The silence of the march was a different creature from the silence after battle. This one was anticipatory, pregnant with possibility rather than heavy with loss. Thorzen led a small, potent force west: himself, the hulking forms of Nyx and Magma with their guardians, and the original, ever-present Prime. They were a statement. Not an army of conquest, but a spearhead of inevitability.
They traveled for two days, moving through lands that were subtly changing. The residual energy from the battle, the sheer concentration of power released and absorbed, seemed to have stirred the latent mana of the Wildlands. Plants were a fraction greener, the air a little sharper. The Amber Aegis, though miles behind them, cast a long, metaphysical shadow of order.
Thorzen spent the hours walking in a state of focused introspection. He allocated the vast reservoir of power he had gained. The 50 Attribute Points from the quest were distributed with mathematical precision, raising each of his base attributes to 197. The +10 bonus from reaching Level 15 brought them to a formidable 207 across the board. He was no longer merely strong; he was a being of balanced, transcendent physical and mental perfection.
The 200 Skill Points were funneled directly into his Assimilation, pushing it from Level 8 to Level 9. The increase in capacity was massive, but more importantly, his understanding of the ability deepened. He could now sense the "conceptual weight" of things he targeted, not just their physical mass. He felt the new [Mass Assimilation Protocol] settle into his consciousness, a ready-to-deploy tactical function.
His [Warlord's Aura] remained dormant, a coiled spring he sensed would be needed not for these broken clans, but for the organized legions he knew would eventually come.
On the morning of the third day, they found the first tribe. The Broken Tusk clan, the very one Torac had hailed from. Their village was a sorry collection of hide tents and crude palisades nestled in a rocky defile. Scouts had spotted them hours before, and the clan was clearly waiting, warriors arrayed at the front, their weapons held tight in white-knuckled grips. They had heard of Grull's fate. They expected annihilation.
Thorzen halted his group a hundred yards from the village entrance. He could feel the fear rolling off them, a sour tang in the air. He gestured for his Sentinels to stay put and walked forward alone.
A grizzled orc, one tusk snapped short, stepped out to meet him. He was old for an orc, his green skin leathery and scarred, but his eyes held a weary cunning.
"I am Borg," the orc said, his voice a gravelly challenge. "I speak for the Broken Tusk. You are the Death-Walker. The Clan-Breaker. Have you come to finish it?"
Thorzen stopped ten feet away, making no aggressive move. He let his enhanced Charisma, a force of personality that was now as tangible as his strength, do its work. He wasn't trying to dominate, but to project unwavering certainty.
"I am Thorzen, Chief of the Aethelgard Conclave. I have not come to break another clan. I have come to offer you a stone and a choice."
Borg blinked, thrown by the response. "A stone?"
Thorzen reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew not a weapon, but a smooth, dark river stone. With a thought, he activated the [Runic Engraving] ability gifted by Hephaestus. His finger, charged with divine artifice, traced a simple, glowing sigil onto the stone's surface—the same rune of the fist that adorned Hector's amulet. It was a rune of strength, resilience, and unyielding defense.
He tossed the stone to Borg. The orc caught it on instinct, flinching as if it would burn him. When it didn't, he stared at the softly glowing rune in his palm.
"This stone is now unbreakable by any force you or your warriors possess," Thorzen stated, his voice carrying to every listening ear. "It is a fraction of the power that protects my home. The power that shattered Grull's horde. This is the stone I offer you. A foundation."
He paused, letting the symbol of impossible durability sink in.
"Your choice is this: you can remain here, in this defile, scratching a living from the dirt, waiting for the next warlord to come and demand your warriors, your food, your lives. You can wait for the Ashen Horde from the east, who will enslave you, or the Solar Imperium from the south, who will exterminate you. Your current path leads only to dust and blood."
He took a single step forward, his gaze pinning Borg and every orc behind him.
"Or, you can take this stone as a sign. You can swear allegiance to the Aethelgard Conclave. You will come under the protection of the Amber Aegis. Your warriors will train in the Coliseum of the Void, becoming stronger than they ever dreamed. Your crafters will learn the secrets of runes. Your children will grow up without fear of the monster in the dark. You will have a place in the order we are building. You will have a future."
The silence from the orcs was absolute. This was not the language of the Wildlands. This was not a demand for submission, but an offer of elevation. Borg looked from the unbreakable stone in his hand to the impassive, powerful being before him. He looked past Thorzen, at the Void Drake that seemed to twist the light around it and the Umbral Borer that radiated the heat of the deep earth. He saw not monsters, but pillars of a new world.
"You… you would not make us slaves?" Borg asked, his voice hushed.
"In the Aethelgard Conclave, strength is honored, but it is disciplined. Loyalty is rewarded. You would be citizens, with rights and responsibilities. You would keep your identity, your Broken Tusk name, but you would be part of something greater. You would be Aethelgard."
Thorzen could see the calculation in Borg's eyes, the struggle between a lifetime of brutal, tribal pragmatism and the terrifying allure of this impossible offer.
"What of Torac?" Borg asked finally. "Of the Broken Tusk who fought with you?"
"Sentinel General Torac is one of my most trusted commanders," Thorzen said, and the pride in his voice was genuine. "He commands respect and leads warriors with a strategist's mind. He has earned his place at the heart of our power. He remembers his clan. He hopes for your wisdom."
That was the final piece. The testimony of one of their own, a son of the Broken Tusk who had not been broken, but forged into something greater.
