From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 171: Borg’s Incompetence
Borg had taken over the orcs in this region through cunning, deception, and a blade through Kragg’s back in the dead of night—a kill that still haunted his dreams with the old chief’s gurgling death rattle and the weight of blood-soaked hands. The transition of power should have been seamless, the strong replacing the weak as orc tradition dictated, but the reality was far messier than Borg had anticipated.
He sat in Kragg’s former tent now—a sprawling structure of reinforced hides and wooden beams that smelled of old sweat, smoke, and the lingering presence of a leader who had commanded through sheer force of will. But Borg didn’t command the same respect. The orc warriors looked at him with thinly veiled skepticism, their eyes measuring him constantly, waiting for the first sign of weakness to pounce. He was too calculating, too political, not enough raw power radiating from his frame to inspire the primal loyalty that Kragg had wielded like a weapon.
Shava, on the other hand, was more respected, and that fact gnawed at Borg like a rat chewing through rope. She moved through the camp with natural authority, her presence commanding attention without effort—tall, scarred, fierce, with a reputation earned in battle rather than bought through treachery. Warriors nodded to her, sought her counsel, deferred to her judgment on matters of tactics and honor. She was Kragg’s rightful successor, and that lineage carried weight that Borg’s scheming could never match.
The orcs whispered that she should have taken leadership, that tradition favored her claim, but Borg had moved too quickly, seized power in the chaos following Kragg’s death before anyone could organize opposition.
This was why Borg hurried the wedding they had planned, pushing the date forward with urgency that bordered on desperation. Marrying Shava would cement his legitimacy, bind her reputation to his rule, make it harder for dissenters to challenge him without challenging her as well. The preparations were underway—a feast being organized, ceremonies planned according to ancient orcish rites that involved blood oaths and ritualistic combat displays. But Shava participated with cold detachment, her mind elsewhere, her responses to his questions clipped and mechanical.
Shava made many attempts to contact the orc from that night—the mysterious warrior who had spoken to her with not words but violence during the aftermath of Kragg rampant extermination of the goblins in their cages.
She had gone to neighboring camps, whispered inquiries to traders passing through, even ventured alone into the foothills under the pretense of scouting, hoping to catch a glimpse or a sign.
But to no avail.
She had no idea how to reach her, no name, no clan affiliation, just the memory of red eyes and a violence that had spoken truths Shava didn’t want to acknowledge. The frustration built like pressure in a sealed pot, making her snappish and withdrawn, a behavior Borg noticed but misinterpreted as pre-wedding nerves.
Borg, meanwhile, was scared—a fear that coiled in his gut like a serpent and kept him awake through the long nights, staring at the room’s ceiling while his mind raced through worst-case scenarios. He had noticed that Rodell had stopped responding to the letters he had sent, the carefully coded messages delivered by trusted couriers who returned empty-handed with reports that the human lord was "unavailable" or "considering the request." Borg had requested help—or rather, tools from the humans to aid in their war against the goblins and consolidate his hold on the region.
Weapons, armor, perhaps even a contingent of human soldiers disguised as mercenaries. Anything to tip the balance in his favor and prove to the skeptical orcs that his leadership brought tangible benefits.
But there was one thing Rodell didn’t do, a principle the human lord held above all else: he never left or initiated anything that could be traced back to him. Every action, every alliance, every deal was conducted through intermediaries, coded language, and plausible deniability. If things went south, Rodell’s hands remained clean, his reputation untarnished, his position secure. And this ironically showed Borg’s incompetence—his failure to understand how the game was truly played, his naïve assumption that Rodell would risk exposure to support a puppet who had outlived his usefulness.
Rodell had washed his hands of him because Byung had granted him everything Borg could offer with that agreement they had entered. The goblin had delivered Vrognut, demonstrated control over his people, opened trade routes, and proven himself a more reliable and intelligent partner than Borg ever was. Why invest in a scheming orc whose hold on power was tenuous when a calculating goblin offered stability and results? The calculation was simple, cold, and final. Borg’s letters went unanswered because Rodell no longer needed him, no longer saw value in maintaining the charade.
Borg was running out of options, the walls closing in from all sides. The orcs couldn’t venture too far from their camps to raid or expand territory with the Chieftess lurking in the mountains like a vengeful spirit. She was the single factor that changed everything, her presence a constant threat that paralyzed Borg’s ability to project strength. Any war party he sent out risked encountering her, and the warriors knew it—their fear of the Stonehide legend making them hesitant, slow to obey orders that might lead them into her path. Borg’s authority, already shaky, eroded further with every refused command, every muttered complaint around the cook fires.
And then there was Kraghul’s disappearance, a problem that loomed larger than any other. Borg had to deal with the fact that the young orc—Urgar’s son, heir to one of the most powerful warlords in the eastern territories—had vanished without a trace after the failed assault on the goblin mine. No body recovered, no witnesses, just... gone. Urgar wasn’t going to take it sitting down. The old warlord was legendary for his brutality and his unwavering devotion to his bloodline. Messengers had already arrived, their words laced with barely contained fury, demanding answers, demanding his son’s return or proof of death, demanding justice.
Urgar was about to send a sizeable army to storm this region and burn it all to the ground until he found his son—a force that would dwarf anything Borg commanded, warriors hardened by decades of conquest, equipped with the best weapons the eastern forges could produce. And Borg had nothing to say, no answers to give, no explanation that wouldn’t make him look either incompetent or complicit.
The truth—that Kraghul had been kidnapped by a mysterious dwarf—sounded like a pathetic excuse, a story told by a coward trying to deflect blame even if Borg did have knowledge of this.
He regretted taking over, the bitter truth settling in his chest like a stone. If Kragg was still in charge, this would have been his problem. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮
The chief would have handled Urgar with the authority of experience and respect, would have rallied the warriors with a roar that shook the earth, would have dealt with the Chieftess through strength or negotiation without flinching.
But Kragg was dead, killed by Borg’s own hand, and now the weight of leadership crushed him like a mountain collapsing onto his shoulders.
Borg sat in the room, staring at the pile of unanswered letters, the maps that showed territories he couldn’t control, the reports of unrest among his own warriors. The wedding would buy him time, tie Shava to him legally if not emotionally, but beyond that? The future was a dark, yawning chasm, and he had no idea how to avoid falling into it.
