Smoke filled the battlefield, and corpses were piled high at the passage connecting the two continents.
Some were still relatively intact. Some had been blasted down to half their bodies. Others had been burned black and were still smoking.
Shattered flesh and bones were mixed with rubble and mud, making it impossible to tell which chunks were meat and which were stone.
A severed arm still clutched the handle of a stone axe. The hand had gone rigid, gripping it so tightly that the fingers could not be pried open.
One corpse had had its head blown away, yet its body remained in a running posture. One leg was stepping forward, the other still braced against the ground, its body leaning slightly ahead as if it could collapse at any moment. But it would never move again.
Several more orcs lay sprawled amid the rubble, their bodies half-buried beneath broken stones.
Their faces were pressed to the ground, their eyes still open. There were no tears in their sockets, only frozen fear.
The orcs charging from behind stepped on the corpses ahead of them, slipped, fell to the ground, then climbed back up and kept running.
Some were tripped, causing those behind them to stumble as well. Dozens of them piled together, climbed up again, and then more were tripped.
The sight terrified everyone senseless.
Some stopped and stared at the carnage around them. Their legs suddenly gave way, and they fell to their knees, crying aloud for the blessing of the ancestral spirits.
Some threw down their weapons and turned to run, only to stop after a few steps, not knowing where they could flee.
The brave orcs had been utterly stunned by this single barrage, their courage completely shattered.
The Rockmane Werewolf stood amid the rubble, staring at