As the hour passed, the catacomb echoed with the clattering and shuffling of the Orc clans moving about.
Volk had given the command for every clan, including the Dreadmaw, to hunt.
Only a handful of the Orcs remained behind—those skilled in preparing and cooking the meat for their eventual feast.
The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and sweat as the clans scattered into the labyrinthine depths, searching for creatures that roamed in the darkness.
The preparation area buzzed with activity. Fires crackled, spits were assembled, and the few Orcs left to tend the fires sharpened their knives and prepared the space for the grand meal.
Volk, leaning casually against the rough stone wall of the catacomb, suddenly felt a soft pulse from the system.
His brow furrowed as a notification screen appeared before his eyes.
| Ding!
| Please plant this to a place the Host desires to open the dimensional crack. |
