March of Destruction (5)

Night-shrouded Arkham was like a mass of ignited scrap metal, with firelight and thick smoke perpetually hanging over the city.

Thanks to the efforts of the mechanics, what had once been Essex State's largest industrial city had become a colossal arms factory.

Every day, tens of thousands of weapons were shipped out from factories that never rested, while an equal quantity of scrap was hauled back in. The number continued to rise.

Like Scrap City in the Waka Rainforest, Arkham had become a hub where the region's Ork boys gathered.

The city had grown three times larger than before. Aside from the vast shantytowns, the old human buildings had also been converted into sturdy fortresses.

Arkham was both an arms factory and a battlefield.

For the Orks, making a name for themselves here carried more weight than ruling some wilderness backwater.

Thus, Arkham was lively both day and night.

Yet few knew that beneath this bustling city, within its complex network of sewers, an endless hunt was underway.

This hunter could smell his prey.

Over the past half year, they had encountered each other at close range many times.

In two confrontations, the prey had fled immediately after realizing that the hunter was difficult to ambush.

The prey's faint, intermittent growls drifted from the darkness several times, taunting the hunter. Messages written in blood would often appear as well.

Over the course of the long hunt, through countless traps and countertraps, he moved through the dark, long-dry sewers, inspecting every shadow in the hope of finding the one shadow that was not truly a shadow.

Pursuit had never been the hunter's specialty. He was more accustomed to bloody close-quarters combat, but this troublesome prey had forced him to become a special operations expert.

Because this bastard had already slaughtered a