From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 221: The Mangler.
An orc that stood almost twice the size of Kragg—a mountain of muscle and scar tissue that defied natural proportions—sat on a makeshift throne of piled human furniture, eating raw meat with the casual voracity of a predator at the peak of the food chain. He was shoving chunks down his throat whole, barely chewing, his jaw working with mechanical efficiency as blood and viscera dripped down his chin and chest. The sounds were obscene—wet tearing, grinding bone, satisfied grunts that rumbled from deep within his barrel chest. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂
The other orcs around him looked like children by comparison, their considerable size diminished to nothing in his shadow. Warriors who would have commanded respect in any other context moved with deference bordering on fear, keeping their distance, averting their eyes when his gaze swept across them. This was no ordinary warlord or chieftain.
This was the Mangler.
His reputation preceded him across every territory where orcs gathered—a creature of appetite and violence so extreme that even other orcs spoke his name in hushed tones. The meat he was currently devouring with such enthusiasm was unmistakably human, the limbs still recognizable despite his methodical consumption, the torso cavity visible where he’d ripped away ribs to access internal organs he considered delicacies.
The Mangler had conquered a small village of humans just yesterday—a settlement that had relied on wooden palisades and militia farmers for defense, utterly unprepared for the overwhelming force he’d brought against them. The slaughter had been efficient and brutal, leaving few survivors and even fewer intact structures. What remained was ash, blood, and bodies harvested for various purposes.
His jaws looked anatomically impossible, designed to dislocate and expand like a snake’s, allowing him to swallow victims whole if the mood struck him. Several of his teeth were as long as human fingers, pointed and serrated, capable of punching through armor and crushing bone with equal ease. When he opened his mouth fully—as he did now to accommodate a particularly large chunk of meat—the display was nightmare-inducing, revealing a gullet that seemed to descend into infinite darkness.
The women from the village were being held separately in crude pens, terrified and weeping but physically unharmed. The Mangler had made absolutely sure they were untouched by his warriors, kept pristine like packaged goods awaiting shipment. His orders had been explicit and backed by threats of dismemberment: anyone who damaged the merchandise would become the next meal.
He knew the goblins Byung led had no money, no currency worth trading for, their economy based on barter and shared resources that held no interest for someone of his appetites. The Mangler only believed in money—cold, hard coin that could buy weapons, luxuries, and the cooperation of those too cowardly or pragmatic to oppose him directly. Ideals and honor were currencies for fools. Gold was eternal.
This was why he sold captured women to bandits and other individuals with the means to pay for living merchandise. Human traffickers operating out of port cities, wealthy nobles seeking exotic servants, brothel owners catering to specialized tastes—the Mangler maintained an extensive network of buyers who paid premium prices for quality goods delivered discretely. It was profitable, sustainable, and required no particular skill beyond the capacity for violence he already possessed in abundance.
The Mangler was too far out in the wilderness to hear about Kragg’s passing through normal channels. Borg had done a surprisingly decent job keeping the former chieftain’s death under wraps, controlling information flow and eliminating witnesses who might spread inconvenient truths. But secrets had weight, and weight eventually caused things to collapse. He couldn’t keep it hidden forever.
And word came to the Mangler this very night, not by chance but through deliberate delivery.
A man walked up to him through the carnage-strewn camp with confidence that bordered on suicidal, stepping over corpses and around cooking fires where human flesh roasted on spits. The Mangler immediately prepared to butcher this intruder, his massive hand reaching for the two-handed war axe that leaned against his throne, muscles tensing in anticipation of violence.
But the man only chuckled upon seeing the Mangler’s aggressive posture, the sound carrying no fear whatsoever. He stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to speak normally, far enough to avoid immediate dismemberment—and raised his hands in a gesture that suggested peace rather than surrender.
This man was none other than Rodell, the human warrior whose reputation among both humans and orcs was built on a foundation of competence and ruthless pragmatism. He looked at the carnage surrounding them with an expression of distaste but not surprise, his eyes cataloging the bodies, the captured women, the evidence of systematic brutality.
It was his duty as a protector of human settlements to put orcs like the Mangler down, to end threats before they could spread and consume more innocent lives. In normal circumstances, Rodell would have already organized a coalition to eliminate this creature, would have brought fire and steel to this camp until nothing remained but ash.
However, detailed news about this pending attack on the village had been made available to him days before through his intelligence network—scouts and informants who tracked orc movements and warned of imminent raids. But Rodell had never acted on that information, had deliberately allowed the assault to proceed unimpeded despite having both the resources and authority to prevent it.
Because he needed a way to establish contact with the Mangler, and the creature wouldn’t have taken a meeting under any other circumstances. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary for larger strategic goals, and a small village was an acceptable price if it meant gaining access to someone this influential in orc power structures.
"I come in peace," Rodell spoke in the orcish language with perfect fluency, his accent marking him as someone who’d spent considerable time among their kind. He was reassuring the Mangler that he wasn’t an enemy in this moment, that his presence here served mutual interests rather than opposition.
He continued carefully, "I know sending any other messenger would result in their immediate death. You don’t negotiate with weakness, and anyone I could send would appear weak compared to you. So I came myself."
The Mangler had indeed raised his weapon, the massive axe lifting with casual ease despite weighing more than most humans could deadlift. But he lowered it upon hearing Rodell’s voice spoken in his native tongue, recognition flashing in those predatory eyes. His head tilted slightly, studying the human with newfound interest.
"Rodell," the Mangler rumbled, his voice like grinding stone, speaking the name with familiarity that confirmed prior encounters. "The human who speaks like orc. Who fights like orc. Who thinks like orc but serves humans." There was no judgment in the statement, merely observation of an interesting paradox.
They had met before, clearly—perhaps in battle, perhaps in negotiation, perhaps in circumstances that created mutual respect between apex predators who recognized their own kind regardless of species.
Rodell nodded acknowledgment, relaxing fractionally now that immediate violence was off the table. "I didn’t come for your head today, Mangler. That battle is for another time when circumstances demand it. Today I come as a messenger bearing information you’ll want to hear."
He paused, letting the gravity of his next words settle properly. "Kragg is dead. The chieftain who ruled the western territories, who commanded respect from every orc clan for three decades—he’s been killed. And the circumstances of his death are... complicated."
The Mangler’s expression didn’t change immediately, but his chewing stopped. A chunk of human flesh remained visible between his teeth as he processed this information, weighing its implications. Kragg had been a stabilizing force, a known quantity. His death meant opportunity for some, chaos for others. There was no way someone who could stop him could be killed so easily, but there was no way Rodell would spread such information if it was false.
"Who killed him?" the Mangler finally asked, his voice carrying genuine curiosity. "What orc was strong enough?"
"That," Rodell said with a slight smile, "is where things get interesting. And why I thought you’d want to know before anyone else does."
