Staring at his empty six, the Chieftain's eyes widened.
He stared at the space behind him—stared at the empty, churning sandstorm where his squad had been. Just hours ago, he walked out of his home with twelve Grey Orcs, all of whom were his strongest warriors.
All of them were trained to be alert.
All of them had gone through many battles that hardened their instincts.
And yet, none of them remained as if they had been swept away by the sandstorm.
Like they had never existed at all.
Upon realization, his chest heaved.
And gradually, his breaths became heavier, turning into furious gasps.
Each one stoked the flame building in his core. Rage rose through his neck, up his spine—and into his skull. His tribe was being ransacked by usurpers. And now, his warriors disappeared, most likely dead.
It was clear that there was an enemy nearby, but he didn't know where.
He couldn't pick up anything at all in the area.
