The mist in the forest always clung to every living thing like an unwashed shroud, damp and cold.
The coarse skin of the orcs seeped with oily sweat, mixing with mud to form dark furrows on their necks. In the center of the circle they formed, a half-worn oak barrel clanged with the commotion inside. From time to time, drops of foul blood splattered from the cracks in the barrel, landing on the moss-flecked ground, only to be absorbed by the wet earth, leaving a dark red stain.
"Beat him! Bite his ear ov!" The strongest orc, Irontusk, tapped the rim of the barrel with a bone club, his murky eyes glowing with excited red light.
To his left, Scarface was stuffing a gnawed bone back into his waist, freeing his claws to pour sour mushroom wine into his mouth. The wine trickled down the corners of his mouth into his beard, sticking to a few dead leaves.
The five orcs in the circle weren't wearing proper armor; some had a few rusty iron plates hanging on their chests, others had tattered cloth wrapped around their arms. Only the axes and cleavers at their waists were polished bright—those were their tools for survival, and their confidence for gambling at the moment.
The commotion inside the barrel grew fiercer.
First, there was a crisp "snap," followed by a shrill scream. The barrel lid was violently pushed up, revealing half a small, blood-stained face.
It was a goblin, its green skin not as thick as an orc's, thin as water-soaked kindling. One of its eyes was swollen shut, and blood streamed from its nose, yet it clung desperately to another goblin's arm, gnawing furiously with its teeth.
The one being bitten was no slouch either. Its claws raked wildly at its opponent's belly, its fingernails caked with bloody mud, and it shrieked "squeak, squeak, wah, wah" in a sharp, urgent voice, like a rat with its tail stepped on.
"These little brats have a lot of fight in them!" Scarface tossed his empty wineskin to the ground and pulled a rusty copper nail from his chest—this was their wager.
Irontusk glanced at the copper nail, then at the goblin in the barrel biting its opponent's leg, and spat: "I bet on Crooked Claw! Last time he gnawed out a rat's eyeball!"
"Bullshite!" Zagurr, standing nearby, immediately retorted, clutching a piece of broken glass in his hand. "Chik scratched his belly just now! Chik is definitely going to win!"
Their shouts, mixed with the sounds of fighting from the barrel, echoed through the mist.
The forest was never short of fighting, but orcs didn't like to watch their own kind fight to the death—that was too much effort. They preferred watching goblin fight. These little brats were stupid and fragile, bit without strategy, and a little blood splatter was enough to entertain them for a long time.
Irontusk was already planning to exchange the winning copper nail for a piece of moldy bread and then find a tree hollow to sleep in for a day once the victor was decided.
Crooked Claw in the barrel suddenly let out a sharp scream.
He was kicked hard in the chest by Chik, falling backward to hit the barrel wall with a "thump," his eyes instantly glazing over.
Chik seized the opportunity to pounce, pressing his neck down to the bottom of the barrel, his claws gripping his head tightly, letting out a victorious Hiss.
Crooked Claw's limbs thrashed wildly, splashing muddy water onto the barrel walls. The commotion grew weaker and weaker, his neck on the verge of being snapped—
"Bang!"
A loud bang suddenly erupted in the mist, like a giant rock hitting a mud pit.
Irontusk felt a sudden numbness in his right ear, then saw Scarface beside him stiffen, a blood-filled hole suddenly exploding in his chest.
Foul blood mixed with bits of flesh sprayed out, splattering on his face, carrying a hot, fishy smell.
Scarface's eyes were wide open, gasping "ho ho," and before he could make another sound, he fell straight to the ground, twitched twice, and then stopped moving.
The remaining four orcs were instantly stunned.
They froze in place, their excitement not yet faded, replaced by complete terror.
Irontusk wiped the blood from his face and looked at the blood-filled hole in Scarface's chest—the edges of the hole were scorched black, still emitting a faint wisp of smoke, definitely not caused by an axe or an arrow.
"Who?!" Zagurr suddenly grabbed the cleaver from the ground, his voice trembling.
They turned fiercely, looking in the direction of the sound.
The mist, startled by the noise, dispersed somewhat. Dozens of paces away, a thicket of bushes suddenly swayed, and then, more than a dozen short, stout figures emerged.
These fellows were a head shorter than the orcs, but as solid as rocks. They wore pitch-black iron armor and carried metal-gleaming pipes, which were pointed directly at them, emitting faint white smoke.
Dwarves!
"It's the dwarves' musketeer squad!" Irontusk recognized the pipes—they were dwarf muskets, rumored to be able to pierce an orc's bones from dozens of paces away.
