"All right, according to our intel, this squad has two people whose looks meet the requirements. We can sell them to the lord in Ronn City along with our newly caught merchandise. Just make sure you don't kill them."
Dorian's pointed ears twitched in the firelight, his coldly gleaming pupils sweeping across all the bandits present.
"Whoever screws up this deal and keeps the crew from eating meat can stay behind and feed the wolves!"
After that, they discussed operational details. Half an hour later, the figures around the campfire retreated to their respective tents to rest.
"Sell me to the lord in Ronn City?"
By the rock wall, curled up on the damp, broken wooden boards, every hair on Orum's body stood on end.
There were no outsiders in the cave. Besides Orum, who else could the "merchandise" in Dorian's words refer to?
So these vicious bandits didn't value my herbal skills at all. They were coveting my face, forcing me to become some perverted noble's plaything.
Combined with the looks from the duergar, tiefling, and half-orc that seemed to regard him as already dead...
Orum had no doubt this "plaything" role was very likely a one-time use.
Wow, isn't this the Middle Ages? Are the elites all this twisted?
Fear made Orum's skin crawl, his breath turning icy cold.
Orum understood he had to escape quickly, or he'd definitely face a fate worse than death.
"Stay calm. It's not the most desperate moment yet." Orum's cold gaze swept across the chaotic bandit cave, past the crude tents where rusted, poorly maintained knives, swords, and axes lay scattered.
"They call themselves bandits, but actually... they're just a bunch of small fry."
Small numbers, poor discipline, unprofessional operations... all creating countless vulnerabilities.
Take right now, for instance. The blazing campfire had no one watching it, and the distance between flames and tents was far less than a safe margin. Orum only needed to twist his body and kick once to start a small fire.
Of course, that kind of chaos alone wouldn't be enough for Orum to escape... but what if you added the remarkably sloppy rope knots?
These past few days, Orum's life had been like a Myanmar border hostage. Apart from one meal and one bathroom break per day, the rest of his time was spent trussed up like a dumpling, hands and feet each bound by separate ropes.
The task of watching Orum rotated among the duergar, tiefling, and half-orc.
Orum keenly observed that the three tied knots differently.
Perhaps due to his impatient personality and crude technique, the half-orc Garr's knot... was just a slip knot disguised as a dead knot.
Since it was a slip knot, Orum could completely break free and liberate his hands and feet.
However, this opportunity only existed on the day when half-orc Garr was "on duty."
Perhaps Lady Luck was watching... tomorrow, the very same day these bandits would act again, the one watching Orum would be the half-orc!
"With no secure knot restraining me and no one in the cave guarding me, tomorrow is the perfect escape opportunity!" Orum thought to himself. "Also possibly... my last chance to survive!"
Orum had a basic understanding of the terrain around Blackwater Town. The "Wolf's Den" cave where Dorian's gang resided was located in the Misty Forest between Blackwater Town and the Drumhold Dungeon.
As long as he could escape the Wolf's Den and run west for half a day, he'd cross through the Misty Forest and return to Blackwater Town.
Although along the way he might encounter venomous snakes, jungle panthers, low-level monsters... the risk was completely within controllable range.
"This plan's feasibility: five stars!"
"Once I get back, I'll report the bandits' information to the town guard and earn those 10 gold coins! Won't I have startup capital again?"
Harboring hope, Orum drifted into fitful sleep on the damp wooden boards.
...
The next day, everything happened just as Orum had anticipated.
In the morning, Orum used eating, drinking, and bathroom breaks as reasons to briefly free his hands and feet, then was tied up again by half-orc Garr.
Orum secretly observed, confirming that the half-orc's knot was still a slip knot. His heart wanted to jump for joy.
No... wait until these people leave before jumping.
Dorian and his three companions finished their preparations (in fact, they didn't even have a mage, so there wasn't much to prepare) and, like demons released from their cage, headed out of the cave.
However, after walking barely a kilometer, Dorian stopped and frowned at a patch of damp soil on the ground.
Dorian's eyes signaled to Steelton, who immediately stepped forward, picked up a tiny bit with his fingers, tasted it, and stated with certainty:
"This is goblin feces!"
"Near our camp, a new goblin squad has appeared!"
Dorian's head instantly ached. Goblins were like cockroaches in a kitchen. When you spotted one, it meant the surrounding area had already bred a whole swarm.
"Garr, you go back and guard the camp. I don't want goblins to turn our base upside down." Dorian turned to the half-orc.
