Tumor had been deeply troubled lately.
According to the plan they had made earlier, after cutting off the Great Wall people's food supply, he should have led the allied forces of the Poison Wolf, Shattered Tooth,
and Blood Blade tribes along the coast toward Wind Sand Islet, slaughtering everyone they encountered along the way.
But the reality was that, due to harassment from a group of Great Wall people, they had been forced to halt and spend several days dealing with that remnant force.
That force could barely be called an army. By rough estimate, it had only a little over a hundred people. Logically, crushing them should have been as easy as stepping on a sandworm beneath their feet.
Yet they had many Spellcasters among them.
A thick fog, grease, thrown fire oil, trembling ground, and sleep-inducing magic—after decades in the Great Desert, they had never been harassed by such trivial spells. Most importantly, the few prophets in their tribe had no way to dispel so many magical effects.
Whenever they dispatched men and tried to capture that force and throw them into the tribe's beast pens for a proper taming, so they would understand the price of doing this,
those people seemed to have eagle eyes. Before the tribe could even march out, they had already retreated farther away. Traveling light, they left the tribe as lagging as a pack of mountain boars.
At that thought, Tumor smashed the temporary bone table with one punch and roared, "Awoo awoo awoo!"
"Stop fucking worrying about those Great Wall people. Move out now! If they dare come again, feed a few prisoners to that young dragon!" said a female Beastfolk beside him, broad-bodied and covered in pustules.
Tumor's tongue had been burned off, making his speech slurred and incomprehensible.
But