His heart instantly went cold, but then the ferocity in his orc blood made his head swell.
"Kill them! Take their muskets!" Someone shouted, and the remaining four orcs' eyes instantly turned red.
They forgot Scarface's death, forgot the terrifying bang, and charged forward, howling.
Irontusk ran at the front, holding his bone club, with only one thought in his mind: hack these dwarves to death, seize those fire-spitting pipes, and then he could swagger around the Tribe.
But they had only run a few steps when the dwarves opposite them moved.
The leading dwarf spat on the ground and shouted in a rough voice: "Form ranks! Fire!"
More than a dozen muskets were raised simultaneously, their dark muzzles aimed at the charging orcs.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Several more loud bangs followed in quick succession, like thunder.
Irontusk saw several flashes of fire, and then, two orcs beside him screamed and fell.
One was shot through the neck, blood gushing upwards like a fountain; the other was hit in the leg, the bone at the knee directly shattered, and he fell to the ground, rolling and clutching his leg. He stopped moving after a couple of rolls.
The remaining Irontusk and Zagurr stopped dead in their tracks, terrified.
Zagurr reacted quickly, turning to try and dart into the forest, but after only two steps, he was shot in the back.
He stumbled forward, collapsing into the mud. Blood gushed from the hole in his back, quickly staining the moss beneath him black and red.
Irontusk stood frozen, his bone club clattering to the ground.
He watched the dwarves opposite him systematically reload their weapons, looked at their expressionless faces, and suddenly felt all the strength drain from his body.
He wanted to run, but his legs felt like they were filled with lead, unable to move.
"Bang."
The last shot rang out.
A bloody hole appeared on Irontusk's forehead. He swayed, the mist before his eyes began to spin, and the gunshots and screams in his ears gradually faded away.
He fell to the ground, landing right next to Scarface, his eyes still staring in the direction of the barrel—the fighting there had long stopped, the barrel lid askew, revealing the faces of two goblin inside.
The dwarf musketeer squad didn't look at the orc corpses on the ground anymore.
The leading dwarf—a red feather pinned to his armor, likely the captain—raised his hand and waved. Several dwarves immediately stepped forward, using their musket butts to push aside the orc corpses, checking for any survivors.
"Captain, they're all dead," a dwarf said gruffly.
The captain grunted, his gaze falling on the oak barrel.
The two goblin in the barrel had long stopped fighting. Crooked Claw leaned dizzily against the barrel wall, while Chik cowered at the bottom of the barrel, trembling with fear, all his previous ferocity gone.
"Annoying," the captain frowned, lifting his foot and kicking the barrel.
The oak barrel, already loosened by the goblin's collisions, was sent flying by his kick, tumbling in the air with a "thump" before dropping into the nearby stream.
The stream wasn't deep, but the current was swift. As soon as the barrel entered, it was spun around by the flow. Crooked Claw and Chik inside didn't even have time to cry out before they were shaken unconscious, slumping softly to the bottom of the barrel.
The barrel drifted downstream with the current, quickly enveloped by the mist, leaving only spreading ripples on the water's surface.
The dwarves paid no attention to the drifting barrel. The captain was wiping dust from his musket when suddenly, a thunderous roar erupted from the distant forest.
The sound was wild, chaotic, mixed with orc Hiss, clearly indicating a large number of them.
"Damn it, it's those bastards from the Blackwood Tribe!" A dwarf cursed, quickly raising his musket.
The captain looked up, only to see a dark mass of orcs rushing out from deep within the mist—orcs from the Blackwood Tribe.
There were many more of them than the previous few orcs, at least twenty or thirty, carrying axes, spears, and a few even wielding rusty iron shields. Leading them was a large individual, half a head taller than a regular orc, with black Tribe totems painted on his face, and he was carrying a massive axe, howling as he charged towards them.
"Form ranks! Don't panic!" the captain shouted loudly.
The dwarves immediately formed a musketeer formation, more than a dozen muskets lined up, aimed at the charging orcs.
The orcs of the Blackwood Tribe had clearly never seen muskets. Seeing only a dozen dwarves, they charged even more fiercely. The leading boss even raised his axe, roaring at the dwarves as if showing off his strength.
"Fire!"
The muskets roared again. This time, the gunshots were denser, like a string of exploding firecrackers.
The several orcs at the very front instantly fell, some shot through the chest, others with shattered heads, blood and flesh splattering everywhere.
The orcs behind were blocked, hesitating for a moment, but the boss behind them chopped down a retreating orc with an axe, Hissing and urging them to charge forward.
