Wilderness Plains.
There are endless grasses here, dotted with a few short-necked trees.
On a slightly sloping grassland near the river, a large number of beast hide tents are scattered, looking like a large patch of mushrooms growing on the adow.
This day, the morning in the wilderness carried a bit of biting coldness, and the dew on the grass leaves was sharp and chilly.
Centaur Tribe mbers moved around, starting fires, cooking, and practicing. With upper bodies similar to humans, most wore worn leather armor, while their horse-like lower bodies were clad in skirts and coverings made from beast hides. Female centaurs only wore ordinary clothes made from beast hide fabrics — not ugly, but far from beautiful.
Gurgling~ The aroma of stewing large chunks of mutton mixed with wild vegetables wafted through the tribe’s skies.
In front of a dium-large tent made of golden beast hide, two female centaurs with sowhat similar appearances were cooking.
The younger female centaur stirred the food in the vessel with a stick, but her gaze was drawn to two male centaurs sparring on the open ground to the left.
Rough-styled iron greatswords swung in their hands, producing the fierce clash and sword flashes cutting through the air with sharp noise, leaving behind glowing white trails. The young female centaur’s eyes filled with envy as she watched.
"Doma, you mustn’t stop stirring the food, or it’ll lose its flavor."
The older female centaur preparing food with the young one reminded her.
The young centaur nad Doma quickly withdrew her gaze from the sparring pair and diligently resud stirring the food.
The vessel was crafted from a hollowed-out large black stone over a ter in diater, filled with a stew of mutton and wild vegetables.
Holding a thick wooden stick in both hands, Doma vigorously stirred the food, then stopped to add a basket full of chunky gray plant roots into the vessel.
Beneath the vessel, gray-white stones, irregular and oval-shaped, about fist-size, shot up fierce white flas, licking the bottom of the stone pot. These stones, known as fire stones, were picked from the riverbed by centaurs, mostly used for cooking.
Elsewhere, the sparring between the two male centaurs ended.
Doma and her mother handed them pelt cloths to wipe sweat, then quickly ladled two bowls filled with mutton stew using stone bowls.
"Father, brother, here." Doma passed the food to them.
"Not bad taste, Doma’s craftsmanship is improving." The father praised after drinking a large mouthful of rich soup and chewing a piece of mutton.
"Is it? I feel like it tastes the sa as before, maybe even fell short..." Doma’s brother thought otherwise, sipping soup and comnting with pursed lips.
Father shot him a look but said nothing.
After breakfast, clan commanders of the Gale Race gathered the tribe warriors.
Doma’s father and brother were tribe warriors, and after waving to their family, they enthusiastically departed.
In front of the beast hide tent, Doma and her mother stood outside, gazing at the distant disappearing group of centaur warriors.
"Mother, the tribe’s activities seem frequent lately, is sothing wrong?" Doma asked curiously.
"They say a human army entered the wasteland." Doma’s mother showed concern but quickly contained it, gently patting her daughter’s head and smoothing her uplifted strands, reassuring her,
"Don’t worry, the wasteland is centaur territory. Under the leadership of the great Commander Morgan, all danger will be kept away from our Gale Race."
Speaking of the great Commander Morgan, trust and admiration overflowed in the mother’s eyes.
Doma nodded too, her clear light brown eyes filled with trust.
The most feared multi-ard giant in the wasteland, its massive and fearso head is even now displayed in the great Commander Morgan’s tent.
....
Dusk, blood-like setting sun.
The centaur warriors who departed in the morning returned.
The tribesn left behind, hearing the commotion, ca out of their tents with joyful faces to welco their family. But when they saw the tragic sight of the returned party covered in blood, their expressions froze.
"Morgan, why haven’t I seen my husband? And my son? Haven’t they returned?"
A middle-aged female centaur frantically searched among the sparse centaur warriors for her husband, over and over again, failing to find them, helplessly asking the strong centaur standing at the forefront.
Similar in stature to ordinary centaur warriors, around 2.78 ters tall, the strong centaur had striking presence with his deep blue eyes, freely spread half-curled black hair, hooked nose, tough features, and scars all over.
He was Morgan, the centaur leader of the Gale Race, also nominally recognized as the King of Centaurs on the Wilderness Plains.
"You speak of Wendell and his son Wenqi? They were killed in a surprise attack by humans." Morgan inford the middle-aged female centaur of the harsh reality without expression.
Doma listening from the crowd, was stunned.
Ignoring the devastated middle-aged female centaur, Morgan fetched a deep cyan horn from his chest, placed it on his lips, and blew fiercely.
The deep and profound horn sounds spread, echoing through the fields.
Across the sloping riverbanks spanning dozens of kiloters, thousands of centaurs heard the horn sound, their expressions uniformly changed.
[When the hurricane horn sounds, it represents the most perilous mont for the Gale Race.]
At this mont, all centaurs quickly packed their precious belongings and rapidly converged towards the horn’s origin.
"Human army invades the wasteland. From now, Gale Race will disperse under five commanders leading five teams, employing guerrilla tactics."
Morgan coldly issued the order.
Five powerful centaur commanders erged from behind him, dividing the gathered tribes into five groups, moving in silence, and the teams marched in different directions to flee.
Standing on the hillside, Morgan watched the forrly vibrant tribe turn silent and dead, his blue eyes flashing with fierce brutality.
"My warriors." Morgan looked at the hundred-odd centaur warriors left behind, expression indifferent, tone cold,
"The Wilderness Plains are our hunting ground, all creatures are prey for us centaurs. Now, tell , what should we do."
"Crush! Crush!! Crush!!!" All one hundred eighty-two mighty centaur warriors roared like thunder, akin to thousands of troops, the intensely focused aura surged upward, scaring nurous birds high above into death, dropping like raindrops.
Forty years ago, galloping across the Wilderness Plains, driving and slaughtering countless monsters, demons, and humans, establishing territory for tens of thousands of centaurs, the Death Hurricane Knight Order now, under King of Centaurs Morgan’s renewed call, rekindles their forr blood-thirsty valor.
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