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On the bone-chilling desert night, the Orcs who had successfully ambushed the caravan panted heavily as they raised their torches.

They muttered in a language somewhat similar to Glacier Orcish, moving back and forth through the wrecked camp and rummaging everywhere for their spoils.

In the caravan master's camp, the human captives who had surrendered—starting with Dean and Louisa, followed by Old Hammer, Kuaishang, Mackey, and the others—held their heads in both hands and stood in a line as fully armed Orcs escorted them before the enemy leader.

Tales was among them, directly behind Dean. Perhaps because of his age and build, he had not been roughly forced along with an Orc pressing down on his back like the others. Even so, as he crossed the sand and passed one vicious-looking alien after another, the gazes and weapons of the enemies on either side still sent a chill through him.

The Orcs' killing intent and appearances were deeply unsettling. Nearly every Orc warrior bore numerous old and new wounds, clearly proving them veterans of countless battles. They looked at the captives with disdain, deliberately clanging the weapons in their hands. Amid the ringing metal, Tales could not help remembering six years ago—remembering the scene of the delegation passing by the Northland Infantry beneath Dragonbreak Fortress.

The tension was the same. The suffocation was the same.

Only this time, it was far more hopeless.

Beyond several dozen Orc warriors, three distinctive Orcs stood before Tomding's cargo, coldly watching the captives approach.

Tales was not unfamiliar with them:

One was a cold-faced Orc with white-painted lips and an abnormally large Black Bow hanging from his shoulder. He had just shot Mercenary Panga dead with a single arrow during the archery duel.

Another was a fierce brute with a greatsword, bare upper body,