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In the Murloc village, Black was eating bread with a sense of boredom.
However, the health bar of the character card no longer increased beyond 70%.
Needless to say, this must be due to the cursed shadow and the weakening effect that followed his body being burned by dragon fire.
The former could be purified by the Holy Light.
The latter could also be healed. Black was now grateful that the orc controlled a red dragon instead of a black or blue one.
The five-colored dragons of Azeroth possess unique powers.
Red dragons are guardians of life, with a breath that can both burn and heal. They can usually control the mode of their dragon breath independently, but the orcs used evil artifacts to control the red dragons.
This forced them into a mindless state.
The dragon's breath had been unleashed uncontrollably, sparing the prince from melting and allowing recovery from what seemed a serious injury.
But that was a concern for later.
After tossing away the bread, Black extended his senses. The prince's body, trained year-round with good blood and the thief class, granted him senses sharper than most.
It was like a faint radar sweeping over the fishman village, where he detected faint light spots rolling in the muddy pool beside the village.
Black jumped in, felt around, and finally pulled out a dagger with a corroded handle.
Yet, after wiping off the mud, the blade gleamed brightly.
"I actually lost my equipment!"
he exclaimed.
Holding the dagger, he gracefully swung it, feeling a trace of magic from it. This indicated it was high quality.
"Good stuff!"
Touching his forehead, he opened the character card and checked the equipment slot.
There was now an item in the previously empty slot.
"Spirit Monkey's Murloc Dinner Knife: Excellent Quality. Weak Armor Breaking."
"COOOOL!"
Black admired the dagger, then rummaged around the mud pool until he found a weathered skull, which startled him.
Abandoning his search for more equipment, he packed up a bag of bread, dried meat that might have gone bad, and a few bottles of dwarf beer from the village.
After hurriedly packing, he was ready to leave and continue hunting fishmen.
But after a few steps, he turned around, squinting back to see a small blue-striped fishman hiding near some water grass.
It stared at him with large, curious eyes.
"Come here!"
Black beckoned, startling the little fishman, who turned to flee. But Black tossed something, and a piece of bread landed at its feet.
The smell of food made the little fishman pause. It glanced back fearfully at Black, then quickly grabbed the bread, eating it in big bites.
Turns out it was hungry and had come looking for food.
"I have more here~"
Black, playing the villain, opened his bag, revealing blackened bread and dried meat.
The little fishman's eyes lit up.
After finishing the bread in its hand, it cautiously edged closer, its gaze fixed on the piece of moldy bread Black waved in his hand.
Like bait.
While fishmen have language, they're not especially smart. And fishman cubs are even less so, yet full of curiosity.
It approached Black, daring to grab the bread in his hand, but Black raised his hand and lifted the palm-sized fishman into the air.
It squeaked while clinging to the bread.
Black gripped its limp form and stuffed it into his arms.
Naturally, it kept the bread.
"I got myself a little pet, COOL!"
Black smiled proudly and, ignoring its squirming, carried it as he walked deeper into the swamp. As he walked, he said:
"I'm going to call you Benbo Erba. I've always wanted one, but couldn't justify $3,500 for it. You look just like it. A dream come true in a way.
Alright, Benbo Erba.
After eating and drinking, let's go kill some more fishmen together."
——
Two days later, Black finally emerged from the Palatine Bay swamp and stepped onto solid ground. He climbed a hill and gazed north under the setting sun.
In the distance, he saw a damaged structure with a distinct dwarven style, strewn with large rocks and a few orcs camping nearby.
"Ironbeard's Tomb."
Black, as thin as a true undead, narrowed his eyes, lying low as he observed the orcs.
He recognized this desecrated cemetery.
It's where dwarves from Dunmod, a nearby dwarven town, bury their dead—a vast tomb complex underground. In dwarven culture, the dead are highly revered.
Orcs desecrating it like this would be unforgivable.
But by now, the dwarven towns along the road to Arathi Highlands must be occupied by orcs.
The Bronzebeard dwarves lost all of Khaz Modan and the Wetlands, and despite their rage, they were confined to their capital, Ironforge.
Luckily, Ironforge was built to be easily defended. The orcs spent over a year in Khaz Modan but couldn't breach the city gates.
The combat prowess of the sturdy dwarves is as strong as any orc, aided by steam tanks crafted by skilled dwarves.
If not for their small numbers, the orcs wouldn't have taken Khaz Modan so easily.
"Quack, quack."
A cry came from Black's arms. The little blue fishman poked its head out, wide-eyed as it peered down.
Seeing the orcs, Benbo Erba immediately hid back.
Clearly, it had encountered orcs before.
And feared them deeply.
It seemed that the Blood Ring Orcs had massacred fishmen when they entered the swamp. No wonder Black had seen numerous gatherings of fishman villages on his way.
"If you want to get to Arathi Highlands where humans are, you can either take the Saldo Bridge or travel along the reef coast to Faldi Bay. The former is faster, but guarded by orcs.
The latter is unguarded.
But there are Thornspine Naga there."
Black thought it over.
"There's an ancient elven ruin under the reef sea. The Naga occupy it, and their fighting strength in water can't be underestimated.
And spellcasters like sea witches make leaving by the reef sea risky."
He looked at the orc camp near Ironbeard's Tomb. Only four or five orcs were stationed there, though the camp clearly had space for more.
