Outside the entrance of the catacombs, the air was tense with murmurs and discussions.

The leaders of the gathered Orc clans stood in small circles, their imposing figures casting long shadows in the dim light.

It was an unusual alliance: the Bloodfang Clan, the Ironhide Clan, the Thunderstrike Clan, the Stonefist Clan, the Shadowclaw Clan, the Fireblood Clan, and the Frostbite Clan.

Despite the uneasy truce, none of them could hide their disdain toward the Dreadmaw Clan—a clan known for its hunting prowess but not much else.

“Hmph, can you believe it?” sneered Garnok, the chieftain of the Thunderstrike Clan, his massive arms crossed over his chest. “A hunter clan, of all things, is the first to enter the catacombs. They probably think tracking animals is the same as conquering dungeons.”

The Ironhide Chieftain, Raghur, chuckled heartily, his large frame shaking with mirth.

“Hunters, not warriors, indeed. The Dreadmaw Clan may know how to stalk prey, but they know nothing of real combat. That Volk is no warrior—he’s a mere laborer! A grunt who moves rocks, not mountains.”

Several of the Orcs from the surrounding clans snickered, nodding in agreement. Their voices were filled with arrogance and a deep sense of superiority.

“Exactly,” said Brakkas, leader of the Stonefist Clan, his deep, gravelly voice carrying through the group.

“The Dreadmaws are skilled in hunting beasts and scavenging, but they’ve never stood in the front lines of a true battle. They don’t have the strength or the courage for it.”

“Nor the bloodlust,” added Zarrath, the shadowy leader of the Shadowclaw Clan, his eyes gleaming with malice. “They can sneak through forests and hide in the brush, but in the open, they are nothing. They don’t know the taste of a true kill.”

The Elves standing nearby, from various allied tribes, exchanged knowing glances.

Though their expressions were neutral, they, too, seemed to share the opinion that the Dreadmaw Clan was far beneath the other Orc clans in terms of prowess.

“I’ve seen more battle spirit in a deer,” an Ironhide Orc laughed, his voice thick with derision.

“They’ll lose themselves in those catacombs,” said another Orc from the Fireblood Clan, his massive form illuminated by the flickering flames of a nearby torch.

“The moment they run into something they can’t hunt, they’ll be finished. This place isn’t a forest—it’s a dungeon. It’ll eat them alive.”

The laughter grew louder, more boisterous.

It was clear that no one among the gathered clans took the Dreadmaw Clan seriously.

To them, the Dreadmaws were barely more than a nuisance—useful for hunting and tracking, but worthless in the heat of battle or the depths of the dungeon.

“Hunters, not warriors,” one Frostbite Orc muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Yet, as the laughter echoed through the gathering, it was Varrok, the chieftain of the Bloodfang Clan, who broke the mirth with a deep, rumbling voice.

“True, the Dreadmaws are hunters. But this Volk… there’s something different about him.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, silencing the mocking conversations.

Varrok’s voice carried weight, for the Bloodfang Clan was among the most feared and respected of all the Orc clans.

“Different?” asked Garnok, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He’s just a labor Orc. What could possibly be different about him? Plus, it was just pure luck after all, just a simple unique skill that they accidentally discovered. Not much of a strong indication that it would alarm us.”

Varrok stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the catacombs, where Volk had vanished.

“I’ve seen plenty of labor Orcs in my time, but none like him. He defeated Grounad, one of our strongest warriors, with… I don’t even know what he did. One moment he was there, the next, he was gone, and the bull slammed into Grounad. Do you all feep a magic?”

There was a murmur of surprise and confusion among the other clan leaders.

“A trick, maybe,” suggested Zarrath, his voice dripping with skepticism. “A trick of the eye. The Dreadmaws are cunning hunters, after all. But they rely on deception, not strength.”

Varrok shook his head. “It wasn’t a deception. It was something else. He teleported. Or moved so fast that none of us could see him. Whatever it was, it’s why we lost.

And I don’t think we should dismiss him so easily.”

A tense silence fell over the group as the words sunk in.

For a moment, the arrogance faded from their expressions, replaced by something closer to wariness.

But then, Raghur, the Ironhide Chieftain, burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the air. “Haha! Oh, come now, Varrok. You can’t be serious! A labor Orc from a hunter clan? Teleporting?

Outpacing a Bloodfang warrior like Grounad? The Dreadmaws got lucky, that’s all. Nothing more.”

The laughter spread like wildfire, rolling through the gathered Orcs and Elves.

“Lucky indeed! Maybe it’s because his body was made from a Labor Orc that we didn’t see or feel a disturbance of magic in the air, making it seem invisible!” one Orc from the Shadowclaw Clan cackled, slapping his knee.

“Luck runs out in the dungeons, though,” added another Orc from the Stonefist Clan, his laughter booming like thunder.

But the laughter pause when a curious Elf, standing near the back of the group, raised a question. His voice, soft and lilting, cut through the noise like a whisper carried on the wind.

“But… what if the Dreadmaw Clan reaches the bottom of the dungeon first? What if they claim the treasure that lies within? Will we follow them then?

“After all, it was agreed that the Bloodfang Clan would lead us once we entered. But now that the Dreadmaw Clan has gone in first, they might take what we came for.

Plus, since they are a hunter clan, aren’t they experts at hunting animals and beasts? What if they clear it before us? What will happen then? Are we going to acknowledge them as our leaders?”

The question was like a sharp thin slam of whip in the air, casting a brief silence over the crowd.

There was a flicker of unease among the Orcs, a moment where they seemed to consider the possibility.

But it was Brakkas, the Stonefist Chieftain, who broke the silence with a derisive snort.

“Follow the Dreadmaws? Hah! Impossible. They won’t make it halfway through the dungeon before they’re torn apart by the creatures within. They’re hunters, not warriors. They’ll track the beast but won’t be able to kill it.”

“The moment they encounter something bigger than a deer, they’ll be finished,” Raghur added with a cruel smile.

“Even if they did manage to find the treasure, it would be wasted on them,” muttered Zarrath, his dark eyes gleaming with contempt. “They wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

The Elves and Orcs alike erupted in laughter once more, the sound filling the air with mocking mirth. The idea of the Dreadmaw Clan succeeding where others had failed was simply too ludicrous for them to entertain.

“Impossible!” they chorused, their voices full of condescension.

And so, they stood, laughing at the thought of the Dreadmaw Clan ever becoming anything more than simple hunters.

The idea of them reaching the bottom of the dungeon, claiming the treasure, or leading the rest of the Orc clans was absurd to them.

Completely impossible, very impossible.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep