"I wonder how Blank, Sienna, and the others are doing now."
A man with a chiseled face pushed aside the hide curtain, sunlight spilling over his bare torso. His lean, balanced frame was inked with a lifelike black scorpion. Its tail curled around his waist, two emerald-green eyes etched across his chest glowing faintly like the gaze of some vengeful specter.
It had been more than half a year since Orson settled into life among the Firevenom tribe, and he had completely adapted to their hunting and raiding ways. Most of the time, he simply observed from the sidelines, rarely intervening unless it was absolutely necessary. But even the simplest strike from a God-tier adventurer like him was enough for the tribesfolk to treat him as if a god had descended to walk among them.
