Chương 115: 115：The Crisis at Lone Cliff

Gary pointed at the seemingly flat, hard-packed earth in the center of the northern path.

"Right underneath this dirt, that old bastard Luger set up a network of precision weight-bearing gears. They are specifically calibrated. They will only trigger when something exceeding the weight of a fully grown, heavily armored orc steps on them." Hobgoblin Luger, gripping a massive iron wrench, proudly lifted his chin and added, "My Lord, look at the sides." Following Luger's gesture, Soren's [Eagle Eye Perception] instantly pierced the camouflage.

Concealed beneath the low embankments on the left and right of the pressure plate were mechanical repeating crossbow arrays and spring-loaded poison-spike boards, set at a perfectly calculated interlocking angle! Gary lowered his voice to a malicious whisper:"The moment the vanguard steps on it, the pressure plate instantly flips sideways. It'll dump the enemy's front line—armor, men, and all—straight into a deep pit."

"When a man drops into freefall, instinct dictates he'll violently claw at the dirt walls to catch himself. At that precise microsecond, the interlocking mechanisms on both flanks will trigger, snapping out half-meter-long, venom-coated steel spikes right where their hands go."

"And the best part? When he screams and thrashes around down there, his flailing weight will crush a recoil spring at the bottom, which snaps a tripwire behind him. This releases two massive, spiked logs—pulled back to full bowstring tension—smashing directly into the troops right behind him!" This was a cascading chain-reaction trap! Soren surveyed the deadly corridor with profound satisfaction.

"It's not just the front," Gary continued his report.

"Luger and I took the 3rd-Line Engineering Battalion and spent an entire week wrapping around the eastern sulfur pools and the western toxic bogs. We rigged the entire perimeter with tripwire alarms and heavy bear traps."

"If any orc scouts or blind outriders try to sneak in through those dead zones... the moment they snap a wire as thin as a hair, high-tension bear traps will snap their ankles clean off, and the connected bells will ring like crazy." But for Soren, this was still not enough.

"A purely passive defense relying on traps will eventually be filled in by the corpses of fearless, suicidal shock troops." In his past life, Soren had held high-ground positions. He understood the absolute necessity of overlapping, three-dimensional fields of fire. He looked up. The creak of timber echoed throughout Greywater Village. Dozens of bare-chested recruits were straining their muscles, pulling thick hemp ropes through complex pulley systems.

Massive blackwood trunks, logged from the southern primeval forest, had been driven deep into the bedrock crevices by Luger's goblin engineers using brilliant structural mechanics. A total of eight sturdy wooden watchtowers, each soaring over a dozen meters high, erupted from the earth! Positioned in a perfect semi-circle, they formed an overlapping fan of death that completely enveloped the entire northern pathway within their firing arcs. Standing at the commanding height of over a dozen meters.

Archery Captain Ein, a longbow slung across his back, stood like a statue on the central command tower. His [Natural Hunter] talent made his eyes as sharp as a hunting falcon's.

"Group One, mount the towers! Group Two, verify distance markers!" Fifty elite longbowmen filed up the wooden stairs, perfectly slotting into their firing positions. Their muscles were corded like twisted tree roots—the result of day after day of forcibly drawing the [Imperial Military Longbows]. Every man's quiver bristled with heavy arrows, their heads forged into deadly, diamond-shaped armor-piercing bodkins.

"LOOSE!" With Ein's furious roar, fifty heavy longbows were drawn to full moons simultaneously. BANG! VWOOM! The perfectly unified thrum of the bowstrings vibrating sounded like a thunderclap detonating in mid-air. Fifty black iron armor-piercing arrows crossed a distance of one hundred and twenty paces. Tracing a steep, extreme parabolic arc, they brutally slammed into the designated kill-zone on the northern slope! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The arrows buried themselves deep into the thick, leather-stitched training dummies set up in advance. Some punched cleanly through the targets, their fletchings vibrating violently on the other side. Standing at the base of the tower with his arms crossed, Soren finally let out a genuine smile. Magical concealment severed all tracking. Natural terrain bottlenecks choked off any mass army deployments. Interlocking mechanical traps would shred vanguard shock troops into mincemeat.

And while the surviving enemies were trapped in a dilemma, desperately looking for cover to regroup... the longbow battalions on the high ground would rain down an apocalyptic storm of arrows. Greywater Village's defensive fortifications had finally, truly taken shape. Early morning in Greywater Village. The dense fog hung heavy against the rim of the volcanic crater. Searing steam rising from the sulfur pools violently churned the cold mist, emitting a continuous, ominous hiss. BANG!

The heavy wooden door of the stilted command post was violently shoved open. Outside, a figure practically melded with the surroundings abruptly dropped his camouflage, revealing his silhouette. It was Spymaster Meyer. Ignoring the acidic mud plastered to his face, he gasped for air, clearly having pushed his physical limits to the absolute breaking point to sprint all the way back. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"My Lord! Urgent military intelligence!" Meyer dropped heavily to one knee on the floorboards.

