Like all of his clan, Durotan began to practice using weapons at the age of six. At a very young age, he was already tall and muscular; Of course, training weapons is also an innate talent for orcs. At the age of twelve, he joined the hunting party. Now, he has completed his rite of passage and is qualified to hunt ogres and their evil master, Golon.

This year, when the autumn festival of Koshhag arrives, he will also be able to join the adult circle after the children have been put to bed. As he and Ogrim discovered a few years ago, joining the circle around a campfire as an adult isn't really that fun.

But at least one thing he found interesting was to communicate with people he had known for many years, but who had never spoken to him because of his youth. Durotan's keen brown eyes looked around at the crowd seated. He first saw the Clan Mother of Cashur, who, of course, was a member of his clan. He knew that she also had an extremely high reputation among the shamans of other clans, and he was proud of it. He watched as she curled up by the fire, her thin body wrapped in a blanket. He knew it was her last Koshhag Festival...... He didn't know how he knew, but he just knew. The sadness that this thought brought to him was much deeper than he expected.

Beside Patriarch Cashur sat her apprentice, Drektar. He was much younger than her, but still older than Durotan's parents. Durotan and Drektar had never communicated much, but on a normal day, it was hard for him not to notice the frank words and piercing gaze of the older orcs. He is a man who deserves respect. Durotan continued to scan the crowd. Tomorrow, it is time for the shamans to set out to meet the spirits of the ancestors in the caves of the Holy Mountain. Durotan thought back to his journey, to the strange cool wind in the cave. I couldn't help but shudder.

He saw Grom hell roaring. The young and slightly fanatical patriarch of the Warsong Clan. Grom is not much older than Durotan and Orgrim. He was a newcomer. Many whispered that the previous patriarch had died strangely, but the Warsong Clan did not raise any objections to Grom's leadership. Looking at him now, Durotan felt that this was really a reasonable thing. Grom, despite his youth, has an amazing deterrent power. The glow of the campfire fell on him, adding to his sense of oppression. His thick black hair was draped behind his back and he had a black tattoo on his chin to indicate his patriarchal status. He wears a collar made of white bone around his neck. Durotan knows what it means: in the traditions of the Warsong Clan. The young warrior must wear the bones of the prey he kills for the first time and carve his mark on it.

Next to Grom is the Black Hand, the burly leader of the Black Rock Clan. Beside the Black Hand munching quietly was the patriarch of the Broken Hand Clan, Kargas? Blade Fist. His left hand was severed from the wrist down, replaced by a long-handled scythe that reflected dazzling light in the light of the fire. Even now, at the sight of that blade, Durotan couldn't help but feel uneasy. Next to him was Kilrog Deadeye, the patriarch of the Bloodhole Clan. His surname was not inherited from a particular family, but was chosen by himself. One of his eyes floated lightly above the crowd, while the other eye in his socket was destroyed. If Grom is too young as a patriarch. Then Kilrog is just too old. But Durotan knew that, despite Kilrog's age. His hair has gone gray, and his leadership career is far from over, and he has much more time left.

Durotan looked away unnaturally.

To the left of Drektar is a famous figure, Neozu of the Shadowmoon Clan. For as long as Durotan can remember, Neozu has led all the shamans. On one of the hunts in which Durotan was allowed to participate, Naozu was also present. On that occasion, the shaman displayed amazing skills that took Durotan in awe. He doesn't spend as much trouble communicating with elemental spirits as others do, laboriously channeling their power. Naozu's mastery of the elements is very easy and natural at any time and place. As soon as he opened his mouth, the earth trembled under his feet; With a wave of his hand, lightning fell from the sky and fell in the direction he was pointing. The spirits of fire, air, water, earth, and, through the elusive wild, all regard him as companions and friends. Of course, Durotan had never seen Neozu communicate with the Ancestral Spirits - only shamans were qualified to witness communication with the Ancestral Spirits. However, in Durontan's opinion, the Ancestral Soul must have favored Nao Zu, otherwise, he would not be able to use his powerful power as easily as he could at any time.

However, Naozu's apprentice, Durotan didn't like it at all. Ogrim was sitting next to Durontan, and when he saw Durontan's eyes, he leaned over and whispered, "I see that guy Guldan, throwing it out to catch prey is much more useful than it is now." ”

Durotan turned his head sideways, not letting anyone see his smile. He didn't know what level of shaman Gul'dan was, and judging from the fact that Naozu had taken him in as an apprentice and successor, his talent should not be low. But his appearance really couldn't make a deep impression. He was short, weaker than most orcs, with a short, bushy beard that didn't look like an orc warrior at all. However, Durotan felt that in order to contribute, one does not have to be a hero.

"Hey, look over there! she's such a natural warrior!"

Durotan followed Orgrim's fingers, his eyes immediately widening. Orgrim was right. The woman stood straight, muscular, and the light of the fire reflected on her smooth brown skin. She was reaching out to cut a piece of roasted tarp lamb from the fire. She was simply the embodiment of all the virtues of an orc in Durotan's eyes. Her every move has the wild grace of a black wolf, and her fangs are small and delicate, sharpened and sharpened. Her long black hair is braided into a simple braid at the back of her head, but she is still sultry in beauty.

