The sun was about to end the reign of darkness; its presence, initially standing out as a weak, thin line, was slowly revealing signs of its true majesty. Since the first lights of the morning illuminated the orc tents, a symphony of silent bustle had been playing throughout the tribe.
Exactly two anniversaries had passed since that cursed day when the bloodiest battle of recent history took place on the Orc Steppes. Today was the promised day; as if declaring the end of the devastating war and the struggling days that followed, the ban placed on the Ice Region Tribe's lands was finally going to be lifted.
Specifically, the loss of Sangre and the events that ensued had settled like an indelible seal in the memories of the orcs. Although speaking of these things was seen as a major taboo, there was a family right there who had lived through this drama personally.
Alyon and his lineage had suffered a massive defeat, save for Khan's extraordinary performance. Alyon himself had been crushed to the brink of death, and his only daughter had been raped almost in front of everyone's eyes.
They might have won the war thanks to Mora stepping in, but facing the painful days that followed would be their real test.
With his charisma shattered and his heavily wounded body needing recovery, Alyon hadn't taken a single step outside his tent for six months. He was practically a living corpse; on the morning following the night his physical agony finally subsided and he came to his senses, all the hair on his majestic head had turned white.
Alyon had turned into a white-haired old man in a single night. He would leave his private tent once, maybe twice a day. The man who had started the great rebellion with the desire to liberate the Orc Steppes hadn't even stepped foot in the Main Orc Tribe's lord tent.
Although the details of the war were unknown to other continents, the results weren't hard to guess. The Orc Steppes were like a wounded gazelle with meaty thighs in the eyes of most organizations; everyone wanted a bite. After the clash of the two powers in the region, it didn't take long for robberies and looting to start—first sporadically, then repeating constantly as if it were the normal flow of life.
Hard times created new heroes, and those whom fate caused the greatest pain wouldn't hesitate for a second to wear this shirt of fire.
In a society living patriarchy at its peak, it was ironically Yarmagül—who had been subjected to the heaviest humiliations on the battlefield because of her womanhood—who would fall into this role.
Her father and husband were critically injured. As if that wasn't enough, the tribe's best warrior, along with her son and brother, had disappeared.
Ensuring their own security wasn't an issue for the three cities—Nikonya, Parthenia, and Karsak—but what about the public order of the trade routes? Kitapkurdu had sealed the mines. With one revenue stream gone and losing the taxes from the two cities that used the tribe's inability to protect its lands as an excuse, the tribe was at a loss on how to climb out of the abyss it had fallen into.
First, Karsak sent an envoy declaring they had exempted themselves from tax. Learning this, Gulag was left helpless. The City Lord was his puppet; he could have done anything with a single word, but the presence of a man who was a member of a high society within the Lands of Light prevented this.
They couldn't continue paying taxes either; bowing persistently to a power that had lost its dominance was against Godfrey's nature. If he continued the same behavior in this changing situation, his cover would be blown, and the order he had built with such labor over time would be destroyed.
In such a depressing situation, the majestic female orc started by having new settlement areas established. Of course, this wasn't easy. Some warriors who had witnessed the great war made the mistake of not taking her seriously from the start. Yarmagül didn't step back even half a pace; she executed them herself, one by one.
Her greatest aide in ensuring peace was Miloş, who had regained his freedom just before the pitched battle where the tragic events took place. As the commander of the Elite Ten, he didn't hesitate to take any head that rose against them off its shoulders with the warriors under his command.
The moment the internal tribal troubles ended, the orcs' first target was to destroy the organizations that had established bases on their lands by taking advantage of the vacuum. This was where the female orc, feeling the humiliation in her marrow, would find her true color and shine; she descended upon the bandits like a nightmare.
For a year of ceaseless conflicts, Yarmagül fought on the front lines and worked like crazy on the technique book Nafız had given her.
With Miloş leading the Elite Ten, along with the former Ice Region warriors and Çekiçdöven with his subordinates, the female orc faced whoever stood in their way with reckless abandon. Yarmagül rose from her ashes under the pressure of pain, hatred, longing, and the fear caused by the unknown. When everything finally came to an end, she was called by a new name: "Death's Wind."
There wasn't a single person in the entire world who had business with the Orc Steppes and didn't know this name. The stories of the female orc, who brought death with her wherever she went, were on the tongues of all adventurers.
Ever since Death's Wind single-handedly tore a three-hundred-person elite assault team to pieces, the violations against the continent's integrity had decreased, and the Orc Steppes, which had looked like a greasy thigh, had once again become a dangerous place for looters.
Here was this valiant woman, roughly opening the double-winged door of a tent that looked no different from the others around it. Inside the tent, filled with the first lights of the morning, was an orc whose graying hair reached his shoulders, involuntarily throwing himself toward the darkness to escape the light.
"Father, the time has come. Today, we will reunite with them!"
The hulking orc hiding in the shadows made no sound. As he slowly straightened up, it could be observed that this was not due to a physical ailment, but entirely because of the depression his mood dragged him into.
His head was down as he walked, just as it had been for two years. Although no one openly blamed him, he didn't have the courage to look into the orcs' eyes. While even the slightest laughter he heard felt like dozens of knives stabbing his heart, how could he face the warriors he had let down?
Only he and his daughter would be inside the vehicle bearing the crimson orc fist symbol. While Çekiçdöven stayed behind with the warriors most loyal to him to protect the tribe against any possibility, the Elite Ten was waiting in the vehicle right behind them with their full squad.
Death's Wind took ten thousand warriors with her. As they advanced into the region, they would have to leave the vehicles behind and cover the remaining distance on foot. The Orc Steppes were calm these days, but the female orc didn't want to let go of caution against the possibility of an ambush; the agonizing days she had passed had turned her into someone who split hairs.
When they finally reached the place they desired, the Ice Region Tribe met them, surrounded by a purple fog. With a little observation, they could see the fog starting to dissipate, and through its thinning texture, the dilapidated tents of the tribe abandoned long ago became visible.
When the sun reached its peak, the area covered by the purple fog had dropped by half; this process would continue at the same speed throughout the day. In the moments when twilight slowly entered under the black wings of the night, only a single tent remained where the fog hadn't lifted.
Glowing with a faint purple hue, this place shone like a violet blooming within endless snow. Even though it screamed "I am here" insistently, the only emotion it evoked in those looking at it was pain accompanied by a sorrowful sigh.