"The hidden outpost located seventeen kilometers to our west just sent back a signal!"

"Scale?" Soren set down his cup and strode directly to the large beast-hide map draped over the center table.

"A full five hundred men! Fully clad in Blackiron heavy armor, flying the banner of crossed blood-red axes! It's an absolute trump card of the Orc Alliance: The Bloodaxe Elite Battalion!" Meyer quickly stepped to the table and stabbed his finger heavily onto a specific coordinate:"Furthermore, they are carrying zero siege equipment. It's a pure heavy infantry force, and they are engaged in an ultra-rapid forced march straight through the mudflats." Soren's gaze locked onto the damp spot Meyer pointed at.

The only route capable of supporting a march of heavy orc infantry was incredibly far from Greywater Village.

"Five hundred heavy elites, diving deep behind lines, with no supply train..."

"They aren't here for us."

"Victor's concealment ward is flawless. They haven't even realized Greywater Village is sitting right under their noses." Soren's eyes eventually drifted down the map, stopping on a striking red circle marked roughly twenty kilometers southwest of Greywater Village.

"Lone Cliff." Meyer sucked in a sharp breath.

"Are they insane? Lone Cliff is Ironwood Fortress's most critical logistical ally in the Misty Swamp!"

"Even if those five hundred men manage to sneak over there, the second the Ironwood garrison discovers them, they'll be completely surrounded and swallowed whole!" But Soren's mind rapidly dissected the orc's tactical intent.

"No. They aren't crazy."

"Lone Cliff possesses unique terrain. It's incredibly easy to defend and hellish to attack. More importantly, it holds massive reserves of the autumn harvest and alchemical materials."

"If these five hundred Bloodaxe elites can launch a surprise attack, tear open Lone Cliff's defenses, and seize the high ground... they don't even need to win a full siege. They just need to dig in and defend in place."

"By driving an impenetrable nail right into Lone Cliff's flank, they completely paralyze the settlement's development. Effectively, they cripple Ironwood's logistics!" At the exact moment Soren saw through the orc's strategic gambit... [Ding! Area Annihilation Quest Triggered!] [Quest Objective: Completely annihilate the isolated, deep-striking Bloodaxe Heavy Battalion!] Staring at the glowing blue interface before his eyes, Soren let out a string of cold sneers.

Even without the System issuing a quest, he would absolutely not hesitate to swallow this enemy force whole! Ever since Greywater Village took root in this volcanic crater... subjugating goblins, smelting Blackiron armor, casting heavy ballistas, and mass-injecting Troll Serum... This territory of over seven hundred souls had consumed an astronomical amount of resources to arm itself to the absolute teeth. The sword had been ground far too sharp. If it didn't drink the blood of its enemies soon, it would rust.

Soren needed this. He needed a brutal, head-on annihilation battle to test this newly reorganized, vastly expanded army.

"Assemble the troops! Sound the Level One Combat Horn!" WOOOOH! The deep, prolonged, mournful wail of the ox-horn tore through the thick fog of Greywater Village. In less than the time it takes an incense stick to burn... The central training grounds of the village were dead silent. No whispering. No chaotic clattering of weapons. Only the sound of heavy, excited breathing. Sixty-three 1st-Line Elites, having completely absorbed the [Basic Troll Serum], stood like titans at the absolute front of the formation.

Their full-plate Blackiron heavy armor reflected a cold, merciless light. Gripped in their steel gauntlets were two-and-a-half-meter-long armor-piercing halberds, their deadly blades pointed straight to the heavens. Behind them stood Ein, leading the fifty elite longbowmen. Flanking them was Buck, heavily stroking the neck of his massive beast, accompanied by ninety-two Warg Cavalrymen.

Anchoring the center were Monk Renn and Kyle, commanding the fifty-one men of the Macedonian Phalanx, armed with iron-studded tower shields and three-meter pikes. And on the far edges, Hobgoblin Luger led a crew of fully armed combat-engineers, rapidly loading specialized incendiary clay pots onto the compact torsion catapults. This was Greywater Village's first battle since its massive expansion. Soren strode powerfully onto a makeshift wooden platform. He didn't yell.

He simply swept a cold, calculating gaze over the assembled army. The sheer, tangible killing intent and suffocating authority radiating from his gaze caused every unruly, bloodthirsty soldier to instinctively snap their backs perfectly straight.

"Southwest. Lone Cliff. Five hundred orc elites intend to take it."

"Our mission is very simple."

"We are going to leave all five hundred of those green-skinned bastards right here in the Misty Swamp as fertilizer. Not a single one of them leaves alive." Below the platform, the eyes of the officers and soldiers instantly ignited. They could smell it in the air. The scent of blood. The scent of absolute, glorious military merit.