Thrall has been through countless difficult battles. His opponents are never just what the eyes can see. The people who came to watch the gladiatorial fights continued to put forward more stringent conditions. Repeated challenges sharpened his physique and skills, and also cultivated his will to refuse failure and never give up.

So he can still stand here straight, pretending not to care to meet the next opponent.

No orc will refuse a challenge. Unless they would rather lose their glory than save their lives. But the frostwolf orcs apparently don't have such a member. One after another, young orcs about Thrall's age stepped into the circle with rage. They are full of anger, full of energy, and merciless.

Sal's situation was much more difficult. First a fierce battle with an ogre, then an avalanche, exhaustion and pain tormented him at the same time, but it was not his opponents who were dealing with him, but the preparers that followed.

Sal slammed his shoulders down and slammed into the chest of his rival who had pounced on him. Brute force made him take a step back, and his opponent almost lost his breath. Taking this opportunity, Sal quickly swung his fist and smashed it into the opponent's face. Blood splattered with a crisp cracking sound, and the orc clutched its nose and let out a pitch-shifting howl.

Sal silently said sorry in his heart, but his men were not slow at all. He grabbed the other man's waist, slammed the orc on his shoulder, spun in place for two weeks, and then threw it with all his might!

The orc slammed to the ground, and Thrall once again stood up straight, looking effortless, but in fact the sequence of movements was supported by an explosive force, and Thrall almost broke his foot when he lifted the other man up and spun. His limbs were heavy as if they had been filled with lead, and his chest was heaving violently, and at the moment he didn't even have the strength to provoke the rest, just stood silently, hurrying to regain his strength.

His seemingly indifferent attitude provoked a new round of anger. Another orc roared into the battle circle. But Thrall had no energy to listen to his declaration, and he was so exhausted that he began to think in a foggy way.

How many are these? He pondered. How many more do I have to deal with?

The answer is unknown. But since he challenged the entire clan, he could only fight until one side surrendered. Sarr conserved as much energy as he could, in order to cope with the opponents who took turns. He was already crumbling, but he did not allow himself to fall.

The roar of the attack woke him up, and Thrall hurriedly opened his arms to meet his opponent's attack. Three heavy punches landed in his defensive arm, the last of which hit him in the chest. Sal nearly fell to the ground, but he shook violently for a moment, regained his balance in an incredible way, and launched a counterattack against the unexpected opponent. He slapped the other man's mouth, and the sharp fangs pierced the palm and then snapped. The orc on the other side screamed in pain, and Thrall withdrew his hand without saying a word, clenched it into a fist, and swung it out again.

With a thud, his opponent fell. Then Sal pulled out the half of the fang. A small stream of blood erupted from the pierced palm, and the flow slowed down. He subconsciously licked the wound, and the taste of blood changed from the salty smell in his memory to an unexpectedly sweet.

Thrall was accustomed to the human way of eating, so he was not as keen on fresh meat and hot blood as his compatriots. But at this time, the taste is even sweeter and more enticing than honey. A strange hunger rose from within, giving his tired body new strength, tempting him to swing his fists more forcefully, targeting those vulnerable parts to deliver a hard blow.

Destroy them, torture them, make them suffer, bleed, beg for mercy, and finally fall helplessly!

The thought lingered in Thrall's mind for only a moment, and then he snapped into action. As he coped with his opponent, he struggled to resist the bloodthirsty impulses that became more intense each time.

It's not power, it's a curse! I can't let it take control of my mind, like the crazy executioners of the old horde!

The pain caused him to let out a loud roar, but Sal hadn't tried to dodge. It takes less effort to dodge than to counterattack. He struck his opponent in the abdomen, causing them to bend over and then clasp his hands together and smash them into the back of his head. With all his strength, Sal stumbled and nearly fell to the canvas with his opponent.

He held himself up in time and didn't fall, but he inevitably fell to one knee on the ground. Thrall gasped heavily, struggled to his feet, and took a few steps back to allow the others to carry his opponent away. The sweat stinged his eyes and blurred his vision, but Thrall didn't even have the strength to wipe it, just stood there motionless. He was so tired that he wished he could just stand on his feet. Don't ask for rest, just stand like that.

But no one listened to him. Another opponent walked up to him.

Sal numbly raised his hand to block, but this time the force was far more ferocious than expected. There was a click of his already painful arm, and Sal himself was knocked out by the castrated fist.

It was only when his back hit the ground that he was slow to react to what was going on, dragging his tired body to get up. But the opponent had already approached, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed it down with another punch.

Sal's ears were buzzing, and he was dizzy at the blow. He staggered backwards, then fell to the ground. Before he could protect his head and face, the heavy fist fell like raindrops.

The pain had become numb, and Thrall didn't even want to hide anymore. He really didn't have the strength to move the bullet.

Then he inadvertently caught a glimpse of white. At first, I didn't realize what it was, until the sluggish brain slowly came to the conclusion that it was a bandage.

It was the orc who first questioned him, calling humans "Pink Skins" and calling him a traitor.

As if he had been twitched hard, Thrall's consciousness on the verge of chaos instantly recondensed. He didn't even understand where his anger was coming from, his body jumped before he realized it, and he slammed into his opponent.

