CHAPTER 3: The Anvil of Ambition

The road to the orc village was a winding path of uneven dirt and gnarled roots, cutting through dense thickets of ancient trees. The moon cast its pale light upon the world, painting the forest in silver and shadow. The Emperor—no, not yet an emperor, not here—walked with measured steps, wrists bound loosely in front of him with crude rope. His captors had bought his story, at least for now. That was enough.

At his side, the captive girl shuffled along with less grace, muttering under her breath as she stumbled over a root. Her face was streaked with dirt, her auburn hair tangled, but her eyes were sharp, darting about with an intelligence that did not match her otherwise pitiful state.

"You know," she whispered, sidling up next to him, "if you’re going to try some grand escape plan, you should probably do it before we get to the part where they roast us alive."

The Emperor—Einar. Yes, that name would do. A fusion of his past and present, drawn from the tongues of old warlords and forgotten kings—turned his gaze upon her, considering. "And what makes you think I have a plan?"

She gave him a look of sheer incredulity. "You waltzed up to a group of orcs in the dead of night with nothing but words and a cheap ring, and somehow, you’re still breathing. Either you’re the world’s luckiest idiot, or you’ve got something up your sleeve."

He almost smiled. Almost. "And what do you think?"

"I think you look like someone who’d sell his own mother for a better hand of cards," she said cheerfully. "So what’s the play?"

Interesting. He had expected fear, maybe desperation. Instead, he had found something altogether different: opportunism. He could work with that.

"Patience," he murmured. "There is power in knowing when to wait."

The orcs grunted something in their own tongue, shoving them forward with little care for conversation. Einar let the moment pass, but his mind whirred. This girl—whoever she was—was not useless. That meant she could be made useful. But how?

"I never got your name," he said quietly.

"That’s because I never gave it," she shot back, grinning despite their situation. "But since we’re about to be eaten together, you can call me Freja."

A fitting name. Old-world roots, like his own. He nodded, committing it to memory. "Freja, then. Do try not to get yourself killed before I figure out how to use you."

Her laugh was bright, almost musical. "Charming."

The village loomed ahead, a sprawl of crude wooden structures built around a massive central bonfire. Skulls adorned the stakes marking the boundary—human, elf, even some unrecognizable creatures. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and something more rancid, the unmistakable stench of blood dried into the earth.

Einar’s gaze swept the surroundings, cataloging every detail. The number of warriors. The locations of weapons. The ones who held authority versus those who merely followed. Information was power, and he intended to gather every shred of it.

The orcs dragged them toward the largest hut, a longhouse of sorts, where a throne of bones and furs stood at its heart. Upon it sat their chieftain—a beast of a creature, even among orcs, with a scarred face and tusks protruding like daggers. His presence alone demanded attention, but it was the intelligence in his eyes that caught Einar’s interest.

This was not a mere brute.

"You bring strangers," the chieftain rumbled in the common tongue, his voice like grinding stone. "Why?"

The orc who had led them stepped forward, thumping his fist against his chest. "The human spoke boldly. Claimed the blessing of Gor’makhal. Offered his ring as proof."

A heavy silence fell over the room. The chieftain’s gaze snapped to Einar, studying him. "Is this true?"

Einar inclined his head, neither humble nor boastful. "It is."

The chieftain rose, stepping down from his throne with slow, deliberate movements. He was testing him, that much was clear.

"You claim the name of our war-god," he said, circling Einar like a predator scenting prey. "Yet I smell no battle on you. No blood."

Einar did not flinch. "Blood is merely evidence of war. Victory is its true proof."

The chieftain stopped. A flicker of something—approval? Curiosity?—passed over his face. "And what victory do you claim?"

"This moment," Einar said smoothly. "Where I stand before you, unbroken, despite every reason to be otherwise."

Silence.

Then the chieftain barked a laugh, deep and booming. "Bold words! Perhaps you are worth keeping alive. But you are not free, human. Not yet."

The orc chieftain turned to Freja, his gaze raking over her with an appraising gleam. She lifted her chin, meeting his scrutiny with a defiant glare, though the way her breath hitched did not go unnoticed. Her tattered garments clung to her frame, accentuating the soft curve of her waist beneath the grime and dust. She was a striking contrast to the crude brutality of the orcish horde—untamed, yet regal in her defiance.

The chieftain chuckled, mulling over his options. "She would fetch a fine price among the elves," he mused aloud. "Or perhaps the humans would bid more for one such as her."

Einar contemplated. To remain silent was to abandon her to a fate unworthy of consideration—unless, of course, she proved herself valuable enough to warrant intervention. He weighed his options, then stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "An investment," he murmured.

"Mighty Chieftain," Einar said with careful deference, "may I have the honor of knowing your name?"

