Chương 131: 131：Shattering the Invincible Myth

Toy smiled. Even though two of his ribs were throbbing with a dull, agonizing ache, a genuine laugh bubbled up from the absolute deepest depths of his soul. All around him, the fifty soldiers of the phalanx slowly lowered their iron-studded tower shields. Relief, pure and intoxicating, washed over their faces.

The primal nightmare that had weighed on the hearts of humanity like a suffocating mountain—the myth of the Orcs' invincible, monstrous physique—had been utterly, violently pulverized into dust in this very gorge. These fifty-one men hadn't just faced their fear; they had driven a three-meter pike straight through its heart and slaughtered it! They had finally crossed that insurmountable psychological chasm.

Standing in the silent, blood-soaked gorge, every single trace of cowardice had been burned from the soldiers' eyes. There was absolutely zero doubt: even if they were ordered to charge headlong into an army of ten thousand right now, these "second-line" reservists from Greywater Village would brace their pikes and fight to the absolute last breath! Meanwhile. On the northwestern edge of the Misty Swamp, in a treacherous transition zone known as Rotwood Mire.

Pale-grey, toxic miasma clung to the surface of the dark, festering mud. Over a hundred Wargs—each as massive as a fully-grown bull calf—were tearing through the muck at a frantic sprint. More than four hundred muscular, razor-sharp claws shredded the acidic puddles, kicking up a torrential spray of putrid sludge. Riding at the absolute vanguard was the Orc Warg-Cavalry Centurion, Gruul. His massive, black-haired chest was half-exposed to the freezing wind, his shoulders clamped in crude pig-iron pauldrons.

In his massive grip, he casually hefted a terrifying Blackiron flail-axe.

"Clamp your legs tight! Push the pace, you maggots!" Gruul roared, violently cursing as he glared back at his somewhat loose, strung-out marching formation. He had just received the Blood Sacrifice transmission from the Great Warchief. The absolute mandate: every single outrider unit within a fifty-mile radius was to converge on the Lone Cliff high ground at maximum speed and violently close the net on the human main forces.

For a bloodthirsty maniac like Gruul, this was nothing short of an impending, glorious feast of slaughter. As for flank security during the march? Gruul's crimson, slit-like pupils lazily swept his surroundings. To his left: a chaotic graveyard of dozens of massive, rotting, fallen trees. To his right: sprawling, bottomless sinkholes of bubbling acidic mud. A contemptuous, utterly arrogant sneer curled his lips.

"Those frail, two-legged human maggots wouldn't even dare step foot on the outer rim of this mire," he scoffed.

"And their prized, pure-breed warhorses? The second those delicate hooves step into Rotwood, they'll sink to the belly in less time than it takes to take a piss. The bone-boring beetles in the acid will chew their legs right down to the marrow!" Driven by a blind, absolute overconfidence in the hellish terrain of the Misty Swamp—and operating on the ironclad historical "fact" that no race besides Orcs possessed the beastmaster techniques to ride Wargs—Gruul made a fatal error.

The hundred-strong Orc Warg Cavalry had stretched their formation into a long, thin, single-file column. Their flanks were completely, wide open. They were executing a blind, reckless sprint through the complex terrain, completely devoid of defensive vigilance. However. Barely eighty paces to the left of the Orcs' marching route, completely swallowed by the shadows of the rotting deadwood... Ninety-two pairs of icy, emerald-green eyes were staring dead at their prey in absolute, suffocating silence.

This was the Greywater Village Warg Cavalry Battalion, commanded by Buck. Cavalry Commander Buck sat like a statue astride his massive Alpha Warg. He reached down, gently stroking the beast's bristling mane to keep it calm. The Blackiron half-plate encasing his chest radiated a cold, merciless sheen in the gloom. Buck's razor-sharp gaze pierced through the gaps in the dead trees, locking dead onto the long, completely oblivious column of Orcs passing directly across his front.

In modern military tactical doctrine, this was the textbook definition of a "Crossing the T" ambush. The enemy had presented the entire, exposed flank of a long marching column, while Buck's forces were arrayed in a broad, horizontal strike-line!

"If this were the regular army of the Silvermoon Kingdom, those pampered knights would be standing at the edge of this mire, simply sighing at the mud," Buck thought to himself. He had once been the most brilliant, talented cavalry officer in the Royal Army. But that aristocratic scum, Viscount Blake, had framed him, discarding him in this rotting swamp like a piece of used trash. It was Lord Soren who had given him a new life.

Lord Soren had handed him the reins to an army the likes of which this continent had never seen. Buck slowly raised his right hand, his gauntlet firmly gripping the weapon slotted beside his saddle. It wasn't a sword. It was a terrifying, three-meter-long Blackiron cavalry lance! Orcs loved to swing short-handled battleaxes or heavy flails from the backs of their mounts, obsessing over brutal, close-quarters cleaving.

But Lord Soren had drilled a different, far more lethal geometry into their heads: Use extreme reach to dictate the absolute first strike!

