Cain's eyes caught the subtle motion, Pumbo's his fingers working fast as he detached the reinforced cylinders strapped to his thighs.
With a few precise twists, he removed the barrels from both shotguns and began reassembling the parts into a single elongated weapon.
Two meters long, sleek but brutal, its form finalized with a compact flat scope he snapped into place.
No words exchanged, Cain felt the docile half-human was gone, replaced by a hardened mercenary.
Across from him, Ricky let out a low sigh, almost theatrical, before pulling out his own rifle from his bag.
Sleek, silver-toned with a matte-orange chassis, clearly a custom-built, high-caliber, and at least one whole grade above Cain's.
It wasn't just for show. It was precision forged into steel, and its presence alone spoke volumes.
Tol wasn't one to lag behind. His spear, seemingly a mid-range combat weapon moments ago, had been crafted with modular intent.
He cracked it open along the seams, revealing a hollow core lined with casing locks.
Within seconds, he loaded an ammunition shell, transforming it into a gunlance, both a weapon of thrust and fire.
Mankind, regardless of lineage or social standing, never forgot what truly saved them when all else failed.
They remembered their first weapon.
Firearms.
Cain's voice cut clean through the comms, crisp and focused.
"Beany, you're eyes-on for Ricky and Tol. Left flank, tight spread.
"Fara, Pumbo take the right. We keep it wide, don't bunch up."
There was no hesitation, Ricky and Tol broke off through the formation, keeping low, their makeshift firearms secured tight to their sides.
Beany moved up onto a higher ridge, her vantage point secured with a quick barrier glyph beneath her boots.
Cain ran into his own position behind cover, eyes glued to the tablet synced with his wasp drones.
"Target count, one hundred seventeen. Twenty-four couriers, marked with supply caches on their backs. Seven hellhounds, likely bred for energy tracking. Eighty-six red ogres. Twenty-eight with long range weaponry, the rest all melee."
The numbers were relayed calmly, but every line delivered like a hammer blow. This wasn't a raiding party.
This was an forward squad, loaded with gear, and armed for overwhelming dominance.
They didn't know Cain beyond this job. Didn't know if this plan would work.
Each of them had stashed their own fallback paths, hidden slides in the terrain.
Trust was optional, and no one needed to ask where anyone planned to retreat individually.
Cain had even indicated this on the contract, and the exact reason why they all joined the team without hesitation.
Despite everything, no one wanted to leave empty-handed.
They followed Cain for now, but each of them was ready to retreat if things went awry.
Cain's voice was focused and exact as he relayed the second details through the comms/
"Team closely, those aren't slaves. They're white goblins couriers. Specializes in assistance, and organizing items."
He maneuvered the was against the slope of the ridge, letting the drone get a greater footage.
The creatures were striking, slender and smooth-skinned, their bodies toned not through combat but through years of motion, speed, and care.
Their skin shimmered like fresh-fallen snow, not from pigmentation alone but from a racial trait tied to their obsession with cleanliness and order.
They didn't roll in filth like their darker cousins. They polished everything they touched.
Tools, clothing, even supply crates.
Their faces are closer to elves than goblins. Sharp lines, small nose, faint tusks from the lower jaw. Eyes like shallow brilliant sky blue.
"They're fast, stronger than they look, and they specialize in precision-based trades. Medicine. Logistics. Courier networks. Think of them like living organizers."
"These aren't our objective. The moment we engage, they'll scatter. Not worth the chase."
Cain's gaze shifted toward the red ogres stomping through the marsh, iron-plated fists slamming into the underbrush.
"Now the red ones? Different story. Red ogres are brutality given legs. Short-tempered, hungry, and violent. But don't mistake simple-mindedness for stupidity. They are capable of scheming."
"End of the day, if they either a man or woman, things will turn ugly fast. They'll line up, and make a glory hole out of you."
Cain's teammates shuddered at the thought. They knew this was still considered frontline territory, but the level of barbarism was beyond what they could stomach.
The humans had an alliance with the green-skinned clans, sealed by trade and the occasional blood oath.
The earth-toned ones remained neutral, swayed by tribal tradition and a reluctance to break old pacts.
But the red-skins? They were outside the line. Not just untreatied, but untethered. Hostile by code, by culture, by choice.
Cain's voice softened for a second, the edge still there, but quieter.
"I said all this, so we're all clear."
He didn't want them wasting time with questions mid-fight.
Survival was non-negotiable, and if they screwed it up, the blame wouldn't fall on him.
Every suit recorded audio, and liability was a matter of playback and profit.
"Follow my signal. I'm spotting this time. If your hands are still shaky from the centivine scuffle, speak up now."
No one answered, not with words.
After a brief stretch of time, each member of Cain's team confirmed their positions.
On his terminal, their icons blinked across the screen, scattered loosely within a kilometer-wide radius.
Their spacing was deliberate, chosen to minimize crossfire while giving each unit enough terrain to retreat or engage depending on how the situation developed.
Cain adjusted the visual filters on his display, ensuring every movement was logged.
Coordination was still solid, even if the terrain was foreign.
Through their scopes, they watched the orcs.
The enemy had not charged. Instead, the orcs examined the from a distance blight centivine, crouched low like hunters studying the kill of another predator.
Their hellhounds sniffed the dirt, pacing in back and forth as they absorbed the scent trails of earlier violence.
Cain's teammates kept their eyes locked, veins pulsing in the whites. Anger was building, but not yet loose.
They knew better than to start a revenge act without orders. No one wanted to break formation over a grudge.
Tol's voice came through the link.
"I have a special ammunition that could slow down a golemite. Freezing radius is five meters give or take."
It was meant for containment, not direct lethality.
"No rush, let's pull them in first."
If they couldn't walk away with the prize, then no one else should.