught.

"Nothing for it," he muttered, forcing himself to step out into the larger room and pull back his hood. He needed experience, and he needed it now. If he survived he could worry about what to do without his mana.

He began channeling Mind Control, touching as many minds as he could possibly target, reaching deep into his pool, ready even to use his gem. "My friends!" he shouted, watching as a whole host of mostly red and amber eyes turned in his direction. "If I could just have a moment of your attention..."

The air around him pulsed with power. His voice echoed with the compulsion magic now infusing his mind and body in some strange, incomprehensible power.

"There are traitors amongst you," he projected to the orcs on one side of the room. "I am the king's spy and servant. He commands you to kill them. Now!” Blake pointed to the other side of the hall. "Them. All of them."

His ball of mana drained like water from a glass, even the gem in his hand pulsing with heat then cooling. His head pounded with strain, then the Mind Control finished with an almost audible snap. Blake blinked, then felt his many targets pulse with a friendly light.

Maybe ten orcs stood and growled as they turned towards their fellows, lifting weapons or chairs and calling 'traitors!' or 'for the king!'.

Blake breathed and wiped sweat from his brow before he took a few steps back behind his bodyguard. Time to see if he was completely screwed.