The valley was alive with the heavy footfalls of Orcs, their snorts and grunts filling the air like the rumbling of an impending storm.
Outside the Stonehooves Tribe's walls, what had once been a scattered group of pig-like creatures had now transformed into a sea of flesh.
Their numbers had tripled, maybe even more.
Hundreds upon hundreds of Valley Orcs, some the size of small horses, others twice as large, were amassing.
Their eyes gleamed with malice, their tusks glistening with saliva as they hefted their crude weapons—clubs, axes, and stone hammers—preparing for an assault.
It was as if they were waiting for the perfect moment to strike, as if the sheer weight of their numbers would ensure their victory.
Yet, even in their growing mass, there was a subtle hesitation.
Their eyes flickered, every so often, towards the imposing figure of the Minotaur.
