Translator: Cinder Translations
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Beneath the distant skyline, vast and boundless fields of green spread out like an endless tapestry of green silk, gently covering the chest of the earth. The sunlight poured down from the azure dome, the golden rays shimmering with the dew on the grass tips, glimmering with delicate and dazzling light, as if every beam of light was telling a story.
This is the great grassland, the home of the orcs. Countless orc tribes follow the ancient nomadic traditions passed down over thousands of years, raising horses and herding sheep on the plains, moving with the water and grass.
This seemingly endless grassland is actually divided into two parts, the north and the south, with a vast desert in the middle serving as a boundary. Human merchant caravans— or armies— from the south of the Rocky Mountains mostly have access to the southern grasslands. Historically, no one has been able to cross the desert to reach the northern grasslands.
This desert that divides the great grassland into two can be considered a place of life and death. Only older shamans of the orcs know the safe paths through it. Because of this, throughout history, this desolate desert has saved the orcs on the brink of extinction multiple times.
Although the grasslands are vast, they have poor population-bearing capacity. A severe drought or snowstorm could cause a large number of livestock to die, and the orcs would then turn their eyes toward the human territories in the south. The human territories are rich, with developed agriculture and abundant output, which in the orcs' eyes seems like a land flowing with milk and honey.
Thus, they would ride in large groups on horses to raid the human territories for food, cloth, and other important resources, using their speed advantage to quickly leave before the human armed forces can react.
In the region of the Aldor Kingdom, due to the vast Rocky Mountains running east to west along its northern border, as long as they guard the Gabella Corridor leading into the grassland in the northeast, they can remain relatively safe. The reason it is "relatively safe" is because the dwarf clans in the Rocky Mountains fear that human settlements might encroach closer to their territory. Occasionally, they open secret mountain passages to allow small groups of orcs to pass through, using the orcs to drive out humans.
Human civilization rises and falls. When it is in a low point, humans have no choice but to swallow their pride in the face of orc raids. But when human civilization is at its peak, powerful armies are dispatched to subjugate the orc tribes on the grasslands.
Due to the overwhelming superiority of human armies in organization, weapons, and supplies, the only advantage the orcs have is their greater strength. However, this advantage cannot overcome the numerous other advantages humans possess, so they often lose when facing human armies.
When the orcs are defeated, they are forced to retreat into the desert wastelands, crossing it under the guidance of wise old shamans, to the northern grasslands where they can rest and recuperate.
It is already difficult for human armies to chase the orcs deep into the grasslands, let alone cross the desert. So every time the orcs enter the desert, humans can only sigh in frustration, helplessly retreating to the south.
The remaining orcs rest in the northern grasslands, and once they regain strength, they cross the desert again, reclaiming the southern grasslands, and the cycle repeats.
Until the appearance of Abal's "King's Tent," when things began to change slightly.
"We're almost there, ahead is their tribe's settlement!"
An excited shout interrupted Alvey' recollection of the grassland's history.
Alvey looked up from the camel's back and saw several tents scattered ahead across the grasslands, with many figures moving among them, presumably the tribe's residents. Behind those tents, the mountain that had once stood silently on the distant horizon still loomed, and he thought they would have reached the mountain's edge by now after so many days of travel. But it seemed they had not yet gotten close. There is a saying, "Seeing the mountain, but the horse dies running," and it seems this was true.
"Looks like we can rest for a while!" the guard Marek, riding his own camel behind him, said.
To escape the witch's pursuit, the pair had not taken the Neron Corridor but instead headed north into the great grasslands. They were fortunate enough to encounter a human merchant caravan, which was reportedly heading into the grasslands to trade. So, Alvey and Marek joined the caravan, hoping to learn more information.
Ahead, the caravan's leader had met with an orc riding a horse. The leader pulled out a long list and began reading it aloud, detailing goods for exchange.
"Two slaves! That will cost extra!" The leader handed the list to the orc.
Alvey listened carefully, then immediately became alert.
Slaves? Through their interactions over the past few days, he knew the caravan had not brought any slaves!
"Clang!" The sound of a sword unsheathing broke the silence. It was Marek, who had detected the hidden meaning—this caravan was planning to sell him and Alvey to the orcs!
The caravan's guards noticed Marek's intentions and immediately two of them lunged at him, one blocking his sword with theirs, while another circled around to attack from the side. Marek was pinned to the ground, unable to defend himself, and Alvey was also seized.
Thus, both of them became captives of the caravan, or rather, were offered as gifts to the orc tribe.
They were forcibly separated, and Alvey was brought to a tent.
The tent was made of thick animal hides and sturdy branches, quietly standing on the grass like a small shelter in nature. The setting sun's rays filtered through sparse leaves, casting dappled light on the tent, adding a warm golden hue to this small world.
Alvey lifted the tent's door curtain and entered.
Inside, an elderly orc sat on a low stool made of rough wood, his face weathered, with every wrinkle telling a story of time and wisdom.
He had long ears that drooped slightly, covered with a thin layer of fur, a distinctive trait of his species. Though his hair was now gray, his eyes remained clear and deep, radiating peace and resilience.
The old orc turned his eyes, clouded with age, but when he looked at Alvey, a flash of indescribable light suddenly burst from his eyes.
"A scholar from the Gabella White Tower?" he asked in a raspy voice.
Alvey froze. How did this old orc know? He had taken care to hide every detail that might reveal his identity, from his clothes to his accent.
"And you are?" Alvey asked in return.
"I am the shaman here, scholar," the old orc clarified his identity.
(End of the Chapter)
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