The Demon of The North-Chapter 142 - 141. A Coward

Rothschild Territory

The port of Rothschild Viscounty had never known silence like this.

Not the peaceful quiet of dawn, nor the sleepy lull between tides, but a brittle, strained stillness that clung to the air as the three foreign vessels loomed closer, their massive silhouettes blotting out the horizon one by one. Waves broke unevenly against hulls not shaped by any craft known to Aerthysia, as the sea itself seemed to recoil from them.

Three ships emerged from the horizon like moving fortresses, blotting out the thin line where sea met sky. They’re nothing like the vessels described in the common histories, nothing like the elegant Aerthysian ships illustrated in common library books with their curved hulls, pale sails, and living wood blessed by elven craft. These ships are all wrong.

Too tall. Too broad. Their silhouettes rose unnaturally high above the water, casting long shadows that swallowed the docks long before they arrived. Their prows were jagged and asymmetrical, shaped like gaping maws filled with iron "teeth," as if the ships themselves were predators meant to bite into land.

The sides were reinforced with dark metal plates bolted crudely over thick, scarred wood, each plate burned with symbols rather than carved—runes that looked less like writing and more like wounds cauterized into iron.

People gathered despite the emperor’s decree, fear and curiosity dragging them toward the docks like a curse. Merchants abandoned their ledgers. Sailors froze mid-knot. Guards tightened their grips on spears that suddenly felt far too small.

Some whispered, confused. Others clutched prayer beads. "These aren’t Aerthysian ships," someone muttered, voice shaking.

They knew Aerthysia, or at least they thought they did. Everyone did. It was written plainly in common books meant for any citizen who could read: a continent of elves and humans, guarded by the Tree of Life. Their ships were supposed to be graceful, almost alive, grown rather than built. Not this. Never this.

The ships didn’t signal for docking or slowing down. They just forced their way in, hit the port, and stopped forcefully.

The water churned violently as massive anchors were thrown without warning, chains screaming as they scraped against stone and wood. One anchor tore through an unused pier as if it were rotted driftwood, sending splinters flying. Another smashed into the seawall, cracking stone that had stood for generations.

Then the gangplank dropped.

It didn’t creak politely as human ships did. It crashed down, a slab of dark metal biting into the pier, and the sound echoed like a war drum. They came out in ranks.

Orcs—gray-skinned, towering, their bodies thick with corded muscle and layered scars, marched forward without care. Their tusks were carved and capped with metal, their armor mismatched but heavy, taken from conquered lands and reforged to fit their massive frames. Some carried axes taller than a man. Others bore hooked chains, cruelly barbed, that clinked with each step.

Behind them came beasts used as labor and intimidation alike: hulking creatures yoked to wagons, dragging crates that reeked of iron, blood, and old smoke. Slaves, some barely conscious, were shoved forward to clear paths, their eyes hollow, their movements slow and terrified.

A murmur spread through the gathered crowd, swelling into panic. "What are they?"

"Are they demons?"

"Where are the knights?"

"My lord!"

The second and third ships docked moments later, sealing the harbor like a trap snapping shut. Their crews poured out as well, surrounding the port from all sides, cutting off escape routes with chilling efficiency.

Then one of them stepped forward.

Bigger than the rest, his armor, marked with trophies, bones, teeth, and broken crowns, melted into his pauldrons, he planted the haft of his weapon into the dock, splintering it further. He looked over the people before him with open disdain, yellow eyes gleaming with amusement.

He saw what he likes, and he wants it. He saw omegas and beta females, which were perfect for a breeding ground. "This port now belongs to Calonia," he growled in broken but understandable Common. "You will give tribute. Food. Metal. Your omegas and your beta females. Those who resist will be made examples."

The word spread like fire through dry grass. Tribute. Omegas and beta females.

A scream tore through the crowd as one of the orcs lunged, seizing a man who had dared shout in defiance. The orc lifted him with one hand and slammed him against a piling, the bone cracking loud enough to be heard over the rising chaos. Blood sprayed the dock. The body slid down and did not move again.

