"Captain, what do we do now?"

"First, we need to get you somewhere safe. Stray orcs don't give up easily."

"And where around here could we possibly hide..."

Dozens of wagons had halted on the plain.

A battle had swept through like a storm.

Dark red blood was spattered over the wagons and the ground around them.

Orcs, each a full head taller than a man, lay sprawled about, pierced by arrows, spears and blades.

Ten or so of the mercenaries guarding the wagons had lost their lives.

Nobody had gotten off lightly.

A hit from an orc's axe or sword meant death or a crippling wound.

Still, they were lucky it was only stray orcs.

Twenty-odd stray orcs, all males, had boldly attacked the caravan.

The ambush had hit them hard.

The new recruits were the ones who'd died.

The caravan master and the mercenary captain both looked grim.

They were called strays, but they were scouts for an orc horde.

Other strays would smell their comrades' blood and come after them.

They'd have to wait until the smell of blood faded, or kill every last one that came.

"The Count of Bersha's castle... It's close."

"B-Bersha? Isn't that the cursed castle?"

At the name Bersha, Jerome's face went white.

"We have no choice. There's no village or domain near enough to help us in time."

"Haah... If only we hadn't taken the shortcut."

Regret was written all over Jerome's face.

He'd taken the shortcut to sell his goods faster.

But speed had turned out to be poison.

"Nobody could have guessed the orcs would stir this early. It's not your fault, sir."

"Even so, isn't the Bersha domain more dangerous, where they say a demon descended?"

"It's mostly rumor, isn't it? The castle should still be usable. The domain's only been in ruins for ten years. Finding a safe place and holding out till the orcs leave is our best bet."

Talman, the mercenary captain who'd grown up hard in the trade, pressed him firmly.

A stray pack runs to a few hundred at least. If we push…