Steel, Guns, and the Industrial Party in Another World-Chapter 746:

TL: Rui88

On the distant horizon, a vast and boundless expanse of green unfolded like an immense green tapestry, gently covering the chest of the earth. Sunlight poured down from the azure dome, the golden radiance mingling with the dewdrops on the tips of the grass, shimmering with a delicate and dazzling light, as if every ray of light was telling a story.

This was the Great Plains, the habitat of the orcs. Countless orc tribes followed the nomadic traditions of thousands of years, herding horses and sheep on the plains, moving in search of water and grass.

This seemingly endless plain was actually divided into northern and southern parts, separated by a vast desert. Human caravans—or armies—coming from the south of the Rocky Mountains mostly came into contact with the southern plains. There was no record in history of anyone crossing the desert to the northern plains.

This desert that divided the Great Plains in two could be called a domain devoid of life. Only the aged old shamans among the orcs knew the safe paths to cross it. For this reason, throughout the long course of history, this desert, regarded as a forbidden land, had saved the orcs from the brink of extinction several times.

Although the plains were vast, their population-carrying capacity was very poor. A major drought or a heavy snowfall could cause a large number of livestock to die. The orcs who lost their means of livelihood would then turn their sights to the human territories in the south. Human territories were fertile lands, agriculturally developed, and rich in produce. In the eyes of the orcs, they were lands flowing with milk and honey.

So they would ride in groups to the human territories to plunder grain, cloth, and other important living supplies, using their speed advantage to leave quickly before the human armed forces could react.

Specifically in the region of the Kingdom of Ordo, because the sprawling Rocky Mountains ran east-west across its north, it was relatively safe as long as the Gabella Corridor, which led to the Great Plains in the northeast, was guarded. The reason it was said to be relatively safe was that the dwarf clans in the Rocky Mountains, fearing that human settlements were getting closer to their territory, would occasionally open secret passages in the mountains to let small groups of orcs pass through, using the orcs to drive away the humans.

Human civilization rose and fell. When it was at a low point, it could only swallow its pride in the face of orc raids. But when human civilization was at its peak, it would dispatch powerful armies to conquer the orc tribes on the plains.

Because human armies were superior to orcs in organization, weapons, and supply, the orcs’ only advantage was their greater strength. But this advantage could not make up for the many other advantages of humans, so they often suffered more defeats than victories when facing human armies.

When the orcs were defeated, in order to escape the human armies determined to annihilate them, they had to enter the desert. Led by wise old shamans, they would cross the desert and come to the northern plains to rest and recuperate.

It was already a very difficult task for human armies to pursue orcs deep into the plains, let alone cross a desert. So every time the orcs entered the desert, humans could only gaze at it with a sigh and reluctantly withdraw to the south.

The surviving orcs relied on the northern plains to recuperate. After their strength grew, they would cross the desert again, reoccupy the southern plains, and enter the next cycle.

This situation changed slightly with the appearance of Abal’s “King’s Tent.”

“We’re almost there. Their tribal settlement is just ahead!”

A cry of immense excitement interrupted Arvis’s recollection of the history of the plains.

Arvis looked out from his camel’s back and saw some tents scattered here and there on the plain ahead. There were many figures among them, probably the inhabitants of this tribe. And behind those tents, the mountain that had been there before still lay quietly on the distant horizon. He had thought that after so many days of walking, he would at least be able to reach the edge of the mountain range, but it seemed he was still far from it. There was a saying, “A mountain in sight can run a horse to death,” and it seemed to be true.

“Looks like we can rest for a while!” His guard, Marek, was just behind him, also riding a camel.

To escape the pursuit of the witch, the master and servant had not taken the Nerodan Corridor, but had gone directly north into the Great Plains. They were lucky enough to encounter a human caravan, said to be heading to the Great Plains to do business, so Arvis and Marek joined them in the hope of gathering more information.

Up ahead, the leader of the caravan had already made contact with an orc who had ridden over. The leader took out a long piece of paper and read from it, listing all sorts of daily goods for trade.

“Two slaves! This will cost extra!” The leader handed the list to the orc who had come to meet them.

Arvis heard clearly and immediately became alert.

Slaves? After several days of interaction, he knew that this caravan had not brought any slaves!

“Clang!” The sound of a sword being drawn broke the silence. It was Marek. He had heard the hidden meaning; this caravan was going to sell him and Arvis to the orcs!

A group of guards in the caravan noticed his intention. Two of them immediately rushed at him. One used his sword to block Marek’s, while the other attacked from the side. Marek, occupied with parrying the guard’s sword, was unable to pay attention and was immediately pinned to the ground. Arvis was also captured.

Just like that, they both became prisoners of the caravan, or rather, gifts to be exchanged with the orc tribe.

The two were forced to separate. Arvis was taken to a tent.

This tent, constructed from thick animal hides and tough branches, stood quietly on the grassland, like a small haven in nature. The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through the sparse leaves, dappling the tent’s canvas and coating this little corner of the world with a layer of warm gold.

Arvis lifted the tent’s flap and entered.

He saw an elderly orc sitting on a low stool carved from rough logs. His face was weathered, every wrinkle recording the vicissitudes and wisdom of the years.

He had a pair of long, slightly drooping ears covered with a thin layer of fuzz, a unique mark of his race. Although his hair was graying, his eyes were still clear and profound, revealing a sense of peace and tenacity.

The old orc turned his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, they were clouded, but when he looked at Arvis, an indescribable light burst forth from them.

“A scholar from the White Tower of Gabella?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Arvis was stunned. How did this old orc know? From his clothes to his accent, he had hidden everything that could possibly reveal his identity.

“And you are?” Arvis asked in return.

“I am the shaman here, Mr. Scholar.”

The old orc revealed his identity.