"She—who is she?" Durontan muttered, his heart sinking. Such a perfect woman must belong to another clan...... If there was such a strong, agile, and elegant stunner in his own clan, it was impossible for him not to notice it......

Orgrim laughed and slapped Durotan on the back, causing many heads to turn in their direction...... The woman was among them. Orgrim leaned over and whispered a sentence that brightened Durontan's mood.

"You no-eyed idiot! she's a frost wolf! if she's from our clan. I'd have taken her to myself!"

Is it a frost wolf? but...... How could Durotan ignore such a treasure in his clan, he looked away from Orgrim's smirk. He looked at the woman again. She was glaring at him. Their eyes met.

"Draka!"

The woman was taken aback. Turn away from him and look at him again. Durotan blinked, as if he had just come to his senses.

"Draka," he whispered. No wonder he didn't recognize her. "No, Orgrim. She is not a natural warrior. She's a built warrior. ”

Draka was born sick and weak, with light brown skin rather than a healthy dark brown. Durotan remembered how the adults whispered to her as if she had one foot on the path to join the Ancestral Spirit. His parents had sadly mentioned her that they didn't know what had happened to her family, and that the elemental spirits were going to give them such a fragile child.

Come to think of it. Shortly after that, Durotan recalled, the Drakqa family moved to the outskirts of the camp. He had barely seen her since then - after all, he was busy with his own business.

By this time, Draka had already cut off several large pieces of roast lamb and shared them with her family. Durotan saw two children from her clan sitting next to her parents. They all seemed to be very happy and healthy. Draka felt him staring at her, and turned her head to meet his gaze without flinching. She straightened up, her expression seeming to see if he dared to look at her with sympathy and pity.

Of course he won't. She doesn't need any mercy. With the blessing of the elemental spirits, the care of the shaman, and her strong will, she has been reborn from a frail toddler to a full-fledged woman...... The perfect image of an orc woman.

Orgrim gave him an elbow suddenly. All the air in his lungs was squeezed out. Durotan glared at Orgrim.

"Keep your mouth shut, your mouth is so wide open. It almost makes me want to stuff something in it and plug it up. Orgrim muttered.

Durotan realized that he had his mouth open all the time...... And it has been seen by many people. Many people smiled evilly at him. He quickly turned his attention back to the feast in front of him, not glancing at Draka that night.

But at night, he dreamed of her. When he woke up, he knew that she would be his. After all, he was the heir to the patriarch of one of the most respected clans.

What woman could say no to him?

"No," Draka said.

Durotan was stunned. Early the next morning, after that day, he approached Draka and invited her to hunt with him tomorrow. There were just the two of them. Both know what this tiyì means: a man and a woman hunt together, and it is a ritual of courtship. And she turned him down.

It was so unexpected. Durotan didn't know what to do for a while. She looked at him with almost disdain, the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.

"Why?" Durotan finally squeezed out a sentence.

"I'm not old enough to find a partner," she said. The tone seemed to take this as an excuse rather than a reason.

But Durotan won't give up easily. "I invited you to hunt, indeed, to woo you," he said frankly. "But if you're not old enough, I'll respect that. Still, I wish to be in your company - but not as a suitor, but as an invitation to a hunt shared by two proud warriors. That's all. ”

This time, it was her turn to be surprised. Durotan thought that Draka probably thought he would either chase after him or walk away.

"I—"

She paused, her eyes wide open. Then she grinned. "Okay. I am willing to take part in such a hunt, Durontan, son of the Frostwolf Clan Patriarch Garrad. ”

Durotan felt that he had never been happier in his life. This safari was very different from the usual. He and Drakar walked along with a brisk and steady pace. Those previous challenges with Orgrim had trained Durontan's stamina, and for a moment, he even wondered if he was walking too fast. Yet Draka, who had been so weak at birth and now so strong, followed him effortlessly. Neither said anything; There is nothing to say. It's a hunt, they're looking for their prey, they're going to kill it, they're bringing it back. Silence couldn't be better.

They came to an open field, slowed down, and began to check the ground. With no snow on the ground, tracking is not as easy as it is in winter. But Durotan knew what he had to keep an eye on: trampled grass, broken bush branches, scattered footprints in the soil, deep or shallow......

"Split-hoofed cows," he said. He stood up and glanced ahead. Drakar crouched on the ground, his fingers nimbly brushing away the fallen leaves.

"One of them was hurt," she declared.

Durotan turned to her. "I didn't see any blood. ”

She shook her head. "There is no blood. It's the footprints that tell me. She pointed to the place he had just looked. Still not seeing any signs of the beast's injury, he shook his head in confusion.

"It's not just this one footprint...... Look at the next one. Next one. ”

She walked in the direction of the hoof prints, carefully moving her steps. Suddenly, Durotan understood: the depth of one hoof print was shallower than the other three.

The animal was lame.

He looked at her with admiration, and she blushed a little. "It's simple," she said, "even if I don't point it out, you'll find it." ”

"No," he told the truth, "I can't find it." I saw the footprints, but I didn't even check the details. And you did. You will one day be the best hunter. (To be continued......)