"So, after the orc Warchief Orgrim crossed the sea, did he also mobilize the Blood Ring orcs in the Wetland to join the war in Arathi?
That must mean the number of orcs guarding here isn't as large as before. With the cover of darkness and shadow affinity, maybe there's a chance to cross the Saldo Bridge."
Blake quickly devised a plan in his mind. He took out the little fish-man, set it on the high ground's edge, and left a dozen pieces of bread beside it. Patting its head, he said:
"Wait here, don't wander off. I'm going to test the orc's strength. I'll be back soon. Be good."
The little fish-man tilted its head, blinked its big eyes, croaked, then sat cross-legged, grabbing some bread and eating.
Blake curled his lips, thinking the fish-man was a bit dim-witted.
He slid down the high ground quietly, gripping the fish-man dagger with the corroded handle in his left hand, while his right hand drew another dagger from behind his waist—another green-quality weapon, also a trophy found in the fish-man village.
He took a deep breath, gripped the weapons tightly, and moved stealthily toward the orc, sticking to the shadows cast by the setting sun.
In the past two days, he'd killed many fishmen, accumulating a decent amount of experience. But there was some bad news, too.
The curse of the contaminated Eye of Paris was still weakening him. Most noticeably, his warrior class level had dropped from 7 to 4 on the character card.
He felt his body growing weaker and knew that soon his warrior class would likely hit zero. Black had thought of using his accumulated experience to maintain the warrior class.
But after weighing his options, he chose a safer route.
That curse had granted him Shadow Affinity, which protected his thief class from the effects of the curse. So, maximizing his gains now meant focusing on improving his thief class.
Over the two days, all the experience he'd gained from killing over a hundred fishmen had been directed into the thief class, boosting it from level 5 to level 8.
No new skills or hidden talents emerged, but his steps were now lighter, his movements swifter in the dark, like a silent black cat.
He edged closer to the orc camp, hiding behind a tree and waiting patiently for the right moment.
Ten minutes later, loud roars sounded from within the camp, followed by the sounds of scuffling. Blake, hiding behind the tree, curled his lips.
These orcs had destroyed their own world.
In Draenor, beyond the Dark Portal, they'd been lured by the Burning Legion's demons to drink their blood. This gave them great power but turned them more violent and crazed with a bloodlust that clouded their minds.
Though brave in battle, they'd fight even each other with fists and kicks when idle.
They were a lost cause.
But this worked in Blake's favor. The camp fight soon ended, and an old orc, bruised and battered, was driven out of the camp.
He was hunched, with blood-red lines across his face and a blind left eye—the mark of the Blood Ring Orcs. Worshipers of death, they engaged in cruel rituals that included sacrificing an eye upon reaching adulthood.
The old orc spat angrily in the camp's direction, leaned on his battle axe, and trudged reluctantly toward the swamp.
Stronger, younger orcs wanted a different "taste," persuading the old man with fists to hunt for the swamp's first crocodile.
"Such a lack of honor!" Blake thought.
The old orc grumbled, limping around the camp perimeter until he reached a blind spot.
From the shadow of a large tree, an emaciated "pork-bone man" emerged.
Like a monkey, Blake sprang behind the old orc, stabbing his throat with the dagger in his right hand while driving the other into his temple. Blake had perfected this stealth attack method.
It had never failed against the fishmen.
But orcs were something else.
As soon as he was attacked, the old orc dropped his axe, gripped Blake's wrist before the temple strike, and flung him over his shoulder, slamming him to the ground.
The orc tried to roar.
But his severed throat couldn't produce a sound.
Blake sprang to his feet, lunging into the orc's arms, blocking the orc's fist with his left hand while his right-hand dagger plunged into the orc's heart. The weak-armor-piercing blade cut through the orc's leather armor, allowing hot blood to seep out.
Once wasn't enough.
Two times, three times, four times.
The strength in the orc's fingers around Blake's neck faded quickly. Moments later, the orc slumped to the ground, and Blake dragged him into the tree's shadows.
The skull-decorated battle axe was dragged along, too.
A pity.
This crude weapon was nothing like the good equipment Blake had hoped for.
The assassination had succeeded.
Blake remained in the shadows, quickly slipping into the swamp. The sound of the old orc's body hitting the ground had caught the attention of the others in the camp. They rushed out, searching for the assassin, but found nothing.
Ten minutes later, a commotion erupted from the swamp, filling the orcs with frustration.
"Ggggggmlr! Grm...Rmlg!! Rgmmlr! Grgrmlmlrl!"
As a group of irritable orcs spotted a swarm of murlocs emerging from the swamp's edge, they charged forward with axes and hunting sticks, barely pausing to assess the situation. Their anger boiled over, and they sought to kill a few murlocs to vent their fury.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Blake maneuvered around the edges of the conflict and darted into the camp. There, he found an injured Blood Ring orc sprawled on the ground.
As Blake entered, their eyes met. The orc's expression twisted into a snarl as he roared and reached for his hand axe, preparing to rise.
But Blake was quicker.
He lunged forward, pressing his left leg onto the orc's chest, and with both hands, he swung his sharp blades, severing the orc's eyes in a swift, brutal motion.
"Puff!"
Hot blood sprayed across Blake's face, blooming like a gruesome flower.
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