🧚The Lament of the Saintess Chapter 1: Elves and Orcs (1)

“Laba, that rascal! He didn't even come to see me off himself—how rude!” Gulaba, now free of the black virus, was preparing to leave Laba's lab. He couldn't help but grumble a bit about his old friend's absence.

“Thank you for your help,” L323 apologized to the Sword Saint, his voice as calm as ever. “The Chief has made significant progress in his research on the black virus, so no one can persuade him to leave the lab now.”

“I know he's a nerd; I'm not really mad at him,” Gulaba chuckled heartily. “Well then, I should be on my way. Tell him for me—if I come across any beautiful flowers, I'll bring them to him.”

“...I will certainly pass that along.”

...

As Gulaba left Laba's lab, an inexplicable sadness tugged at his heart. It seemed that his old friend’s health was deteriorating. In the past, the stench of decay that clung to Laba had been unmistakable, even though the fragrance of lily lanterns tried to mask it. But during these recent visits, that rotting smell had lessened, while the scent of metal had grown stronger.

Gulaba knew that Laba's bodily decay was irreversible. The weakening of the decay's odor and the increasing metallic scent meant that more of Laba's body had been replaced with machinery.

“Will he eventually turn into a complete machine?” Gulaba shook his head, trying to dispel that disturbing thought.

Continuing westward across the desert, the landscape gradually became clearer. Massive stone blocks formed circular fortresses that, from a distance, looked like mushrooms sprouting from the Gobi Desert.

The farther west Gulaba went, the stronger the wind became. The biting gusts cut into his face like drawn blades, causing a sharp sting. Gulaba felt his footing begin to slip, and his cloak was caught in the gale, threatening to tear apart at any moment.

Fortunately, Laba's lab was well-stocked, and the Sword Saint had prepared before his departure. Struggling against the wind, he opened his large suitcase and took out a barrel-shaped object, which he expertly donned.

Flying Barrel (Wooden Armor): A passionate flying enthusiast crafted this wooden armor, hoping to soar over the Pacific. Its purpose has clearly changed. Warriors discovered that the barrel’s curved shape could resist physical impacts and allow for graceful movement in storms. However, it is not fireproof, especially when empty.

After equipping the wooden armor, Gulaba activated the propeller on his back. The blades churned through the fierce wind, propelling his heavy body forward with increasing speed.

Energy was limited, so Gulaba couldn’t use the Flying Barrel for long-distance flight, but the thrust provided by this wooden armor made it easier for him to move through the storm.

This armor was perhaps the orcs' favorite, yet also the most impractical. Orcs were naturally strong, having lived in the Storm Valley for generations, which had given them exceptional resistance to storms. Many skilled orc warriors had earned nicknames like “Child of the Wind.” Therefore, no orc could resist the allure of the Flying Barrel, which allowed for agile movement in storms.

But orcs were naturally afraid of fire. In the wind-swept Valley of Storms, a single flame could spread into a wildfire, carried by the gusts. This is why orc houses were made of stone—to prevent fires.

The problem with the Flying Barrel, however, was its weak resistance to fire. Made entirely of wood, the armor could easily turn into kindling if it caught fire, a real concern for the fire-fearing orcs.

For the wild and daring young orcs, the Flying Barrel was a beloved piece of armor. They always believed in their nimble reflexes, convinced that no one could catch them while wearing it. These young warriors also believed they were the chosen ones, destined to avoid flames. Ironically, those who held such beliefs often remained forever young, while the experienced, battle-hardened orc veterans all wore the fire-resistant Steam Iron Fist (Plate Armor).

Gulaba, being of human descent, naturally had the highest resistance to fire among all races, so he wasn’t worried at all while wearing the Flying Barrel. His speed increased as he moved forward, and he soon arrived at the gates of the orc territory.

A hulking orc warrior with a nose ring and a pair of proud tusks spotted him. “Hey, mighty Sword Saint, my friend! I must thank the winds of the Valley of Storms for bringing you to our home!”

Gulaba grinned broadly. “Stormfang, my old friend! Your tusks have grown even longer! Go tell the chieftain that an old friend has come to share a drink!”

“You're no outsider! No need to announce yourself, just go on in!” Stormfang, clearly pleased with the compliment on his tusks, waved Gulaba through with a hearty gesture. “Your green poison cured? Ready to drink? Tonight, I’m definitely going to drink you under the table!”

“If it doesn’t kill me, I can drink it!” Gulaba laughed. “And if it does, even better!”

As he walked through the valley, Gulaba was greeted by friends at every turn. It seemed that every orc was his close companion, and the entire valley buzzed with excitement.

The Sword Saint bantered and laughed his way to the largest stone fortress at the center, the residence of the orc chieftain. He hadn’t even knocked when a deep, booming female voice called out from inside:

“Is that Gulaba, my boy? Hurry on in and let your Aunt Ironaxe see if you’ve lost any weight!”

Gulaba smiled wryly at the words, scratching his head as he stepped into the fortress. He was immediately met by a body as large as a small mountain. The body belonged to the current orc chieftain, a warrior as strong as a mountain herself—the formidable Ironaxe Stormwind.

“Why are you so thin again, my child? Look at you—you're smaller than the six-year-old at the gate. I’ve always said human food is terrible. You should stay here in the tribe and eat roasted bear meat for a solid month. Aunt Ironaxe guarantees you’ll gain a stone of muscle!”

Gulaba glanced over at the six-year-old orc boy by the gate. The robust child was nearly half a head taller than himself, holding a giant bear’s leg bone as a toy, using it to bash another playmate over the head. The other child, about the same size, didn’t seem to mind the loud thumping on his skull, instead drooling as he gnawed on a hunk of half-cooked bear meat.

Comparing the size of his own head to that of the bear leg bone, Gulaba couldn’t help but shrink his neck. He warmly embraced the orc chieftain and then burst into laughter, “Aunt Ironaxe, you’ve put on some more weight—I can barely get my arms around you!”

Unlike humans, orc women considered being plump a sign of beauty. Aunt Ironaxe beamed, her tusks gleaming as she laughed. “You rascal, always knowing just what to say to make your Aunt Ironaxe happy! Since you’re here, don’t be in a rush to leave. We’ll have a barbecue feast for a few days first!”

“A barbecue feast is a must! But Aunt Ironaxe, I’m here on important business this time,” Gulaba said, his expression becoming serious.

“What business could be more important than drinking and eating?”

“Aunt Ironaxe, according to my intel, the Lizardmen Desecrators may be in league with your old foes—the elves!”