Where the orcs have passed, countless corpses have been left behind. Most of them are draenei's, but a few brown orc corpses can be seen here and there. Some of the fallen orcs were still alive, screaming for help, but no one listened. The shaman may heal them with magic, but it is clear that the warlock's magic has no healing skills. So they could only lie where they were, and some of the orcs took their last breath next to the draenei he had killed as the unstoppable tide of orcs rushed forward.

They followed the road through the hills, breaking into every building, killing every draenei they saw. There must be some draenei hidden, Durotan thought, and prayed they wouldn't be found. He didn't expect this prayer to be answered, and after the first wave of killings, they would loot the loot and search for those who had escaped from the first raid. He knew this because it was the plan.

They had reached the last building, on the highest hill. Durotan immediately recognized the building, which was where he and Orgrim had dinner with the Prophet. He thought a little bitterly that if Veron hadn't foreseen this dark moment, he wouldn't have been a prophet. The Night Stalker ran up the steps, but Durotan didn't stop him. He craned his neck to look back, just as he had done on his own feet the first time he had walked up the steps, looking back at the city beneath his feet.

At that time, the city of Draenei stretched out like jewels in the grass beneath his feet. And now, the city was as he saw it—a broken, occupied city, spilled with blood and death, and it was not just its citizens who died, but any hope of peace, truce, or negotiation. Durotan briefly closed his eyes with sadness.

"I am proud of my people and my city," Restar once said to Durotan. Restaran. Now stiffened lying on the white street with countless other draenei. "We put in a lot of effort. We love Draeno. And I never thought I'd have the opportunity to share our pride with an orc. The path of fate is sometimes really bizarre. ”

than two orc children. and what the Draenei guards imagined was bizarre.

The room that had been a little confining for the two orc kids all those years ago was now filled with dozens of adult orc warriors. It looks crowded. Most of the rooms here were empty, with plenty of time for the Draenei here to evacuate, except for those who were going to defend the city to the death, and they were indeed dead now. Gorgeous furniture was used as a weapon, smashing the heads of the guards, and destruction enhanced the thrill of the battle. The orcs carved holes in the smooth, curved walls with great interest, the beds were split by swords, and the fruit bowls and delicate statues were swept away from the furniture. Then the furniture was smashed to pieces with axes and hammers.

Durotan had enough. "Stop!" He shouted, but no one listened to him. The minion under the Warlock's control seems to be happy with this behavior. But the time for destruction has passed, and the inhabitants of Tymor are either dead or fleeing, and there is no need for the orcs to continue their savage destruction.

"Stop!" Durotan shouted again. This time Orgrim heard it and stopped. The representative of the Warsong Clan shook his head as well, as if trying to figure out something cryptic, and then he tried to calm his warriors down as well. Drektar, not lost in bloodlust like other warlocks, was able to stop others from casting spells.

"Listen to me!" Durontan roared. Most of them came to the room where Velon's reception was there, and the room was empty. Lifeless tables and chairs were scattered all over the floor, and torn wallpaper was dragged to the floor.

"We have taken the city. It's time for us to take what we need from here. ”

The orcs were listening, their rapid breathing filling the room with the sound of restlessness, but at least they weren't swinging their weapons at anything that moved... Or anything that won't move.

"First of all, we have to treat the wounded," Durotan ordered, "and we will not let our compatriots just lie in the streets and suffer." ”

Some orcs are starting to feel guilty about it. Durotan thought in disgust that many of these warriors had completely forgotten that while they were enjoying the thrill of destruction, there were still some of their own still lying outside, rolling in pain. He pressed his affection down and nodded to Drektar. Warlocks no longer heal spells, but they were once shamans and knew how to treat the wounded on the battlefield more effectively. Drektar led a few warlocks and walked quickly to the way they came.

"And then, the city has supplies we haven't seen before, plenty of food, weapons and armor, and other things we don't know about, all of which can serve the tribe—"

He couldn't go on: serve the tribe to exterminate the draenei. He changed it to "Serve the tribe." We are soldiers, servicemen who need supplies. We need to be well led, well fed, treated, protected. Orgrim - You start with a team of people from here. Guthor, you take a group back to the entrance and start searching the main streets for supplies until you join up with Orgrim's party. Others, if they have any knowledge of healing, report to Drektar and follow his command. ”

"What if we find the Draenei who isn't dead?" Someone asked.

Isn't that a problem. We have no facilities for holding prisoners, and in fact, the only purpose of capturing prisoners is to negotiate. Now that we know that the Horde's only goal is to exterminate the Draenei race, there is no need to hold captives.

"Kill. Durotan said harshly. He hoped that the cracked sensation in his voice would be perceived as undisguised anger, not from great grief. "Kill them all. ”

The orcs who received his order quickly went to carry it out. Durotan found that he wished the Night Stalker hadn't protected him so quickly, and that it would have been easier to die at the hands of Restar than to say what he had just said.

If you're lucky, death will come to Durotan as soon as possible in the battle to exterminate a race that has never been done to them. (To be continued......)