Black Hand raised its right hand.
It stared at the quiet camp in the distance, its eyes narrowing slightly as a flicker of uncertainty showed in its gaze. From afar, the camp looked peaceful and serene, no different from when they had left—even the ogres stationed by the gate were waving their arms and cheering their return.
Yet for some reason, the sight of that jubilant fellow made Black Hand's heart pound, and the four lumps trailing behind its heads began to throb one after another.
This was not a good sign.
As an ogre, one could distrust companions one had grown up with, distrust the shamans' vague prophecies, and even distrust one's own eyes—but one must trust the instincts one was born with.
Eyes could deceive, companions could betray, and shamans' prophecies could mislead. Only instinct could guide one faithfully, without fail.
The ordinary ogre warriors following behind the Two-headed Ogre stopped one after another, all staring at their leader's back with reverence and unease in their eyes. The dull gray light of the sky fell upon Black Hand's massive, jet-black hand, making it gleam like obsidian and giving it an indestructible air.
Black Hand had not originally been called that—in fact, it had forgotten what it used to be called. Ever since arriving in this world and fully awakening in its new heads, he had given himself that name to distinguish himself from the nameless idiots in the tribe.
Thinking of those idiots, Black Hand turned around with a frown.
The ogres stood in a loose, sloppy formation, a stark contrast to the cold, sharp, precise battle arrays lingering in Black Hand's vague memories. It had tried very hard, but perhaps because of this world's influence, the ogres of this tribe always found it difficult to restrain their