The two orcs exchanged glances, both showing signs of deep dread in the face of such an uncanny sight. One tightened his grip on his wooden club, while the other stood ready to sound the alarm at a moment's notice. Yet, they hesitated; the strict codes of the Orc tribes demanded adherence. A false alarm, they knew, would not lead to harsh abuse or reprimands; rather, the orc tribes under Saruman were a race defined by stark efficiency, brutality, and simplicity. The most common punishment involved the silent retrieval of a heated iron mold, pressed carelessly and forcefully onto the offender's skin with a searing hot brand.

Before the victim could recover from the intense pain and the pungent stench of scorched flesh, they would be demoted to slavery, only regaining the status of a 'Freeman' upon earning some significant merit.

These accumulating factors sealed the grim fate of the two half-orcs. Their failure to detect the hidden, profound danger lurking nearby meant they would pay the ultimate price: their lives.

In that moment of hesitation, they caught a scent.

A scent rich with ***. It was like newly warmed wine, or perhaps tender beast meat, momentarily lifted from a simmering pot, accompanied by the fragrance of fruit at its perfect peak. Both orcs, cold and starving, felt their throats involuntarily contract.

Simultaneously, the surrounding trees began to bud, sprout, and grow at an astonishing speed. Green leaves burst forth rapidly, a powerful surge of vibrant natural energy dominating the area, as if spring had prematurely descended upon this bleak, frozen landscape. Then, suddenly, that intense power rapidly receded. It was only then that the two half-orcs snapped back to awareness! It was time to sound the magical alarm!

It was a mere thought, however, and before they could execute the action, an agonizing, burning pain erupted throughout their bodies. Amidst flashing golden light, an ancient Elven glyph swept past their eyes. It was as if, in that instant, the very souls of the two half-orcs were drawn toward the glyph, scalded and dissolved.

"Fools…" One half-orc strained to lift the axe in his hand, but the weapon fell limply halfway up. After uttering those two words, the nearby tree abruptly snapped in two, and he too broke at the waist, collapsing onto the snow like two severed logs. Blood gushed out in a torrent, steaming briefly on the snow before rapidly congealing into ice the color of fresh crimson.

The other half-orc had just managed to turn in terror to flee when the ancient Elven glyph shot toward him from behind, overtaking him swiftly. It punched a horrific wound through his back and then curved back in a high arc. Yet, there was no blood flowing from the wound on the front of his chest. He seemed oblivious, running a full score of meters before abruptly pitching forward onto his face—motionless forevermore.

In the woods, Fang Senyan sank to one knee, bracing himself against a tree trunk, gasping for air in ragged bursts, occasionally letting out a half-suppressed retch. As he struggled for breath, he cursed the accursed spatial constraint for robbing him so brutally of his strength. After a good while, he managed to stand and staggered a few steps forward, whereupon a slender figure seemed to phase through the surrounding trees and directly supported him. It was the Elf girl, Wuge.

Fang Senyan looked back. "How was it? Is that chest buried securely?" Wuge nodded but offered little else; deep down, she genuinely disliked killing. Seeing her unusually pale complexion, Fang Senyan frowned slightly. "What’s wrong?" Wuge looked down at her toes, timidly admitting, "After I... after I followed your instructions and buried the chest, I happened upon a... a wounded bear. Its fur was truly soft, and its eyes were filled with terror and fear, so I treated its wounds..."

"I know," Fang Senyan sighed. He truly couldn't fault the gentle Elven girl. After all, her identity as a Dawn Elf and the memories associated with her magic didn't mean she underwent a fundamental, core transformation. For Wuge, an Elven maiden whose chronological age barely equated to a human sixteen, she had already shown considerable resilience and courage through the ordeal.

"I'm sorry..." Wuge looked on the verge of tears. "My power is nearly depleted; I only had one more ancient Elven glyph available. Killing those three half-orcs was nearly my limit."

"It's alright," Fang Senyan said seriously. "Then let’s move quickly. Before that group manages to catch up."

He felt a surge of internal frustration. As the saying went, even the wisest can err. How much better it would have been not to let Reef take away all the Hecamaj Eggs! Keeping even one would have allowed Wuge to fully recover! Instead of being in this passive state now.