The technique was completely forgotten, as if everything on him except his hands had been burned with fiery rage. He roared, swinging his fists in a haphazard manner, violently attacking his soft abdomen and fragile muzzle and nose, even ignoring his opponent's counterattacks. The pain and blood only made him more crazy, and even what he saw was blood-red.

- Kill him, kill him, kill him!

But just as he knocked his opponent to the ground, intending to deliver the final blow to the head, those shocked and frightened eyes pierced through the blood-colored veil, causing Sal to snap back to his senses.

He fights for his friends, but that doesn't mean he can kill a member of his clan as he deserves, even if they may not think so. Moreover, this morbid fanaticism born of demonic curses was itself hated by Thrall.

This curse has ruined my people...... But it must not make me fall!

He yelled and threw his opponent out, and he took a step back, even sitting on the ground from overexertion, panting violently, trying to calm himself from his bloodthirsty rage.

The redness in his eyes faded. He slumped to the ground, gasping for breath. It took a long time to come back to his senses. As if he had been evacuated from his anger, Sal tried in vain to get up, only to find that he had no strength at all.

The battle isn't over yet! I can't—

But no one stepped forward and challenged him again. Thrall looked around suspiciously, and the hostility subsided like a tidal wave. He wondered if they were frightened by their madness, but no one avoided his gaze, and their faces had a look of respect and approval, as if they were standing here and suddenly changed.

This is of course impossible. But their attitudes have indeed become very different. Some smiled at him, some whistled and thumbs up, some were not convinced but didn't say anything. From their wounds, Sal recognized that they were all opponents he had just fought against, and it was only then that he realized that they were all young fighters of his age.

The older ones stood a little farther away, or gathered around the old shaman. They nodded slightly as they met Thrall's gaze, or looked thoughtful. Some people still cast skeptical glances, but compared to before, they can be called friendly.

What happened? Sal thought bewildered.

One possible answer is that he was recognized. But Sal couldn't believe it. He challenged the entire clan for the sake of humans, whom the orcs regarded as mortal enemies, and beat at least a dozen of them. Could it be that they recognize only victory and strength and no longer think about anything else?

At this moment, an indescribable sensation descended upon him—as if he had been washed away by the current, but he could not find any trace of the water source at all. The invisible stream of water permeated the limbs, taking away all the exhaustion and pain. Sal was surprised to find that the bruises on his body had quickly subsided, and the wounds on his palms had quietly healed. The strength returned to his body, and he was once again energetic and clear-headed.

He got up from the ground and saw Drektar walk out of the crowd.

"You have controlled your anger," the old shaman stared at him, "and you have shown us your humility, pride, strength, and restraint. Each one is stunning. But for us, this last point is the most important thing. ”

Sal quickly understood what he meant: "This is a test? ”

"A test, yes." Drektar nodded, "We always need to know what kind of person you are. Even though you have the blood of a frostwolf, we don't know what humans do to you...... Effect. ”

"But now we can confirm that you have the qualities of an orc."

"My peers taught me a lot." Thrall stared into his eyes, even though he had realized that Drektar couldn't see his movements, "They told me what a real orc was like, and it didn't look any way down right now. ”

Out of the corner of his gaze he saw some people shaking their heads and sighing at his stubbornness, but Drektar didn't look surprised.

"When you declared war on this, I knew you only wanted one result." He said, "Follow me." ”

***

Actually, the Frostwolf Clan and humans don't have much hatred. Their last contact with humans dates back to when they were part of the old tribe. When they were exiled, Durotan and his people came to this land similar to their homeland, far away from humans and the orcs of other clans, living a hard, peaceful, secluded and traditional life. To humans beyond the mountains, they were just an unrealistic myth, and among other orc clans, the Frostwolf Clan had become a rumor.

"So I'm surprised that your human friends know so much about us."

"I miss him...... I've been through a lot. Sal remembered the stories by the fire, and sometimes he couldn't be sure if the fire in his golden eyes was a campfire, but the voice was always calm and rational, "so he only talked about the past, not the present." ”

"Wise." Drektar agreed, "If he has experienced it himself and is still able to ignore the suffering of his fellow citizens, he is either pretending or he is a cold-blooded madman." ”

At this time they were walking in the middle of the camp. Thrall looked around as he walked, fresh meat drying outside the rough hides, and blood stained on the weapons leaning next to him. The huge bonfire was still burning during the day, and a few orc children were running back and forth. The Frostwolf Clan's camp is entirely wild and messy with orcs, but Thrall feels very kind when he walks through it. At first, he was a little worried about the blind old shaman, but Drektar walked through the debris and found the right path he wanted.

The slightly downhill path led them to a cave on the edge of a cliff southeast of the camp. According to Drektar, Dineen and Albert are here. Sal followed his guidance and looked into the distance, and suddenly his face changed.

"Drektar," he asked uneasily, "do you have a guard here?" ”

"Of course. Because I wasn't sure who you were. The old shaman replied, "What's the matter?" ”

"But," said Sal, "I didn't see any of them. ”