Atticus squinted his eyes as he stood on a tree branch, his whole form crouched. He was currently located at least 50 meters away from the camp, and despite the distance, Atticus could still vividly see the ongoings of the camp.

‘Looks like it was made in a hurry,’ the entirety of the camp only had two tents erected, and considering the high numbers of armored men present in said camp, it made it quite clear that they didn’t have the luxury of having a place to rest in.

Apart from that, Atticus also caught sight of different equipment scattered around the camp, and among them, the sight of numerous gigantic artillery pieces, with their massive nozzles pointing towards the direction he had come from, caught his attention.

‘That explains the attack in the air,’ Atticus reasoned. He had wondered where the attack had come from earlier, and gazing at the heavy artillery, it didn’t take many neurons for him to figure it out.

But this could only mean one thing: they had been expecting them. That was the only thing that could explain the presence of the hastily made camp.

Atticus shifted his gaze away from the imposing weapons, looking at the multiple watchtowers erected around the perimeter of the camp. There were no walls and only hastily made short wooden fences around the camp.

‘Are they made of bones?’

It went without saying that Atticus had stumbled upon some kind of bone race. Considering their distinct features and abilities of the ones he had defeated, reaching this conclusion was as easy as making pie.

The watchtowers were opened, each with a pair of two men, heavily armed, gazing at the surrounding area and ready to react to anything with their full attention. And what was so eye-catching was the fact that each watchtower seemed to be made of bones.

The men were all so diligent at their jobs that Atticus was tempted to believe that they were robots. But recalling the warrior persona of Zekaron, their diligent behavior became understandable.

‘Looks like I stumbled upon some sort of warrior race.’

Noting each of the watchtowers and the fact that he was out of their sights, Atticus scanned the whole camp, and after a few moments of searching, he finally found what he was searching for.

A few men donned in the same futuristic combat suits all stood stationary around one point at the backside of the camp. Despite his incredible senses, Atticus was having a hard time discerning what they were obviously guarding, but he didn’t need to.

There was only one thing that should require such a number of people to protect or, in this sense, watch. Prisoners.

‘You all better hope to the gods that she’s okay,’

Atticus suddenly placed his right hand on one of the short daggers crossed on his lower back, his gaze turning icy.

…

Inside the confines of one of the large tents that Atticus had been scouting, the sounds of brutal thuds resounded across the space.

The interior of the space did justice to the tent’s massive size. Despite the fact that the camp had truly been hastily made, the opulence of the tent would suggest otherwise.

There was a king-sized mattress with a canopy at the far end of the space along with elaborate and clearly expensive-looking furnitures.

The whole ground was padded with a long dining table filled with numerous delicacies in the middle of the room along with a chandelier hanging on top, illuminating the whole room.

The sounds of the brutal thuds showed no signs of stopping, increasing in intensity with each passing second, followed by thunderous robotic sounds.

“What do you mean he disappeared!?”

A large, rotund leg brutally slammed against the bloodied, helpless head of a man lying face-first on the ground.

He was donned in the same outfit as the men that attacked Atticus but with his head exposed, without any helmet.

There were two other men with their heads bowed, standing close to the entrance of the tent, each of them wearing the same outfit. With one look, it was unmistakable; they each had the same features as Zekaron, the bone race.

There was not a single feeling of compassion as they watched their comrade get beaten; to each one of them, they deserved it.

They had failed in their duties and deserved nothing more than to have their heads cut off. There were no excuses; their warrior’s heart wouldn’t let them make one.

The thunderous robotic voice of the man resonated, “How could you possibly lose him!? The Ossarch would have our heads if he finds out.”

The man seethed, his huge rotund leg hitting the man on the head once more, an action that seemed to make his cheeks and fat tremble and vibrate.

Crimson blood splattered on the ground in response to the intense force. Despite his bloodied state, the man being beaten made absolutely no sound.

Meanwhile, the one unleashing this torment had his large body drenched with sweat, clearly because of the “strenuous” movements he had just undergone. He was rotund, his appearance a sight to behold.

He looked like a large, round man with a massive and rotund frame, with rolls of soft flesh that wobbled as he moved.

Every movement he took caused his voluminous bulk to jiggle. His cheeks and chin were round and plum. His belly was the most prominent feature, protruding like a sizeable barrel beneath his ample chest, causing the buttons on his shirt to strain with each breath.

His legs and arms were stout, and his fingers were thick and stubby. Despite this, he still had the distinct trait reminiscent of the bone race and was dressed luxuriously.

The man breathed haggardly, raised his massive hand, and removed a white handkerchief from his soft chest, wiping the sweat that formed on his forehead.

After which he shot the man on the ground a stare as though blaming him for stressing his body too much.

“I want you to take as many men as you can, burn the forest if you have to. Find Prince Zekaron at all costs!”