Ashenvale, Orc camp.
All the Orcs were enveloped in an atmosphere of sorrow.
The Orcs who had once feared neither heaven nor earth, who would charge at a Titan with an axe in hand, were now gathering in the camp with their heads hanging low.
A few days earlier, news had arrived from the Crossroads in The Barrens: Great Chieftain Thrall had been gravely wounded and was at death's door. The Horde had now appointed Vol'jin as acting Great Chieftain to lead the withdrawal from Ashenvale.
Being led by a Troll was difficult for all Orcs to accept. But since the Orc higher-ups had raised no objections, it meant that both Saurfang and Eitrigg had acknowledged it.
Eventually, the order to retreat was passed down bit by bit to the front lines.
Reluctantly and helplessly, the Orc guard units began withdrawing in batches.
Deep within the Orc camp, inside an inconspicuous tent, Saurfang was reporting to the figure lying on the bed.
"How is the morale among the troops?" The speaker was none other than the supposedly critically wounded and dying Great Chieftain Thrall.
"Everyone is deeply upset. Hearing that we are retreating, no one has any spirit left," the Old Orc said sadly. "Great Chieftain, do we really have to do this? Are we just giving up Ashenvale after fighting so hard to take it?"
Thrall gave a bitter smile. "There is no other way. The situation is forcing our hand. We can only take a risky gamble."
He paused, took several breaths, and only then slowly continued, "Most of the forests in the Ashenvale territory we occupy suddenly withered away. For now, we can only suspect those elf Druids are behind it. I never expected them to be so ruthless. Those people who always boast of believing in