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Chapter 60 The Introverted Orc
Well, something is better than nothing, and Xia Lin has no choice but to accept it now.
Fortunately, even a mosquito's leg is still meat, and every little bit helps.
The key point is the explanation that follows: this entry has already reached the maximum quality level.
To make it stronger, such as becoming a higher-quality blue item, it needs to "eat" other attributes.
With a thought, he opened the entire dictionary.
The entries are flashing and dazzling.
Xia Lin began to examine his "assets" like a meticulous accountant.
【Ratatouille from the Sewers (White)】? No use, let's try throwing it over there first.
[Shortsighted (White)] [Saliva Enchantment (White)]...Trash, merge.
【Full Moon Hunting (Green)】? This is somewhat useful, but it doesn't quite fit the art style of 【Interspecies Reproduction】, so I'll put it on "probation" for now.
He tried to guide those obviously useless or ineffective entries slowly towards [interspecies reproduction] using his mind.
Like drops of water flowing into a deep pool, the glow of those terms was slowly absorbed and devoured by [cross-species reproduction].
With each new entry merged, the green glow of "Interspecies Reproduction" seemed to intensify and solidify.
The color gradually shifted from the original emerald green to a deeper, more subdued dark green, and the edges of the halo also seemed to become clearer.
Ultimately, the database of entries was significantly streamlined.
Apart from some experiential entries that couldn't be merged, Xia Lin only kept some entries that he considered useful and potentially had special effects.
Looking at the much cleaner and more organized dictionary entries, and at the [Interspecies Reproduction] entry whose color had darkened considerably, as if it were brewing something, Xia Lin breathed a sigh of relief.
Although this upgrade did not directly increase combat power, it clarified the growth direction of the attributes and also cleared out the "inventory".
"Tomorrow, I'll first buy wine for the dwarves, and then I'll go get my new equipment."
He extinguished the oil lamp, lay down on the bed, and went to sleep.
Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.
The warm midday sun streamed through the stained glass windows, casting lazy dappled light into the Moonlight Tavern.
The air was filled with the sweet aroma of mead and the soothing sound of a lute. Several regulars at the tavern were chatting quietly, enjoying the tranquility after a busy day.
This tranquility was suddenly shattered by a slightly jarring creak from the oak door hinges at the entrance.
Two unfamiliar guests walked in one after the other.
Walking in front was an elderly pastor.
His hair and beard were all white, meticulously combed, and his face was etched with the wrinkles of time and wisdom.
He was wearing a white priest's robe and holding a simple wooden staff in his hand.
His eyes were gentle, and his steps, though slow, were steady.
However, all eyes in the tavern were drawn past the old priest and were instantly captivated by the figure behind him, unable to look away.
He was an extremely burly man...
Orcs!
Records show that orcs already existed when humans first came into contact with them.
But since that day, they have never found a true place in human society—or rather, civilization has never left a place for them.
Most humans disliked them because of their appearance, believing that half-orcs must be as dangerous as beastmen and should be avoided.
Although orcs are usually stronger than humans and can find work in towns or cities, they are always treated as outsiders because of their appearance.
After being ostracized, they either accept the differences and take pride in their strength, hide themselves and try not to attract attention, or leave to try nomadism or wandering.
Regardless of the choices they make, they can never truly integrate into human society.
The orc who entered the tavern was nearly 2.7 meters tall, and his rough, dark green skin gleamed like leather in the fireplace light.
His muscles were bulging, stretching the white holy robe he wore taut.
The sleeveless chainmail covering his body was polished to a gleaming shine, emitting a slight metallic scraping sound as he moved.
His face was rugged, and the fangs protruding from his lower jaw were more conspicuous than those of ordinary orcs, adding to his wild and intimidating aura.
Most striking was the battle axe hanging at his waist; the axe head was heavy, and a faint, holy light seemed to emanate from it.
He followed silently behind the old pastor, like a moving green hill draped in a holy robe, silently protecting the old man in front of him.
Dead silence.
The patrons who had been whispering turned pale instantly, hurriedly got up, and scurried out of the tavern like startled rabbits, their bodies almost pressed against the wall.
The bard in the corner trembled, and his lute emitted a series of out-of-tune noises. He quickly covered the strings, lowered his head, and dared not look any longer.
The presence of the orcs was like a boulder thrown into a calm pond, instantly disrupting all the harmonious light and sound in the tavern.
Behind the tavern counter, the pointy-eared elf proprietress, Sosia, put down the crystal glass she was wiping halfway through.
Her emerald eyes first lingered on the old priest, a hint of warmth from their long-awaited reunion flashing across them, before settling on the silent orc, a trace of helplessness passing through them.
"Fal," her voice carried a hint of mockery.
"Your imposing presence as a special guardian always seems to help me close the shop early."
Look, some of my tavern's most loyal customers have been scared away before they even paid their bills.
The old pastor, Far, gave a wry smile, and slowly sat down on a high stool in front of the counter, resting his staff against his legs.
"My old elf friend, please stop making fun of us."
He sighed and glanced at the few remaining customers in the tavern who, though not having left, were clearly restless.
"Garru, that kid... the townspeople's fear isn't directed at him personally, but at what's behind that skin."
Those terrifying tales of the brutal orc tribes of the "Evil Eye" and "Bloodblade" who burned, killed, and plundered in the wilderness, and the label of "chaos and evil" attached to the orc bloodline by the bards.
"They're just... not ready to accept another possibility."
He gestured for the orc behind him to sit down as well.
The orc named Garu then moved his massive body somewhat stiffly and sat down on a stool next to him, the stool groaning slightly from its heavy weight.
He took off his helmet, revealing a rugged and somewhat simple-minded face.
Then he lowered his gaze, focusing intently on his calloused hands resting on his knees, as if trying to minimize any visual contact that might cause unease.
Far turned to Sosia, his voice gentle: "Sossia, you know."
Many years ago, in an abandoned village in the North, ravaged by orcs, I found him in a haystack in the barn. He was just an infant in swaddling clothes, too hungry to even cry.
Although many in the church opposed it, believing that their orcish bloodline contained an unpurifiable violence.
The old pastor's eyes deepened. "But in that child's eyes, I saw no innate evil, only a pure soul in dire need of protection and guidance."