That was all it took. Panic erupted.

People ran. Crates were overturned. Parents barely knew where they were going as they dragged the screaming children. Some guards tried to form a line, spears leveled, shields raised—but fear made their hands shake, and training crumbled under the weight of sheer terror.

The orcs waded in.

They moved with horrifying purpose, smashing through stalls, ripping doors from warehouses, and laughing as they found stores of grain, casks of wine, and ingots of steel. Anything of value was claimed. Anything that resisted is destroyed. Fires bloomed as torches were thrown carelessly, flames licking up walls and sails alike.

Cries filled the air—pleas, prayers, sobs—cut short far too often.

An omega collapsed near the water’s edge, her scent sharp with terror, and an orc noticed immediately. His grin widened as he reached for her, fingers closing around her arm like iron bands. Her scream pierced the air before she’s dragged back toward the ships, kicking uselessly.

Others followed.

Beta females. Omegas. Anyone who is smaller, weaker, or slower is more likely to flee. The harbor guards broke.

Some threw down their weapons and ran. Others are cut down where they stood, their armor no match for sheer brute force and anti-magic hides that turned spells into little more than sparks.

A desperate mage hurled a firebolt that burst harmlessly against an orc’s chest, leaving nothing but a scorch mark. The orc laughed and crushed his skull a heartbeat later.

From the balcony of the harbor master’s tower, Valdemar de Rothschild watched the scene unfold, his face drained of all color. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not like this.

He had imagined banners unfurled and envoys exchanged, cautious words spoken across decks heavy with curiosity but not blood. He had imagined profit, prestige, and his name was whispered in the capital as the noble who had opened a new path to wealth. He had never imagined screams.

Below him, the port was already drowning in chaos. The orcs poured out in waves. The creature was not larger than the noble’s wolf-shifting figure, but it definitely looked stronger.

Even he starts to think that his wolf isn’t capable of handling those orcs. "This—this isn’t right," Valdemar whispered, his hands gripping the cold stone railing so hard his knuckles burned. "This isn’t what I called for."

"My Lord," the harbor master said again, his voice shaking now, "they aren’t traders."

The stench of smoke and blood reached him even there. The screams carried clearly, each one of them a nail hammered into the coffin of his arrogance. The ships he had summoned aren’t merchants seeking profit, they are predators answering a signal that promised weakness.

Below, the banner of Rothschild Viscounty was torn down, trampled under heavy boots, and dragged through mud and blood as if it were nothing more than refuse. The orc war-chief lifted it, inspected it with mild curiosity, then tossed it aside and planted his own standard into the dock, a sigil of Calonia, marking conquest.

By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, the port was unrecognizable.

Warehouses burned. The water ran dark near the shore. Survivors hid wherever they could, trembling in cellars and cargo holds, praying for knights who aren’t yet there.

And above it all hung one undeniable truth, heavy as smoke in the lungs, Rothschild territory had been touched by a nightmare. The consequences of inviting it were just beginning to unfold.

Valdemar de Rothschild fled. Not with dignity, not with orders to rally his knights or commands to defend the port he governed, but with his cloak clutched tight as he slipped from the harbor tower, abandoning the screams, the smoke, and the thunder of foreign boots on stone.

The breaching of the first warehouses and the dragging away of the first omegas shattered him, not with resolve but with terror.

He told himself he would return. That this is temporary. A lord had preserved his life initially so that he could act later.

Yet his feet carried him farther from the docks with every step, past panicked servants, past merchants barricading doors, past families vanishing into alleys with whatever they could hold. He didn’t stop or look back.

But the sounds seemed closer to him, the dreadful laughter of orcs echoed through the port, followed by splintering wood and the shriek of torn hinges. Pleas in his people’s tongues pierced the air, "My lord, Lord Rothschild, please," each one like ice down his spine. He lowered his head and quickened his pace.

By the time he reached his estate, the gates were already being barred. His guards stared at him, relief warring with disbelief. He offered no speech, no commands. A wordless gesture sealed the gates behind him, and he retreated inside, the thick stone walls dulling the distant chaos.