"Had it already been two years?"
Feeling the raindrops fall on him, Mortas murmured almost inaudibly, "What a wonderful dream. A hunter was still a hunter, even in dreams."
The wind grew stronger. No wind could be felt in the mantises' territory; only the vast Black Shell Plains had monsoon winds this strong.
Tightening his grip on his inherited Nail-Spear, Mortas rose from where he had been sitting.
Behind him stood the Mantis Hunters, who had also waited a long time. They wore specially made suits, and each carried a weapon fitted with a Toothed Blade.
Without question, this was a hunt.
A sparse drizzle began to fall from the sky. The pitch-black pasture grass rippled in the monsoon wind. The Black Shell Plains, which adjoined the steep cliffs, were among the few regions that received rainfall.
This made livestock farming possible here.
Unfortunately, Flame-Gluttony Syndrome affected the entire Flame Capital.
Even elite warriors struggled to resist Soulfire. These mindless livestock were naturally even more prone to inhaling too much of it.
Thick smoke had already risen from a farm not far from Bastion City.
A rampage had broken out there.
Its perpetrators were burning things that no longer looked much like insects.
There was no need to confirm anything. There could be no survivors there.
If there really were any, the Ashen Clan would have come instead of the Hunter Clan.
The choice of who handled this incident was itself a declaration of intent.
"Let the Great Hunt begin..."
Those words were enough. As the second-generation Mantis Lord, Mortas was not as strong as his predecessor.
But he had humbly accepted his shortcomings and made the most of his strengths.
As a commander, he could bring naturally solitary hunters together for coordinated action. That ability was his forte.
Mortas