Chương 123: 123：The Provocation

As Galahad and Gabriel closed the distance to twenty yards in front of the formation... CLANG! The heavy halberdiers anchoring the outermost flanks didn't flinch or waver for a microsecond at the sight of high-ranking generals' armor. Two massive, barbed Blackiron halberds slammed down in perfect unison, violently crossing to bar their path. The sheer, suffocating strictness of this military discipline struck a new chord of profound awe in Galahad's heart.

"Commander of Ironwood Fortress, Galahad!"

"Gabriel!"

"We have come to meet with Captain Soren!" Galahad roared, driving his fist over his chest in a formal martial salute. The dense wall of black armor parted like the Red Sea, rippling seamlessly to both sides. In the absolute center of the clearing, Soren sat quietly on a fallen, withered log. Resting horizontally across his knees was the [Windwhisper Bow], its frame pulsing with a profound, cyan runic glow.

Meanwhile, completely contrasting this aura of deadly silence, a heavily wrinkled Hobgoblin was frantically jumping up and down beside Soren. Wielding an absurdly massive steel wrench, he was screaming curses at his goblin subordinates.

"You brain-dead maggot! The main bearing torque is off by two millimeters! Do you want this precious trebuchet to launch a boulder straight up into the air and flatten our own damn lines?!" Chief Engineer Luger roared, personally throwing his massive frame onto the scaffolding to forcefully lock a colossal wooden gear into place.

"Let them through," Soren said softly, not even bothering to look up. The crossed iron halberds snapped back with surgical precision. Galahad and Gabriel quickly strode into the heart of the formation. Soren slung the longbow over his back and slowly stood up. As a senior veteran, Galahad did something incredibly rare: he took the initiative to lower his head and deliver a salute of absolute equals. His voice was thick with unconcealed admiration:"Captain Soren.

Seeing you here at the base of Lone Cliff, laying eyes on this peerless military arsenal... I finally realize the rumors about you weren't exaggerated. If anything, they were far too conservative." Gabriel, too, had completely packed away his aristocratic arrogance. He executed a flawless, elegant chest salute.

"With Lord Soren blocking the gate, the Bloodaxe Battalion couldn't escape even if they sprouted wings." Soren replied with a calm, unbothered tone, "You two marched with exceptional speed. Truly worthy of the commanders of Ironwood Fortress." However, Galahad's gaze drifted past Soren's back, tracing the terrain upward. His eyes arduously climbed the winding, treacherously steep frontal goat-path, all the way up the seventy-degree incline to the apex of Eagle Beak Ridge.

Viewed from the flatland below, that fog-shrouded high ground looked like the bloody maw of a leviathan, jaws wide open and waiting to devour them. Through the mist, the terrifying glint of the Bloodaxe Orcs' massive, door-sized battleaxes could be faintly seen. The grizzled general's brows violently knitted together. Decades of ingrained military doctrine triggered a wave of profound dread in his heart.

He pulled Soren slightly to the side, his tone turning incredibly earnest, even carrying a hint of protective, elder-like concern:"Soren. Your equipment is tier-one. Every single one of your soldiers looks like they could slaughter ten men alone." Galahad pointed heavily at the sheer cliff face.

"But you must understand the tactical reality. That is a seventy-degree incline. A single, narrow path acts as the only choke point. And jammed at the top are five hundred starving, frenzied Blackiron Orcs!"

"If we attempt a frontal assault, they won't even need to draw their weapons. They just have to roll boulders down that path."

"Even clad in Blackiron plate, your brothers will be ground into meat paste!"

"Your gear is phenomenal, but the infantry and archers you have holding this line barely number over a hundred."

"With that manpower, you physically cannot spread a frontline."

"Listen to me, Brother Soren." Galahad gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

"I have already halted my three heavy infantry battalions—nine hundred men in total—at the valley entrance just behind you."

"Let my men raise their tower shields over their heads. I will use the lives of nine hundred men to forcefully wedge our way up that path!"

"Let us act as the main vanguard. We will absorb the rolling logs and boulders! We will clear the minefield for you!"

"You can keep your elite longbowmen safely in the rear to provide suppressive fire!" At this moment, Gabriel completely abandoned his usual desire to steal the military glory. He nodded solemnly in agreement.

"Galahad is right."

"Soren, your foundations are too thin. You cannot afford a positional war of attrition with barely a hundred men."

"Let the main force of the regular army tank the frontline. You come in for the cleanup. That is the absolute safest bet to win this." This was the standard tactical doctrine of conventional commanders facing nightmarish terrain. To use the lives of three, five, or even ten times the number of low-tier grunts to forcefully bridge an insurmountable geographical gap.

Facing these two old-guard generals—who were offering up their own men as sacrifices out of strategic duty and a genuine desire to protect a military genius... Soren tilted his head, his bottomless eyes staring directly into theirs. After a brief moment of dead silence. Soren slowly shook his head.

"General Galahad. Your generosity is admirable." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"But I refuse." Galahad froze, his eyes bulging wide.

