Supporting the limping Terry, Aldric followed his directions until they reached the place where the captain's group had planned to take shelter from the rain — a shallow cave nestled on the backside of a small hill. A narrow stream wound its way past the slope, and the grass at the cave's entrance was trampled flat, the disturbance stretching deep into the forest.
"This is the place," Terry said weakly, leaning against a rock inside the cave. "I stepped out for a moment to… relieve myself somewhere safe, and before I knew it, the captain and the others were surrounded by orcs as soon as they went inside…"
The cave was no more than four meters deep. Fortunately, its slightly elevated floor prevented rainwater from flowing in, leaving the interior relatively dry.
Aldric crouched and carefully examined the footprints on the ground, trying to determine the orcs' numbers. The knowledge he had learned back at the academy still applied in this game world — though theory and practice were never quite the same, and true skill only came through experience.
Terry hesitated, his face clouded with guilt. "I watched them get captured from behind a tree. I was alone… there was nothing I could do. The first mate saw me, but he didn't say anything. I'm a coward. The Sea God spared me twice already — He won't give me a third chance."
"Don't lose hope, my friend," Aldric replied, tightening the straps on his armor. "If your god saved you twice, that means He doesn't want you to die here today. There's always a way out. I'm going to follow their tracks, scout the orc camp, and see what we're up against. Hide yourself well. No matter what happens — whether I manage to save the captain or not — I'll come back for you as long as I'm alive. But if I don't return by this time tomorrow, you'll have to find a way to survive on your own. Wish us both luck."
After a brief check of his gear, Aldric turned and walked out of the cave.
"If anything happens to you," Terry called out weakly behind him, "follow the stream against the flow until you reach the Arnhem River. Then walk along the riverbank — it'll lead you to Rogue Camp…"
His voice grew fainter as Aldric moved away, but he added, "And if you really find the captain… tell him I swear I'll never slack off again."
…
The footprints on the ground, the trampled brush, the discarded trash — all of it made the orcs' trail painfully obvious. Their crude way of moving through the forest left enough signs for Aldric to track them easily using the theoretical tracking skills he'd learned.
After several hours of following the trail, the tracker finally found his target — a crude orc encampment. The orcs had camouflaged it with branches and mud, but the layout was still obvious to anyone observant. Aldric climbed a tall tree nearby and hid among its dense leaves, observing the camp from less than ten meters away.
The camp wasn't large. A few sharpened logs had been driven into the ground to mark out an oval perimeter. Inside, all the trees had been chopped down, leaving only a few stubborn shrubs with deep roots clinging to life. The orcs didn't seem to care about the greatest dangers of the jungle — insects and disease. Many of them sat directly on the damp ground, while others used their helmets as pillows and slept openly under the drizzle.
In the camp's northwest corner stood a tall wooden frame. A large man was nailed to it — his hands impaled on either side with iron spikes, his feet dangling half a meter off the ground, his entire weight hanging from his crucified palms. His bare chest was covered in scars, and his long, gray-white hair hung in a tangled mess down his back. His head drooped lifelessly, his body swaying slightly in the wind. It was impossible to tell whether he was dead or alive.
At the center of the camp stood several tents. From one of them emerged an orc far larger than the rest — at least two and a half meters tall, muscles bulging, with two enormous tusks gleaming like polished metal. When he opened his mouth, his booming roar in the orcish tongue was as loud as a thunderclap.
Several lazy orcs scrambled up reluctantly from the ground, grumbling back in their guttural language. One of them — apparently their leader — even spat in the direction of the tusked orc before squaring up to fight him. The two green-skinned brutes immediately started pummeling each other in the center of the camp, while the smaller orcs gathered around, laughing and shouting encouragement. The lazy ones who'd gotten up simply flopped back down, taking advantage of the chaos.
Seizing the opportunity, Aldric slipped down from his perch and crept silently toward one of the tents.
The stench inside hit him like a physical blow, nearly forcing him to make a Will check just to resist gagging. The floor was slick with old, blackened blood, and the orcs' plunder was piled up haphazardly — armor and weapons of various makes, most of them too small or too refined for orcish use.