Borg closed his fist around the runed stone. He turned to his people, his warriors, their families watching from behind the palisade. He saw the hope warring with fear in their eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he turned back to Thorzen, his posture had changed. The defensive hunch was gone, replaced by the straight-backed stance of a chieftain making a historic decision.
He dropped to one knee, placing the runed stone on the ground before him.
"The Broken Tusk clan is broken no more," he declared, his voice gaining strength. "We accept your stone, Thorzen of the Aethelgard. We accept your offer. We swear our allegiance to the Conclave. We will be your strength in the west."
A ripple went through the orcs. Then, one by one, the warriors knelt. The sound of hundreds of knees hitting the dirt was like a roll of thunder.
[Diplomatic Action: Successful.]
[Allegiance of the Broken Tusk Clan secured.]
[Reputation with Western Gritch Clans: Neutral -> Respected.]
[Quest: The Western Integration. Progress: 1/5 Major Clans secured.]
Thorzen reached down and offered a hand, not to help Borg up, but in a gesture of equals. Borg took it, his grip firm.
"Rise, Chieftain Borg of the Aethelgard. Your people have three days to prepare for the journey east. My scouts will guide you. You will be met at the border and brought to your new home, where land for a settlement has been set aside for the Broken Tusk."
The process repeated itself, with variations, over the next week. They visited the Red Hand goblin tribe, where Thorzen offered a stone engraved with a rune of cunning. He found the Shattered Spear orcs, and offered a stone with a rune of unity. To the Mossback kobolds, he offered a rune of delving.
His approach was not uniform. For some, the demonstration of power was necessary—a brief, terrifying display from Nyx or Magma that crushed any thought of resistance before the offer was even made. For others, the logical appeal was enough. He spoke of shared enemies, of sustainable hunting grounds, of safe trade routes. He was not just a warrior or a wizard; he was a politician, a city-planner, a visionary.
He used the strategic knowledge assimilated from Grull to perfection. He knew which clans held grudges, which were prideful, which were pragmatic. He played them against each other not with violence, but with the promise of being on the winning side of history.
By the end of the second week, four of the five major western clans had sworn allegiance. The fifth, the Bloody Sun tribe, the most fanatical of Grull's former allies, had refused. They had hurled insults and spears. Thorzen's response had been swift and absolute. He had not ordered an attack. He had simply looked at Magma and given a single, silent command.
The Umbral Borer had slammed into the earth, and the entire hilltop upon which the Bloody Sun village stood had collapsed in on itself, swallowed by the earth. It had taken less than a minute. There were no screams, for there was no time. Just a deep, grinding roar, and then silence.
Thorzen had then assimilated the entire hill, reclaiming the biomass and adding the latent, furious life force of the tribe to his reserves. It was not an act of rage, but of gardening. He had simply removed a weed that refused to be cultivated.
The message was received. The remaining minor clans and splinter groups flocked to his banner without him having to visit them.
He stood on a ridge, looking west over the newly pacified territories. The Wildlands were wild no longer. They were his.
"It is done," he said to the empty air, knowing the gods listened.
Ares's presence was a satisfied hum. The utter domination, the choice between integration and obliteration, was a form of war he appreciated. Athena's approval was a cool, intellectual wave; the strategic objective had been achieved with minimal expenditure of force and maximum long-term gain. Hephaestus's delight was in the spreading of his runic craft. Hades… Hades was silent, but Thorzen felt the souls of the Bloody Sun tribe being processed in the Soul Forge, their violent essence being purified into raw, usable power.
But it was a new presence that made itself known then. A gentle, pervasive warmth, like sunlight on fertile soil. It was the Weaver of Life, the native goddess of Azeroc. Her attention was a soft, probing touch, curious and not hostile. She had watched him break the cycle of violence not with more violence, but with an offer of growth. She had watched him use death not for defilement, but to fuel a new kind of life. It was an anomaly that intrigued her.
He accepted her attention, offering no challenge, only a sense of steadfast purpose. He was not her enemy. He was, perhaps, a strange new kind of ally.
His comms stone chimed. It was Zek.
Chief. The Sylvan Dominion envoy has arrived. Not just the observer. An official delegation, led by a High Elf named Laeronis. They have brought the texts you requested. And… they have asked to see the Dungeon Core.
Thorzen's eyes narrowed. A High Elf delegation was a significant escalation from a single scout. Their interest was deeper than he had anticipated.
"And the core?" he asked.
It has reached Level 4, Chief, Zek's voice was tinged with awe. The concepts you instructed us to feed it… order, community, growth… it has responded. The Training Dungeon has evolved. It now generates puzzles and challenges based on cooperation and problem-solving, not just combat. The Amber Aegis… it feels different. Warmer. More alive.
Thorzen smiled. He had wondered what would happen if one nurtured a dungeon core with civilization instead of carnage. Now he was beginning to see.
"Tell Lord Laeronis I will be there by nightfall. Ensure they are shown every hospitality. And Zek… have the War Memorial consecrated. Our twelve fallen will be interred at dusk. Our guests should see how we honor our dead."
He turned from the western vista, his new domain secured. The internal and external threats were, for now, quelled. But a new stage was beginning. The stage of diplomacy, of nation-building, of attracting the gaze of powers far greater than scattered orc clans.
The Aethelgard Conclave was no longer a fortress in the wilderness. It was a capital. And he was its king.
The harvest was over. Now came the long season of growth.