The chieftain's lips curled into a smirk, a gleam of amusement flashing in his sharp, yellowed eyes.

"You have courage, human. I am Gorvak Bloodtusk, son of the Iron Maw, breaker of shields, and warlord of these lands. Remember it well, for few outsiders hear my name and live long enough to speak it again."

He had already noted the crude nature of their equipment—blades dulled from poor forging, armor patched with mismatched scraps, tools barely sufficient to sustain their way of life. There was opportunity here, an opening for leverage.

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"An honor to know you, Chieftain Gorvak. I have seen your warriors, your craftsmen, your farmers. They are strong, yet they struggle against the limits of their tools. I can change that. I can offer you steel that does not break, weapons that cut deeper, armor that does not shatter. In exchange—"

he turned his gaze to Freja, his voice steady—"I claim her as mine."

The chieftain let out a rough, barking laugh, then seized Freja by the arm, yanking her forward as if she were nothing more than a sack of grain. With a sharp grunt, he tossed her to Einar's feet, his lips pulling back in a jagged-toothed sneer.

"She’s yours, human," he rumbled, the scent of sweat and blood heavy on his breath. "But mark me—if you do not bring me results, I will strip the flesh from your bones and sell your meat to the next goblin caravan that passes through."

The Dominion System's words flashed: Asset Acquired: Freja

Attributes: Combat, Diplomacy, Subterfuge, and Magic.

She is currently level 1.

Freja's stats are highest in Magic, marked in gold colors. Her Combat, Diplomacy, and Subterfuge are all marked violet. The Dominion System processes the explanation to Einar's mind in a fraction of a second. The lowest tier was white, followed by green, blue, and then violet and gold being the highest tiers.

"My instincts were correct. I'm glad I saved her. She has potential," Einar thought.**Achievement unlocked: My first royal servant <3 ****Reward: Bracelet of medium stamina **passive effect: Lessens the amount of calories required to maintain bodily functions and greatly reduces cravings for indulgence. Stamina + 12, Vitality +2, Str +2, Agi+2, Dex +2 Luk+5

"More trinkets? Interesting." Einar decided to claim the trinket for later, to keep it from the Orc's gaze.Freja glared at Einar, her expression a mix of suspicion and reluctant relief.

Freja crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she regarded Einar with wary suspicion.

"What's your play, huh? Am I a pawn in some grand scheme of yours, or did you really just save me to make me your slave?"

Einar glances at her dismissively and turns to Gorvak. Freja notices this as he turns away and calls out to him.

"Hey -"

But the conversation was elsewhere.

"Mighty Chieftain, in order for me to fulfill my end of the bargain, I would like to have a closer look at your village's workshop. I ask for your permission."

Chieftain Gorvak grunts and motions for the two of them to follow him.The chieftain took Einar and his slave to meet the village’s craftsmen. They entered a crude workshop, where heat and smoke thickened the air. The bellows were fashioned from the bloated intestines of some great beast, wheezing as they pushed air into the stone forge. The anvil was a jagged slab of dark rock, pitted and worn, while hammers and tongs were rudimentary at best—some still crafted from stone, others crudely shaped from dull copper. The acrid stench of burning hair filled the air, as they used crude methods to separate metal from ore.

Einar observed everything. The inefficiencies. The waste. How many hours must they toil to forge a single blade? How much material was lost to ignorance? He thought of his old empire, where great furnaces roared day and night, casting steel in precise molds, churning out weapons, armor, even the mundane tools of civilization. Here, these orcs were still grasping at the edge of true metallurgy.

He envisioned their forges reborn under his guidance. Efficient smelters. Iron tools to lessen the burden of the working man. Machines to reshape the land itself. Farming implements that would ensure no orcish child ever went hungry again. A future where labor was made easier, where progress lifted his people from toil. And yet, alongside the promise of prosperity, he saw something else—siege engines that could bring walls crashing down. Armaments that could shatter armies before they even met in battle. A future where he held the reins of power once more, where these orcs—these primitives—became the instruments of his will, not just in war, but in the forging of a new order.

Einar turned to the chieftain, his voice measured. "You waste too much. Too much metal. Too much time. Too much labor. With the right materials and knowledge, I can give your warriors not just weapons, but power. But to do that, I must see more. Take me to the source of your ores. Show me where your smiths procure their metal, and I will show you the future."

The chieftain narrowed his eyes, considering. Then, with a nod, he gestured for his warriors. "Then we shall see, human. But know this—if your promises are false, your bones will join the others at our gates."

Einar only smiled. "Then let us begin."

The chieftain barked orders, and a handful of warriors assembled to escort them to the mines. Their armor clanked with every movement, the dim torchlight glinting off rusted iron and scavenged steel. Einar fell in step beside the chieftain, while Freja trailed behind, her gaze darting between their orcish escort.

