Volk stood still amidst the crowd of Orcs and Elves, with his hand hovering over his chest as his heart raced with uncertainty.

The mission that had just appeared in his mind, the cold, mechanical voice of his system, echoed again:

| Find at least one of the traitors. |

Those words in the mission felt like it was latching on him.

The tribe was preparing to march, and yet there was a traitor among them.

Volk closed his eyes, trying to center himself in his head, his mind began to think carefully and to make sense of it all.

Where should he start?

Who could it be?

He knew this wasn’t some random challenge.

The system never gave him missions unless they were tied to events directly involving him.

The enemy had to be someone he had already encountered.

‘It had to be,’ he reasoned, trying to calm the rising panic in his chest.

Volk had long learned that his system didn’t simply give vague commands.

It activated in response to situations where he was directly involved.

If the mission asked him to find a traitor, it meant the traitor was someone in his immediate sphere—someone he had met, fought with, or even shared a conversation with.

Volk drew a slow breath, organizing his thoughts as he began to recall every face, every interaction he’d had over the past few weeks.

‘Who who who?’ he asked himself.

This wasn’t just a casual challenge; it was personal.

He thought back to Grak’thor, the butcher.

The image of Grak’thor loomed large in his mind, his massive form draped in furs, his hands stained red from the day’s work.

Grak’thor said he had arrived from a tribe that had been destroyed, claiming to have been the sole survivor of a brutal assault.

Volk remembered how the butcher explained how had he integrated into the Dreadmaw Clan, offering his skills in exchange for a place among them. But something about Grak’thor’s story always seemed… incomplete.

‘Why did I think of him first?’

Volk asked himself, his thoughts were in circles.

There was something about his arrival that had struck him as odd.

Grak’thor had come from nowhere, just as the Dreadmaw Clan was beginning to consolidate its power.

He had stories of his tribe being slaughtered by raiders, of escaping by the skin of his teeth. But Volk had learned long ago that anyone who survived such devastation either came back broken or filled with a thirst for vengeance.

Grak’thor seemed… indifferent, too quick to blend into the everyday life of the clan, as though the destruction of his former people was of little concern.

But then, Volk shook his head.

No, he thought, G

Grak’thor saved Grok’Thar’s mother, didn’t he?

He vividly recalled Grok’Thar’s tale, recounting how Grak’thor had risked his life to save her from a pack of wild beasts, earning the clan’s respect.

In fact, Grak’thor had even honored Volk by giving him a magical crystal in exchange for one of the finest pieces of meat.

That didn’t seem like the act of a traitor.

Volk bit his lip, his brow furrowing deeper as he moved on to the next name in his mind:

Gozorm’al, one of the elders.

He remembered his duel with the old Orc, a contest of strength and pride that ended in Gozorm’al’s defeat.

The elder had underestimated Volk, thinking his youth would betray him, but Volk had proven his might.

At the time, Gozorm’al had offered him a token of respect: bone armor, a prized possession handed down from his ancestors.

It was a sign of honor, something a traitor would never offer.

Volk shook his head again, casting the suspicion away.

Gozorm’al wasn’t the type to betray his kin.

The old Orc had lived through countless battles and had no reason to seek the tribe’s downfall.

If anything, he was committed to seeing the Dreadmaw Clan thrive, even if it meant stepping aside for the younger generation.

Volk’s frustration grew as he ran through the list of Orcs in his mind.

Each one had a story, a reason why they couldn’t be the traitor.

He had fought and spent time alongside them, shared food with them.

Who would betray them?

Suddenly, his eyes widened as he remembered someone he hadn’t thought of in all this time.

His gaze drifted to the axe strapped to his side—the axe given to him by Lhum’Baggar after their duel.

Where was Lhum’Baggar?

Volk frowned.

He had seen Grok’Thar, Grashk, and many of the others since the preparations for the migration had begun. But Lhum’Baggar?

He hadn’t seen him or his elven wife since yesterday.

The longer he thought about it, the more troubling it became.

Lhum’Baggar was not the type to simply disappear.

He was proud, strong, and well respected in the clan.

He wouldn’t vanish without reason.

“Where is Lhum’Baggar?”

Volk muttered under his breath. He clenched his fists, his mind racing.

Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Lhum’Baggar was always involved in clan matters.

It made no sense for him to be absent during such an important event.

Volk’s thoughts began to spiral.

Could it be?

The pieces were slowly falling into place.

The axe Lhum’Baggar had given him—it had always felt heavier than it should.

Something about the weapon felt… off, as if it carried a secret of its own. And now, with the mission ringing in his ears, Volk couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that Lhum’Baggar’s disappearance was tied to the traitor’s identity.

His heart pounded faster, and his grip tightened on the handle of the axe.

There was no proof, not yet. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

Lhum’Baggar was gone.

Was he hiding something? Or worse—had he betrayed them all?

As Volk’s mind raced, a sudden sound broke through the heavy silence.

“Dreadmaw Clan, MAAARRCCHHH!!!”

The booming command reverberated through the air, shaking Volk out of his thoughts.

The rest of the tribe began to stir, their movements quick and deliberate as they prepared to move.

The urgency in the air was palpable, as if the entire clan could sense that this migration wasn’t just a simple journey—it was an escape.

They were leaving something behind, something dangerous.

Volk stood frozen in place as the others began to fall in line. His thoughts still circled around Lhum’Baggar, the axe, the mission.

It all pointed in the same direction, but it felt incomplete, like a half-finished puzzle with the final piece just out of reach.

He looked down at the axe again, his fingers tracing its cold, metal surface.

There was something here, something related to Lhum’Baggar.

Volk’s instincts screamed at him to act, to stop everything, to demand answers. But hesitation was eating his head.

What if he was wrong?

What if Lhum’Baggar was innocent?

But what if he wasn’t?

As the tribe prepared to march, Volk’s heart hammered in his chest, every second became heavy.

He could feel it now, the pulse of danger running through the air, the eyes of the traitor watching from the shadows.

With every passing moment, the sense of urgency grew, until it threatened to crush his soul.

Finally, Volk couldn’t take it anymore.

The pressure built to a boiling point, and before he knew it, he was shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing across the camp.

“WAAAAIIIIIIIIIIITTTTT!!!!!!!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep