The blazing campfire crackled in the darkness, and the fat from the roasted whole lamb dripped onto the embers, sending up tiny sparks.
The old chieftain of the local orc tribe, Grum Ironjaw, sat cross-legged on a leather cushion, handing a wooden bowl filled with mare's milk to the weary Royal Tent messenger.
"Drink up, brother who's come from afar!"
The old chieftain's rugged face bore a hearty smile, and the bone ornament tied to his gray braid swayed gently with his movements. "Tell me, how is the battle in the south going?"
The Royal Tent envoy patted his chest and said, "Of course, things are going smoothly. The Great Chieftain's army has utterly routed humanity."
The old chief squinted, his rough fingers tracing the rim of his wine bowl: "I've heard that humans have built iron walls and even magical weapons that breathe fire?"
The messenger suddenly straightened his back, his eyes flashing with fanaticism: "Ha! Those cowardly humans did play some tricks, but before the mighty army of the Great Chieftain, they are nothing but laughable charades!" He gulped down a mouthful of strong liquor, the foam splashing onto his beard.
"Just a month ago, our iron cavalry swept through three human fortresses!"
The messenger waved his hairy arms. "Their firearms were overwhelmed by our rain of arrows before they could even be lit. Great Chieftain Abar personally beheaded the human general, and that head now hangs on the Royal Tent's battle banner!"
"Then when can the young men of our tribe..." The old chief paused, a barely perceptible tenderness flashing in his eyes, "...go home?"
"Go home? Why go home?"
The messenger took the wine bowl and drank it all in one gulp.
"Do you want them to go back to this grassland where livestock freeze to death and people starve to death in large numbers every winter?"
In the firelight, the newly healed wound on his face looked particularly glaring.
"Moreover, the war is not over yet, Chief Grum." The messenger wiped his mouth, his voice hoarse. " The Great Chieftain needs more warriors—please send fifty more warriors from your tribe."
The laughing tribespeople around them suddenly fell silent, their expressions varying.
The young orcs looked eager to try, clearly showing their great enthusiasm for the Royal Tent's recruitment.
But the wine bowl in the old chief Grum's hand was trembling slightly.
"Fifty?" His smile was somewhat forced as he pointed to the empty youth tents outside the camp. "But our tribe has already sent eighty of its best young men, even my two sons—"
"This is the Royal Tent's order," the messenger said.
Seeing the old chief remain silent, a shrewd glint flashed in his eyes. He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and spoke with a seductive undertone:
"Old chief, how many winters have you lived on this grassland? Forty years? Fifty years?"
He spread his arms, pointing to the grassland outside the tent, "Your people are still fighting with other tribes for a small patch of pasture, worrying about a flock of thin sheep. But in the south—"
His voice suddenly rose, becoming inflammatory: "The land of mankind flows with milk and honey! Their granaries are piled higher than snow-capped mountains, and their women have skin as white and tender as goat's milk!"
The young orcs around them began to breathe heavily, their eyes blazing with greed.
The messenger, seizing the opportunity, pulled out a silk handkerchief from his robes—a trophy stolen from a human caravan.
He deliberately let the soft, cloud-like fabric flutter in front of everyone: "Look at this! Even the most ordinary human fabric is softer than our finest leather! Imagine our children wearing clothes like this, living in warm houses made of stone..."
The old chief's gaze finally wavered, and his rough fingers unconsciously touched the piece of silk.
" The Great Chieftain has said!" The messenger leaned forward, his voice like the flicking of a viper's tongue, "The tribes that respond most readily to the call will be allocated the richest lands. As for those who hesitate…" He chuckled, "they'll just have to pick up some places that no one else wants!"
A young orc warrior suddenly smashed his wine bowl and stood up: "I've had enough of the livestock starving to death every winter! I'm going to go see what's happening on the other side of the mountains!"
"Yes! Let's go south!"
"Kill all humanity! Seize their land!"
The envoy looked on with satisfaction, and finally patted the old chief on the shoulder: "You are a wise man. Think about it, will your descendants be gnawing on grass roots in this harsh land, or eating fresh fruit in human orchards?"
The young orcs pleaded with the old chieftain to allow them to go with the messenger, and Grum sighed deeply.
The commotion around the campfire abruptly ceased as an orc stumbled into the camp, his face covered in soot and his voice hoarse: "Fire! The grassland is on fire!"
The old chieftain abruptly stood up, his cloudy eyes suddenly sharpening. He strode out of the tent and looked up—the distant horizon was dyed blood red, thick smoke billowed like giant waves, and blazing fire was approaching the tribe at an alarming speed. The night wind howled, and the fire, fueled by the wind, devoured the dry grass, sparks flying like raindrops.
"Pack up the tents! Drive the cattle and sheep! Quickly!" the old chief roared, his voice drowning out the panicked crowd.
The entire tribe descended into chaos. Women screamed and tugged at the tent ropes, children stumbled and ran, clutching lambs, while the elders desperately tried to drive away the frightened herd. The young orc warriors, their earlier exhilaration forgotten, frantically helped salvage supplies.
"Those bastards who came out of the forest!" roared an orc warrior. "I saw it! They're the ones who started the fire!"
As if deliberately asserting their presence, several lithe figures, clad in dark leather armor, moved with ghostly speed in the firelight, riding horses and lingering in the distance from their camp.
One of them glanced back, revealing a human face covered in black ash beneath the hood. However, judging from their build, there were not only humans among them, but also orcs.
"How could there be humans here?" The envoy was both shocked and furious. He drew his sword and was about to rush over, but the old chieftain grabbed him.
"It's too late!" the old chief gritted his teeth. "Don't take the risk!"
The entire orc tribe was forced to abandon its camp and migrate hastily under the pressure of the inferno. Cattle and sheep were scattered in the thick smoke, carts loaded with their belongings were swallowed by flames, and the passion for conquest was burned away by the sudden fire.
The Royal Tent envoy stared at the human riders disappearing into the firelight in the distance, his eyes filled with astonishment: "How could there be humans here? Weren't they all hiding behind the southern city walls?"
As the old chief Grum directed his people to drive away the frightened herd, he replied, panting, "Brother, those aren't people from the south—"
He pointed to the faint outline of the forest visible to the Northwest, "They came out of the Forest of Fortune."