The wind howled bitterly, rolling up yellow sand and flying over the ancient walls. The old orc stood at the head of the city, holding a staff decorated with feathers and dead branches in one hand, and caressing the stone bricks that had been eroded by the wind and sand with dense holes.

He faced the endless sea of sand, his eyes blazing, as if he were watching over the father of a lost son, and let the sand beat his wrinkled skin for years.

"Uncle Hamulo, the chiefs of the other clans are ready. A young orc warrior hurried up to the old orc and said respectfully, carrying a peculiar battle axe on his back, his head held high and his face radiant.

"Let them wait a little longer. The old orc still stared intently into the distance, hoping for the familiar figure to appear sooner.

"But ......"

"Let them wait a little longer," repeated the old orc,

"Logosh is the chief who has the most say in this matter, and we have nothing to talk about without him coming. The young warrior retreated reluctantly, leaving the old orc alone in the wind.

From the day the bruised Flint Courier entered the gates of Occam, Hamulo had not spent a day in his house, no longer immersed in books, abandoning his studies of history and nature, and waiting anxiously day and night on the walls, clutching a long list of the names of every clan and chief in the wilderness.

Now he no longer needed a list to help him remember which clans had yet to reach Occam, as Rogosh of the Shatterbladed Clan was the only name left, one he would never forget.

The Sigh of the Sword and the World Chapter 22 Hamulo 1 is in the middle of the hand, please wait a moment,

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