The tiger warrior stood barely three meters tall; among the orcs, his build could only be called ordinary.
An orc's height was directly tied to his bloodline and strength. This tiger warrior, with only lower Heaven-rank combat power, was at most a lower-middle-tier fighter among the tigerfolk. If placed in the human empire, he would be on the level of an elite soldier in an ordinary local garrison legion, not yet qualified to join the main ranks of the orc race's powerful war legions.
Yet this tiger warrior wore only half a breastplate over his vital heart area, a beast-hide skirt around his waist, and an ordinary coarse linen cloak over that. That was all the clothing and armor he had. The frigid wind from the Odin Icefield swept blizzards against him, but he felt no cold at all. The thick fur covering his body effectively shielded him from the invading chill.
Gripping a double-edged Battle Axe that weighed at least a thousand kilograms in one hand, the tiger warrior raised his enormous tiger head and bellowed carelessly at Enzo and the others standing atop the castle walls. "Hey, humans, how about one of you comes down and plays with me? You won one round just now, and we haven't prepared for the next charge yet, so why don't we play first?"
Enzo looked coldly at this lowborn tiger warrior. A mere lower Heaven-rank fighter—Enzo could blow through his skull with a single mouthful of spit.
But Enzo could not do that. On paper, he was merely a collateral descendant of a fallen noble family from Malte City in East Province. He had gained Heaven-rank power, come to Berely seeking a position, and through a stroke of luck climbed step by step to his current rank.
He could not abandon