John's Cunning Diverts Disaster Eastward; Misfortune Strikes Again, but Dragon's Roar Saves the Day

"Who goes there? Hands up!"

Twenty minutes later, in the Allied Forces' outer patrol zone, an Allied soldier spotted a figure emerging from the forest ahead. He immediately raised his rifle warily, then shone his lighting device forward.

As the beam tore through the darkness, he saw a Beastfolk soldier drenched in blood, wearing a wolf-bone mask and with his face heavily wrapped in bandages.

The other man held a scimitar and rode a one-eyed direwolf. He appeared to have just gone through a brutal battle; the soldier could even clearly see the direwolf's sharp teeth, broken by some external force.

Was this a soldier from the Bloodhowl Legion?

Why had he appeared in their patrol zone?

Realizing the newcomer was an ally, the soldier froze. But before he could consider why the other man had come, the man's voice reached his ears:

Hearing an utterly unfamiliar language and realizing the other man did not speak Victorian at all, the Allied patrolman immediately used his communications device to contact his superior, reporting that a Beastfolk member of the Bloodwolf Clan had entered their patrol zone.

Then, forcing a smile onto his face, he gestured with both hands and mouth.

"You, wait here. Our officer will be here soon, understand?"

"Sit down. You, sit down, understand?"

"Fuck!"

After trying to communicate for ages, the patrolman had received nothing but a stream of incomprehensible gibberish. The other man's tone had also grown increasingly irritable, and he had even started waving his scimitar as though threatening him. The patrolman was getting angry too.

But he knew that rashly trying to subdue the other man could bring trouble to the unit and might even escalate into a diplomatic issue.

He would definitely be the one left holding the bag then. So, the patrolman forcibly