Several pieces of armor still had rotting limbs attached — a boot containing the remains of a lower leg lay tossed in a corner. Nearly everything he saw was too damaged or corroded to be of use without serious repair.
Only one thing stood out: a long sword thrust into the skull of a massive orc head, its hilt carved in the shape of a wolf's head. The blade shimmered faintly with a cold, ghostly light. Aldric pulled it free, examining its craftsmanship.
The hilt was slightly longer than that of a normal one-handed sword, allowing for two-handed use. The finely sculpted wolf's head pommel provided perfect balance for single-handed combat while improving grip for two-handed swings.
The blade, roughly three feet long, was wider and thicker than most, its edge ground deeper — built for cleaving rather than piercing. It was heavy, but powerfully so.
Then the system window appeared:
[White Wolf's Claw]
A Witcher's signature slaying sword, forged from Valyrian steel. Incredibly sharp and nearly indestructible, this blade has passed through the hands of generations of monster hunters and drunk deep of the blood of countless beasts, earning fear and legend among nonhuman races.
Requirements:
Strength: 14 minimumConstitution: 15 minimumNon-human creatures cannot wield
Material: Nearly indestructible
Sharpness: Extremely high
Traits:
Aspect 1: In the Name of Humanity – When wielding the White Wolf's Claw against nonhuman enemies, the sword emits a shockwave every 30 seconds. If the enemy fails a Will check, they are stunned for 1–3 seconds (duration depends on Constitution). (The wielder may involuntarily shout a battle cry.)
Aspect 2: Merciless Slaughter – Each time a non-human creature is beheaded, the wielder restores a portion of stamina and becomes resistant to pain.
Aspect 3: Spectral Strike – When wielding this weapon, ghost- or specter-type enemies immune to physical attacks can be damaged normally.
"This world does not need heroes — it needs professionals."
Holding the White Wolf's Claw, Aldric couldn't help but realize he had underestimated the difficulty of this background class quest. Even without comparison, this weapon was clearly of heirloom or legendary grade. If the sword truly belonged to that crucified man outside… then its owner had been a Witcher-level monster slayer. For such a figure to have fallen here meant this seemingly small orc camp was far more dangerous than it appeared. Aldric mentally raised the mission's danger level by two whole ranks.
Unfortunately, while the sword's power was undeniable, Aldric didn't meet its physical requirements. Lacking sufficient Strength, he would suffer a –2 Dexterity penalty, and since he wasn't a Witcher, the weapon's unique traits would remain inactive.
Feeling the added weight of the sword, he adjusted his stance to compensate for the reduced agility. Keeping to the shadows between the tents, Aldric quietly moved toward another one. Using his curved dagger, he slit a small opening in the fabric and peered inside.
Several wooden cages filled the tent. A group of human captives sat in a circle, fiddling with something on the ground.
"Hey," Aldric whispered, keeping his voice low.
No one responded — the prisoners were too focused on whatever they were doing. Aldric widened the slit just enough to crawl inside, and only then did one of them notice him.
"Wait, everyone! Someone's here to save us!" cried a burly man with a tangled beard, pushing at the man in front of him. "Who are you?"
"Is Captain Emmus Rockfell here?" Aldric asked, quickly counting nine people — two more than the number Terry had mentioned.
"I'm Emmus Rockfell," said a middle-aged man whose clothes were relatively clean despite captivity. Even in the orc's crude cage, he instinctively straightened his shirt before standing. "I remember you — you're that adventurer from Cerys!"
"That's me, Captain," Aldric nodded. "I found Terry. He's alive. I came to see if there was any way to get you all out of here."
As he spoke, he finally saw what the prisoners were doing — a freckled young sailor was trying to pick the cage lock using a piece of bent wire.
"Thank you, Cerys-man," the captain said solemnly. "But even with your help, escaping this place won't be easy. I don't know how much danger you risked sneaking in here, but with this many of us, those greenskin noses will catch our scent before long." He spread his hands helplessly, his expression grim.
At that exact moment, the tent flap was yanked open — and a huge orc stepped inside.
Aldric froze. "…I can explain this."
(End of Chapter)