The Horde

A low howl echoed through the endless snowfields.

A pack of white beasts ran wildly across the endless snow, their pure white fur blending seamlessly with the falling snow. These beasts were about a meter tall, resembling calves.

The Orcs on the backs of these beasts had brown skin and incredibly muscular bodies. In this icy landscape, each Orc wore only a simple leather armor, their shoulders adorned with the bones of various beasts. Strapped to their backs were crudely made leather flags that fluttered in the wind, each embroidered with a silver-white wolf head.

The Orc leading the pack was clad in a full Frostwolf pelt, the wolf's head covering nearly half his face. The Frostwolf he rode was several times larger than the others.

A low howl, then another...

An Orc in the procession blew a mournful horn, its clear notes lingering in the ancient snowfields of Frostfire Ridge.

Another group of wolf riders approached from the opposite direction. Their mounts were black wolves, and the Orcs riding them were much larger than those of the Frostwolf Clan. This group carried only one large black flag, emblazoned with a massive black hammer.

The two groups of wolf riders halted when they were about ten meters apart. The leading Orcs dismounted and embraced each other heartily.

"Hahaha, Durotan!"

"Long time no see, Orgrim!"

Orgrim looked at his dear friend, his heavy heart suddenly feeling much lighter. He was sure Durotan could answer the many questions weighing on his mind.

"Let's go back to Draenor Citadel! The feast is waiting for you, hahahaha!"

The two mounted their wolves and galloped forward side-by-side. The two groups of Orcs merged into one, following closely behind their two chieftains.

Draenor Citadel, a colossal tower-like fortress, stood in the center of the snowfield. The Frostwolf Clan had lived in this rugged, stone stronghold for generations. As evening approached, countless fires flickered, and smoke curled upwards. The Frostwolf Orcs, having finished their day of hunting and fighting, sat in their stone dwellings, eating heartily and drinking deeply. The biting wind began to blow; the nights on Frostfire Ridge were extremely cold.

In the great hall at the highest point of the fortress, Orcs gathered around a massive bonfire, their loud laughter and conversations creating a boisterous atmosphere. Durotan and Orgrim sat in a corner, clinking their stone ale mugs together.

"What's wrong, old friend? At this time of year, aren't you usually busy organizing large-scale hunts? Why have you come to me this time?"

Orgrim, facing his friend, did not hide the worry etched on his brow. "I am worried, no... very worried. Ever since Gul'dan demonstrated his mysterious and terrifying power to the clans, things have become somewhat out of control. The number of Warlocks is increasing exponentially, while Shamans are becoming fewer and fewer. I understand that the power of Warlocks is exceptionally strong, but..."

"But that power feels inherently strange, doesn't it?" Durotan finished his friend's sentence. "The Warlocks of the Stormreaver Clan have also visited me and displayed their power. It was incredible; even powerful Gronn could not resist it. However, I also saw how that power, known as Fel, turned everything into scorched earth, leaving nothing alive. And that power not only affected the land but also the Orcs' minds."

Orgrim nodded vigorously. "Gul'dan's influence is growing by the day, and many smaller clans now follow his lead. And you're right about the changes brought about by that Fel power. A small area of the Tanaan Jungle, where the Stormreaver Clan resides, has been completely transformed. The Orcs affected by Fel... have become cruel and frenzied. They no longer know what honor is."

"So, your worry, old friend, is that the Orcs will fall due to Fel?"

"No... I don't know... With the Warlocks in the clans now, hunting and fighting are infinitely better than before. Even Warchief Blackhand of the Blackhand Clan has embraced Fel power."

Durotan fell silent for a moment, gazing at the noisy Orcs in the hall. "Let time tell. The ancestors will guide us. All I can do is ensure the Frostwolf Clan maintains its traditions and the teachings of the Shaman."

Shadowmoon Valley, Karabor Temple.

The aged Prophet Velen suddenly collapsed onto the ground, his face covered in cold sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably. Yrel, the guard standing by his side, rushed forward to help the prophet up.

"Prophet, what happened?" Yrel's voice was delicate and gentle, but now it was filled with confusion.

"Disaster... a disaster for all our Draenei people. No... I must seek more guidance from the Holy Light."

Yrel's body tensed immediately, and a chill ran up from her hooves. Prophet Velen's prophecies were never wrong. Could it be that the Draenei, who had already endured so much, escaping the pursuit of their former kin, the Eredar, were now facing another calamity?

"Yes, guidance... I must continue to communicate with that voice. Those beings called Naaru once told me, and now I must know more."

Nagrand, an endless expanse of Orcs was gathering.

Many of them no longer had their original brown skin. After drinking the Blood of Mannoroth, their bodies were covered in a blood-red hue, and their eyes were also filled with red, their savage expressions unmistakable.

Their usual calmness and straightforwardness seemed to be a distant memory. Here, at the gathering point, Orcs could be seen at any moment, ready to erupt in violence over the slightest provocation. However, no one succeeded, because whenever this happened, a blast of green Fel fire would strike them, eliciting screams of madness. Warlocks maintained discipline among these Orcs from various clans, and these Orc Warlocks themselves had green skin, with bulging veins on their arms, their blood seemingly polluted green by the Fel.

An exceptionally tall Orc emerged from a tent and stood on a high platform. His shoulders were adorned with two skull-like heads resembling dragons, with long, sharp bone tusks trailing behind him. His hands had transformed into a pair of terrifyingly sharp claws, infused with the green of Fel, like rocks covered in green sludge.

"Orcs! Silence!" Warchief Blackhand's roar echoed throughout the area.

"To the east! Those Draenei have occupied that land for long enough! Now, we Orcs shall claim that land! Kill all their kin!"

"Lok'tar! Lok'tar Ogar!" Wild cheers resounded across the Nagrand plains.

Standing behind Blackhand, his face completely hidden in the shadow of a black hood, the Warlock Gul'dan watched all this, chuckling softly.

Thanks to the reader "He Jia Yi 1412" for another ten thousand point reward! This chapter is an additional update (1/5)!

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