Later in the evening, Durotan felt a little strange how Taimore City could not have spotted a wave of orc cavalry beforehand. He never had a chance to ask the Draenei again, only guessing that the Draenei was too confident in his illusion magic to ever expect it to be broken.

The quiet air was filled with the roar of battle and the howl of wolves, and the wolf riders rushed through the streets of the city. At the beginning of the attack, several unarmed draenei were cut down, and the white pavement was instantly stained blue with flowing blood, but soon the city's guards fought back.

When Durotan ran out of gemstones, he stuffed it into his bag and put it with Veron's ruby and topaz. He was relentless, quickly mounted his mount, prepared his axe, and swore to himself that he would never attack an unarmed enemy or child, and he was ready to kill or be killed for it.

The first wave flooded the city, and the orc tide split into trickles and poured into the large circular buildings that lined the main street, spilling up wide stone steps. The Warlocks were in charge, and their minions were quiet and obedient, except for the small ones that kept muttering something. They wait for the right moment to summon a rain of fire, shadow arrows, and all sorts of tortured curses. The warriors came out of the building covered in blood, blood flowing down the steps as they walked, and then into the next building, and then the next.

The Draenei guards cast their magic in the streets. Durotan turned his mount to parry the slash of a sword that shimmered with blue energy, the sword intersecting with his axe, the pain reaching to the bone marrow, but nothing compared to the shock he had when he recognized the attacker.

Durotan met Restaran for the second time in battle, and Durotan once spared Velon's life as a reward. Restaran had also let Durotan go. Durotan saw the other's eyes. Knowing that the other party also recognized him. Then the blue glowing eyes narrowed.

They owe nothing to each other, and neither of them will have mercy this time.

Restaran shouted something in his rhythmic language, and he pulled Durotan off his mount instead of attacking again. This was unexpected, and before he could react, he was lying on the ground. Durotan was trying to reach for his axe as Restaran swung his sword, he thought, even if his fingers could hold the hilt. He didn't have time to swing it either.

The Night Stalker, a beast that was basically trained with his master, pounced on him the moment he felt his master being pulled away from his back by Restaran, his fangs rattling Draenei's arm, which would have been bitten off in an instant if it weren't for Restaran's armor. Even in armor, the tremendous pressure made Restaran's arm tingle and he couldn't hold his sword. Durotan let out a roar. Swing his axe violently. The axe slashed into Restaran's upper abdomen, and the sharp blade sliced through the armor. Cut deep into his body.

Restaran fell to his knees, his feeble hand still clenched tightly by the Night Stalker. The white wolf bit harder and harder, growled in its throat, and began to tug at Delaney's arm as if it were a small animal. It wouldn't be long before Restaran's arm would be ripped off by the wolf, blood gushing from his side, and he didn't make a sound despite the constant excruciating pain.

Durotan stood firm and struck again, this time fatally—and with compassion. Restaran fell, and the Night Stalker immediately let go of his arm. The captain of the guard of Tymor is dead.

Durotan did not allow himself to grieve. He quickly rode the Night Stalker in search of the next target, and there were no less. The city, while not on the size of Shattrath, the capital of the Draenei, is large enough to have enough draenei and enough slaughter targets. The air was filled with bloodthirsty roars, cries of pain and fear, the loud clatter of swords and shields, and the crackling of spellcasting. Odors stimulated Durontan's sense of smell, the smell of blood, and the smell of fear that he would never admit wrong.

The boiling anger in his body made him feel good, his senses had never been sharper, and his every movement seemed to require no thinking. Orgrim was not far away struggling with another guard. Durotan tensed his nerves and tried to rush over to help his old friend, but the hammer of destruction swung in the air, smashing the other's head through his helmet. Durotan grinned, and Orgrim didn't need help at all.

Before he could smell or hear a sound, he sensed someone approaching him, and he quickly turned, letting out a clan's war roar, raising his blood-stained axe and preparing to swing it at the comer. The visitor was a child who had almost just reached puberty, but she screamed in anger as she tore at his armored legs, tears streaming down her pale blue face. Blue blood, not like her own, soaked through her clothes and clinged to her body. She slapped him weakly, her tear-filled eyes burning with pain and well-deserved anger.

For a moment, she looked like the girl Durotan and Orgrim had met years ago, and he was uneasy. It couldn't be - the girl was supposed to be an adult. Still is... Or is she? It doesn't matter, this brave and stupid girl is trying to attack the armed orc cavalry with her bare hands.

It took a great deal of effort for Durotan to stop the axe in the air. He doesn't hurt children, it's not conventional, it's not what orcs do.

Suddenly the little girl didn't move, her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and blood gushed out of her mouth. Durotan's gaze moved from her face to her body, and he saw the tip of the spear piercing through the blood-soaked clothing. Before Durotan could react, the Broken Hand orc, who had killed the little girl, flicked his spear and threw the body to the ground. He slammed his foot on her shoulder, let out a roar, let go of his spear, and grinned at Durontan.

"You owe me, frostwolf orcs. The orc said, disappearing into the stream of killed and killed.

Durotan shook his head and cried out to the ancestors of his great pain. (To be continued......)