"Me?" Half-orc Garr was displeased. "Why should I go? What's the point of killing those dog-like things?"
"Someone has to go." Steelton said coldly, simultaneously standing behind the others.
Ferrak interjected, "Why waste words on this goblin's rage-prone cousin? If he doesn't want to go chop greenskins, ask his mother for the reason."
"What did you say?!"
The half-orc was instantly enraged by Ferrak's words. All his muscles swelled and bulged, veins bulging beneath his skin like twisted vines, nearly splitting the skin. His double-bladed axe carved a bloody arc through the air, chopping straight down at Ferrak's head.
Ferrak jumped in fright and dodged to the side. The axe split a gash in the cork oak behind Ferrak, embedding deeply. The axe blade seemed stuck, and no matter how hard Garr pulled, he couldn't extract it.
By the time the half-orc finally wrenched the axe free with great effort, he turned to find Ferrak, Dorian, and Steelton had already run far away.
The half-orc's daily routine was just that simple, passionate, and rage-filled.
...
"Haha, I'm free!" Orum undid the slip knots on his hands and feet, excitedly shouting in a low voice.
Then Orum tiptoed among the ruined knives and swords by the tents, selecting a single-handed sword with acceptable rust levels and a small round shield.
The entire movement made very little noise.
Well, after all, safety wasn't confirmed yet. Better keep a low profile.
Carrying sword and shield, Orum came to the cave exit, glancing back somewhat reluctantly at the messy tents and stacked crates inside.
If given an hour, he could dig out plenty of valuable items from the camp and pack them all away.
Ceramic plates, glass cups, horseshoes, longswords, hammers...
Don't look down on these miscellaneous items; they could all be exchanged for money!
Unfortunately, Orum didn't have that time. Every extra minute in the cave meant danger drew closer.
Besides, carrying weight would reduce his subsequent escape success rate. In comparison, it wasn't worth the cost.
Which mattered more? Orum could distinguish clearly.
When it's time to cut, cut. Orum's internal struggle lasted only a few seconds before he turned and strode toward the cave exterior.
This nameless cave too insignificant even for maps to mark lay hidden in the northern Misty Forest. Dorian called it the "Wolf's Den."
Though it had an imposing name, the cave's structure wasn't complex. Orum groped forward in darkness, passed through two turns, and saw the opening connecting to the outside world.
At this moment, Orum could already see outside the cave entrance, the dense jungle shrouded in thin mist.
Dark green trees loomed in and out of the fog, dewdrops on leaves refracting weak skylight like scattered diamonds across the ground.
However, before he could feel happy...
A massive figure, chest breaking through a layer of mist, appeared at the far edge of Orum's vision.
The highly distinctive protruding jaw and tusks exposed beyond the lips let Orum recognize his identity instantly.
Half-orc Garr—why had he come back?!
Just as Orum's nerves tensed to the breaking point...
A crude hand crossbow extended from behind the bushes, pointing at Garr's chest.
"Swoosh—"
"Thwick—"
The bolt shot wide. The rusted arrowhead pierced flesh, deeply embedding itself in half-orc Garr's arm.
Dark red blood gushed out, winding down like a small venomous snake.
Half-orc Garr whipped around, his rage-spewing gaze instantly locking onto the small figures in the bushes:
"Damned goblins!"
That single shot seemed to ignite gunpowder in the air. The entire jungle came alive. The previously tranquil bushes shook violently as several entirely green figures burst forth.
These monsters had skin covered in bumps, stood as short as Steelton, had spindly limbs, wielded spiked wooden clubs, and their crimson eyes brimmed with cunning and malice.
They opened their drooling maws, revealing mouths full of sharp teeth.
All the goblins' eyes gleamed with unusual excitement, gazing at Garr's muscular arms, the half-orc's rear end.
Then their eyes reached a fever pitch of excitement:
"A beauty!"
"So exciting, graaah~!"
"Huh?"
Witnessing this scene, Orum froze completely. He nearly burst out cursing.
What kind of feral goblins were these, going after even male half-orcs?!
This chaotic aesthetic should sit at the same table as furries!!!
"By Gruumsh above..."
At this very moment, half-orc Garr's face changed drastically. Feeling the fervent gazes he'd never experienced before, his hair stood on end involuntarily, his thighs clamping together.
"Death would be fine, but if I survive and get captured by goblins... that would truly be a fate worse than death!"
"Ahhh!!!"
Imagining the terrifying outcome, the half-orc released an earth-shattering roar of desperation!
What to do? Only one option: fight!