"Are you sure it's fine?" the Elven girl asked, her eyes glistening with tears.

Fang Senyan nodded. "It's fine, but if we don't leave soon, it will be a problem." The two began their arduous trek. Although they had neutralized the three pursuing half-orcs, an ominous premonition clung stubbornly to Fang Senyan's heart.

Clearly, Saruman's losses this time were catastrophic. Setting aside the priceless gems, the stolen Mithril and Adamant alone likely represented an entire year's yield across Middle-earth! Under these circumstances, Fang Senyan absolutely did not believe Saruman would simply swallow the insult and allow them to escape! And now, he was truly a 'burden'—at this sluggish pace, he feared even more terrifying pursuers would soon be on their heels!

With this thought, Fang Senyan asked Wuge to find him a sheltered cave, suggesting she leave first. Without his hindrance, even with her divine magic exhausted, she could certainly travel much faster than their current pace. But this time, the Elven maiden was resolute; without uttering another word, she took Fang Senyan's hand, tears streaming down her face. Reluctantly, Fang Senyan had no choice but to continue forging ahead with her.

Despite Fang Senyan constantly sensing immense danger, their journey progressed surprisingly smoothly. The expected pursuers never materialized. He wondered if the Dawn Elf's blessing was so potent it masked their tracks, or if the damage inflicted by Hecamaj upon Saruman's forces was so severe that they simply couldn't dispatch many troops?

………………

By now, Fang Senyan and Wuge had begun traversing a path rife with cold, slippery danger.

The wind was ferocious, whipping icy snowflakes that cut like blades against their skin. Fang Senyan frequently had to bend low, struggling against the wind resistance just to move forward. Occasional flashes of green light manifested on his body—the Dawn Elf's blessing activating intermittently to dispel the abnormal conditions affecting him.

To their left lay an ice gorge at least a hundred meters deep and wider than two hundred meters. Peering down revealed jagged ice formations resembling wolf fangs crisscrossing the depths; a fall meant certain death, puncturing every vital organ.

The opposite bank of the ice gorge was only about seven or eight kilometers in a straight line from the Orc city. From their vantage point, they could even see the snowy peak that the orcs had burrowed into a white honeycomb.

During his previous forced march, Fang Senyan had noted the specific terrain: this Orc city was situated within an ice valley basin deep in the Misty Mountains. This basin had only one passage to the south, a bottleneck called the "Black Notched Gap." Below the southern mountains of the basin lay this terrifying, sprawling ice valley, girdling the foot of the southern mountains like a belt spun from nightmare.

Without this treacherous ice valley, after passing through the Black Notched Gap, a straight path for five or six kilometers would lead directly to the Orc city. But with the valley present, even after passing the Gap, they had to travel west alongside the gorge for seven or eight kilometers until they reached its narrowest point, then cross using a pre-built wooden bridge, all while enduring the harsh climate.

Because the wooden bridge was rudimentary and long-neglected, the crossing was exceedingly dangerous for inexperienced captives. Thus, everyone had to maintain absolute focus and cross with extreme caution. Consequently, the actual distance from the Black Notched Gap to the Orc city exceeded fifteen kilometers.

Naturally, in such a critical, virtually impassable choke point, the shrewd Saruman would have stationed guards. Under normal circumstances, three Uruk-hai and ten half-orcs would patrol day and night around the small hut at the bridgehead—not even a fly could slip past.

"...Of course, assuming there were flies here.

But under the massive distraction caused by the legendary creature Hecamaj, Saruman had unhesitatingly drawn all defensive forces away, leaving only one half-orc behind as a guard—one who was clearly aged, weak, and broken.

The only task assigned to this sentry was to tear a magic scroll and alert Saruman if any suspicious activity arose. Regrettably, this old fellow was evidently not the most diligent worker.

When Fang Senyan and Wuge spotted him, the creature was snoring soundly beside a small fire. His yellowish tusks jutted out, and thick drool dripped from the corners of his lips, already forming a significant puddle on the ground... This provided ample reason to believe that Mr. Reef, who had escaped hours earlier, had likely strolled straight through this point without issue.