The orcs surged forward again like madmen. The dwarves quickly reloaded, and the second rank of muskets opened fire, another batch of orcs falling into a pool of blood.
The open space by the stream was small, and the orcs were squeezed together, unable to dodge. The musket balls rained down on them like hail. Screams and Hiss mingled, making one's scalp tingle.
But there were simply too many orcs. Despite a dozen being killed, several still reached the musketeer formation.
An orc wielding an iron shield swung his axe at a dwarf, but it was blocked by a musket. Another dwarf took the opportunity to smash his musket butt into the orc's knee. With a crisp "snap," the orc screamed and knelt on the ground, then had his head blown off with a shot.
The captain looked at the orcs who had charged close, then suddenly threw his musket to the ground.
He took a step back and reached behind him to unfasten something—it was a giant axe almost as tall as he was, its blade glinting coldly, its handle wrapped in non-slip animal hide.
"The rest are up to you!" He shouted to the dwarves beside him, then, wielding the giant axe, charged towards the boss.
The boss was just chopping down a dwarf who tried to get close. Seeing the captain charge, he bared his yellow teeth, raised his axe, and met him.
"Dwarf! Die!" He Hissed, his axe whistling through the air as it cleaved towards the captain's head. The force was enough to cut a small tree in half.
The captain, however, was unhurried.
He sidestepped, dodging the axe while simultaneously sweeping his giant axe horizontally, bringing a Blood Wind as it cut towards the boss's waist.
The boss reacted quickly, leaping backward. The giant axe grazed his belly, not harming his flesh, but tearing a large gash in the tattered cloth around his waist.
"Well met!" The boss roared, raising his axe again and pouncing.
The two instantly clashed, the clanging of axe and giant axe resounding "clank, clank," shaking the surrounding mist.
The boss, relying on his height and strength, struck with heavy, vicious blows with every axe swing. But the captain was more agile, his footworc like a dance, always able to dodge at the last possible moment. His giant axe, meanwhile, constantly aimed at the boss's vital points, forcing him to retreat repeatedly.
The surrounding fighting continued.
The remaining orcs, without their leader, were steadily beaten back by the dwarf musketeer squad, falling one by one, quickly losing the ability to fight back.
The dwarves, holding their muskets, advanced steadily, gunshots occasionally ringing out, harvesting the remaining orcs.
On the open ground by the stream, the captain and the boss's duel also reached its end.
The boss had his arm gashed by the giant axe and took another hit from the axe handle, leaving him dizzy and disoriented, his movements growing slower and slower.
He Hissed, swinging his final axe blow, but it was easily dodged by the captain.
The captain seized the opportunity to charge forward, raising his giant axe high, then bringing it down sharply—
"Pfft!"
The axe blade precisely struck the boss's neck.
Blood instantly gushed out, splattering the captain. The boss's head rolled to the ground with a "gurgle," coming to rest by the stream, his eyes still wide, as if unable to believe he had died like this.
His body swayed, then fell to the ground with a "thump." Blood gushed from his neck like a fountain, quickly staining a large area of the ground red.
Seeing their boss killed, the remaining few orcs completely panicked.
They forgot the fighting, forgot the hatred, screaming and turning to run into the forest, wanting only to get away from these musket-wielding dwarves.
"Don't let them escape!" The captain picked up the musket from the ground and fired a shot at the last fleeing orc.
The orc screamed and fell, and the remaining ones ran even faster, disappearing into the misty forest in a blink of an eye.
"Captain, should we pursue?" a dwarf asked.
The captain glanced into the depths of the forest, then at the scattered orc corpses on the ground, and shook his head: "No need. They won't get far; the beasts in the forest will take care of them." He wiped the blood from his face, slung the giant axe back onto his back, "Inspect the battlefield, collect ammunition, and take anything usable."
The dwarves immediately fanned out, beginning to clear the battlefield.
They searched the orc corpses, picking up usable axes and iron shields, and collecting any unused ammunition.
The musketeer formation remained vigilant, muzzles pointed towards the forest, to prevent any escaped orcs from returning to ambush them.
The mist began to thicken again, slowly enveloping the corpses and bloodstains on the ground, as well as the dwarves' stout figures.
The stream flowed gently. The oak barrel that had drifted away earlier was long gone. The two goblin inside were still unconscious, drifting downstream with the current, not knowing where they would be carried.
The fighting in the forest had stopped, leaving only the sounds of the dwarves cleaning up, and the occasional distant orc Hiss, which were soon swallowed back by the dense mist, as if everything that had just happened was merely a bloody, illusory dream.