The Wolf King looked at Meng Chao with a strange expression.
"If the strong are supposed to bleed for the weak, what was the point of becoming strong? Why did everyone rack their brains to become strong? Wouldn't it be enough for everyone to just lie down and be weak, enjoying the benefits bought by others' blood and sacrifice?"
the Wolf King asked.
Meng Chao blinked, cleared his throat, and fell silent.
"Still, I seemed to have heard something similar in my dream."
The Wolf King picked at his ear and said indifferently, "Just like in Turanze, warriors would tell the ratfolk, 'Use your blades and courage to wash away your lowly bloodline and defend the glory of your ancestor spirits.'
"Whether the warriors sincerely believed that ratfolk were qualified to defend the glory of their ancestor spirits was not important.
"What mattered was that such words made the ratfolk more obedient and eager to die, to become better, more efficient cannon fodder. That was enough.
"Dragon City, like Turanze, must have similar words."
"No, it's different."
Meng Chao frowned deeply. "Dragon City and Turanze are different."
"What's different?"
The Wolf King eyed him sidelong. "Do you know what I found most unbearable about Earthlings during that endlessly long nightmare? You were far too full of yourselves, far too good at putting on airs—too lofty, and too hypocritical.
"You always thought yourselves especially intelligent, especially civilized, especially rich in morality and justice. In short, you believed you were different from every race living on this planet—especially different from us Turan Orcs, who were supposedly 'well-developed in limbs, simple-minded, knowing only how to revel in battle and let the strong prey on the weak.'
"Even when circumstances forced us into an alliance, the vast majority of Earthlings still could not hide