"So," Freja muttered under her breath, "do you actually know what you're doing, or are we just hoping the mines aren't full of, I don't know, lava or something?"

"Observation, Freja," Einar replied smoothly. "The first step to control is understanding. The mines will tell me much."

One of the orcs, a grizzled veteran with a scar bisecting his lip, grunted. "Hmph. You talk big for a soft-skin. You think you know stone better than us?"

Einar turned to him, expression unreadable. "I think knowledge is a weapon. And I wield mine well."

The orc snorted but said nothing more. The Dominion System, ever watchful, hummed to life in Einar's mind.

Quest Updated: The Heart of the Mountain

Objective: Survey the orcish mines and assess their potential.

Bonus Objective: Discover an untapped resource.

System Notification: Level Up!

Skill Points Earned: 3

New Branches Unlocked: Benevolence | Tyranny

Benevolence:

Architect of Prosperity: Improve infrastructure and resource management.

Inspiring Leader: Boosts morale and cooperation.

Shared Knowledge: Allows rapid technological spread among followers.

Tyranny:

Iron Grip: Enforces absolute control over subordinates.

Fear is Power: Strengthens influence through intimidation.

War Engine: Increases military efficiency and conquest speed.

Einar allocated his points decisively:

Architect of Prosperity (1 Point): The foundation of control is stability.

Iron Grip (1 Point): A ruler must first secure his authority.

War Engine (1 Point): Conflict is inevitable—best to be prepared.

The system's response was immediate.

Skill Effects Activated: Metallurgical Insight. You now intuitively gain knowledge of metalworking.

A slow smile formed on Einar’s lips. "Yes," he murmured, "this will do."

The orcish mines were carved deep into the mountain’s flesh, tunnels clawed through rock by crude tools and brute force. The deeper they descended, the thicker the air became, humid with the sweat of countless laborers. Orcish miners as well as slaves of differing races - humans, kobolds, goblins, even elves worked in dim torchlight, their muscles straining as they hacked away at the rock with iron picks, their breathing ragged from the dust that coated the cavern walls.

Einar examined the ore veins embedded in the rock, running his fingers over the crude chunks piled in baskets. Iron, but of poor quality—impure, riddled with imperfections. His Dominion System activated, overlaying his vision with metallurgic insight. The refinement process was insufficient, resulting in brittle metal, inefficient for anything beyond simple blades or crude armor. Yet, through the system’s analysis, he could see the lost potential—the impurities that could be burned away, the alloying elements hidden within the ore.

“This is your steel?” he asked, turning to Gorvak, voice laced with unimpressed amusement. “No wonder your warriors rely on numbers. Your weapons are brittle, and your armor little more than decoration.”

A ripple of irritation passed through the assembled orcs. Some bared their tusks, others clenched their fists around their tools. But Gorvak merely grunted, arms crossed. “We take what the mountain gives.”

Einar gestured toward the rock. “The mountain gives more than you realize. Your method of extraction is wasteful. You discard valuable materials without even knowing it.”

Gorvak’s eyes narrowed. “You speak as if you know a better way.”

[Activating Skill: Diplomatic Tact] - Enhances the user's ability to navigate social interactions, improving persuasion, negotiation, and the ability to read and influence others. It grants a higher success rate when dealing with hostile or skeptical parties, making diplomacy a viable alternative to brute force.

Einar stepped forward, lifting a fragment of raw ore. “Your fires are not hot enough. Your bellows are inefficient. Your smelting process allows impurities to weaken the metal. But with the right techniques, you could forge steel that rivals that of the greatest human blacksmiths. You could craft weapons that do not break, armor that turns aside even the mightiest blows.”

A murmur rippled through the orcs. Hope? Doubt? It did not matter. The seed had been planted.

“And you will teach us this?” Gorvak asked, skepticism lacing his voice.

Einar smiled, slow and knowing. “That depends. Are you willing to change? Are you willing to do what is necessary?”

The chieftain studied him for a long moment before letting out a guttural chuckle. “You are an interesting human, Einar. Very well. Show us what you can do.”

The Dominion System chimed.

Quest Update: The Heart of the Mountain New Objective: Improve the orcish forges. Reward: Increased influence over the orcish tribe, a potion imbued with rare alchemical properties, granting temporary but significant boosts to leadership skills and subtly enhancing all attributes (STR, AGI, DEX, STA, MP, and LUK) while also sharpening mental acuity for strategic thinking.

Einar exhaled slowly. This was only the beginning.

Turning to Freja, he found her watching him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You’re actually doing it,” she muttered. “You’re reshaping them.”

He met her gaze. “The world belongs to those who mold it.”

Freja let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “Then I suppose we should start shaping, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes,” Einar murmured. “Yes, we should.”

And with that, he turned back toward the forge, ready to carve his vision into steel and stone.