"What did you say? Are you insane?! You want to chew through five hundred Bloodaxes sitting on an impenetrable fortress with barely a hundred men? You are sending your priceless soldiers to die for absolutely nothing!"

"The era has changed, old General." Soren's voice rang out with absolute, undeniable arrogance:"With the forces I have brought today, I am going to effortlessly stomp this 'impenetrable high ground' flat."

"Take your nine hundred heavy infantry. Retreat to the valley entrance two miles back. Find a clean patch of high ground, sit down, and relax."

"If you don't mind the wait, feel free to crack open a few barrels of ale."

"And watch exactly how I send those five hundred green-skinned bastards—who think they hold an impregnable fortress—straight down to hell!" Finally, the massive main throwing arm—assembled from three ironwood trunks so thick it took a man's arms to encircle them—was slowly cranked back into a full-moon firing angle by a crew of bare-chested goblins pulling heavy winches. Luger wiped a layer of black grease and sweat from his face.

He turned and jogged over to Soren, snapping to attention to deliver a slightly comical, yet intensely reverent military salute.

"Lord Commander! Chief Engineer Luger, reporting for duty!" Luger pointed a massive thumb at the colossal war-beasts looming behind him:"Two [Heavy Siege Trebuchets]. Four compact [Torsion Catapults]. All bases have been permanently wedged into the bedrock. Elevation and windage parameters are fully calibrated!"

"The counterweight boxes are packed to the brim with granite, and the ammunition racks are fully stocked with Alchemical Fire-Oil Barrels!"

"You just say the word, My Lord, and I guarantee I'll blast those bastards on that ridge straight up to the heavens to meet their beastly ancestors!" Soren simply gave a silent nod. He tore his gaze away from the apocalyptic siege engines and looked toward the distant peak of Eagle Beak Ridge. The high ground was eerily quiet. Only rows of densely packed Blackiron tower shields and the twin blood-red battleaxe banner flapping aggressively in the wind could be seen.

Before destroying the enemy's physical body, one must first strip away their ability to reason. That is the true art of deception in war.

"Meyer."

"Here, My Lord!" Spymaster Meyer dropped from the dense canopy above, landing as silently as a phantom. Soren unhooked an acoustic megaphone horn from his waist—hollowed out from the skull of a Twin-Headed Swamp Croc—and casually tossed it to Meyer.

"You possess the [Vocal Mimicry] talent. You can perfectly replicate even my exact vocal timbre."

"Right now, take this horn. Walk to the most visible, exposed spot at the front of our lines."

"Take every filthy curse word in your stomach, take the so-called honor and bloodline of the Orc's ancestors, and ruthlessly stomp them into the muddy dirt."

"Using the absolute most authentic aristocratic Orc accent I taught you, I want you to issue a sacred, one-on-one death duel challenge to the Bloodaxe Commander." Standing to the side, Galahad and Gabriel—who had been wearing deeply displeased expressions over Soren's refusal of their help—both froze. Galahad furrowed his brow, unable to hold his tongue.

"Soren, Orcs may be all muscle, but that Battalion Commander absolutely has death-orders to hold his ground and wait for reinforcements."

"I don't care how viciously you curse him out. As long as he isn't completely brain-dead, he will absolutely never abandon the high ground to come down and duel you."

"Your provocation won't work," the old veteran declared with absolute certainty. Soren tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Galahad.

"General Galahad. I know far better than you that he won't come down." That single sentence left Galahad standing paralyzed in confusion once again.

"If he doesn't 'see through' this painfully obvious, clumsy attempt to bait him... then how could he comfortably commit every single pair of Orcish eyes to watching this frontal goat-path?" While Galahad struggled to wrap his mind around this layered psychological trap, Meyer had already taken a deep breath. Gripping the bone horn, he strode boldly to the most open, exposed section of the gentle slope. He cleared his throat. The [Vocal Mimicry] talent instantly activated.

In the very next second, a war roar—delivered in the flawless, guttural accent of a High Orcish Noble—was massively amplified by the horn, violently sweeping up the sheer cliffs of Eagle Beak Ridge!

"You cowardly turtle hiding up there! Listen to me!" The voice didn't just mimic the accent; it flawlessly recreated the freezing, absolute contempt usually found in Soren's tone.

"I am Captain Soren of the Crimson Moon Knights! I heard the Bloodaxe Battalion was the most ferocious pack of rabid hounds in the Orc Alliance. It turns out, you're nothing but a pen of castrated, toothless pigs!"

"Where is your Berserker Rage?! Where are your prized battleaxes?! Why are you shivering up on that blasted rock like a pack of unweaned infants?!"

"You! The Bloodaxe Commander! Is that sludge from a filthy gutter flowing through your veins?!"

"If you actually have a pair between your legs, roll down here right now! Honor the Ancient Wasteland Laws of the War God and face me in a sacred, one-on-one death duel!"

"Beat me, and I'll let you five hundred starving pigs roll your way back home."

"If you don't dare come down the mountain... then your mother is a cheap whore who belongs in a ghoul-pit!"