"Lances down," Buck ordered, his voice a lethal whisper. Schwing! Ninety-two men—former mud-farming peasants, starving refugees, and broken deserters who now sat with spines as straight as steel—moved in absolute, terrifying unison. They leveled their three-meter Blackiron lances, locking the heavy shafts tightly under their armpits. Ninety-two razor-sharp spearheads pointed dead at the completely unshielded ribs of the Orcs just eighty paces away.

The Orc vanguard had just sprinted past the optimal intersection point. The absolute weakest section of their marching column—the soft underbelly—was perfectly aligned with Buck's strike force. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. An uncontrollable, blazing battlelust erupted in the depths of Buck's eyes. He violently spurred his Alpha Warg, his voice exploding like a thunderclap:"WARGS OF GREYWATER! WEDGE FORMATION!"

"ALL FORCES... CHARGE!!" AWOOOOOO! Accompanied by the blood-curdling, piercing howl of the Alpha Warg, the dead-silent edge of Rotwood Mire detonated like an erupting volcano! Ninety-two humongous Wargs—tamed and ridden by humans—violently shattered the curtain of withered vines! Kicking up a massive, blinding storm of acidic mud, they poured out of the treeline like an avalanche of black steel, plunging directly into the exposed flank!

The Orc Warg-riders sprinting through the muck heard the sudden, apocalyptic roar and snapped their heads around in pure confusion. When their eyes pierced the miasma and actually registered what was bearing down on them... The fanatical, bloodthirsty grins on the Orcs' faces instantly warped into masks of sheer, pants-wetting terror. It was as if they were staring at literal demons.

"Hu... Humans?!"

"How in the hell are they riding Wargs?!" Gruul violently whipped his head around, his crimson pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Impossible! This is absolutely impossible! Those hyper-aggressive, carnivorous beasts—how could they ever submit to letting frail, weak humans straddle their backs?! However, the battlefield does not grant pauses for shattered worldviews. A distance of eighty paces. For a Warg exploding at maximum velocity, it was a gap closed in the span of three breaths!

Caught in a high-speed forced march, the Orcs' single-file column fundamentally lacked the space or time to pivot. Before they could even attempt to yank their reins, their unarmored flanks were completely presented to the rapidly approaching forest of steel.

"KILL!" Buck roared, charging at the absolute tip of the Wedge Formation. His [Advanced Cavalry Commander] talent flared to life. Under its terrifying modifier, these ninety-two men—who possessed utterly mediocre riding skills—were completely synchronized, moving as a single, living organism connected to Buck's will. Their collective momentum forged into an unstoppable, world-shattering blade! BOOM! The two tides of beasts collided in the most brutal, direct manifestation of kinetic physics!

This was the absolute, physics-defying tyranny of a heavy lance charge! Fueled by the monstrous velocity of the sprinting Alpha Warg, Buck's three-meter Blackiron lance struck true. Just as a panicking Orc rider desperately attempted to swing his short-axe in defense, the lance completely bypassed his reach. Without a shred of resistance, the spearhead violently punched through the Orc's crude iron chestplate! SQUELCH!

The Blackiron tip blew straight through the Orc's chest cavity, instantaneously pulverizing his heart and shattering his spine! The spearhead erupted from the beast's back, bringing with it a geyser of dark, viscous gore! The catastrophic kinetic impact caused Buck's thick lance shaft to bend into a terrifying, agonizing arc. Buck didn't miss a beat.

With a violent flick of his wrist, leveraging the crossing momentum of his Warg, he launched the two-hundred-pound Orc corpse into the air like a discarded sack of garbage. The massive body crashed heavily into a bubbling acidic mud pit yards away. But this was merely the opening note of the symphony.

"SKEWER THESE GREEN-SKINNED BASTARDS!" For the very first time in their lives, the human Warg-riders of Greywater Village experienced the intoxicating, god-like thrill of physically bulldozing right over an Orc formation! There was absolutely zero hesitation. Their three-meter Blackiron lances struck out like a nest of venomous vipers! Relying entirely on the absolute superiority of weapon reach, while the Orcs' heavy battleaxes were still swinging harmlessly through the empty air...

the lethal forest of pikes had already brutally penetrated the Orc Warg column. Some lances threaded the needle, punching cleanly through the Orcs' exposed throats. Other riders, operating with terrifying combat clarity, completely ignored the Orcs' heavy armor. Instead, they viciously angled their lances downward! SQUELCH! SQUELCH! SQUELCH! The razor-sharp spearheads sank brutally into the soft underbellies, exposed necks, and eyeballs of the enemy Wargs!

The beasts unleashed harrowing, agonizing shrieks, their front legs buckling instantly. CRASH! CRACK! Catapulted by the sudden deceleration of their dying mounts, the Orc riders violently lost their balance. Traveling at maximum velocity, they were pitched headfirst into the acidic mud. And the Orc Wargs trailing directly behind them? Operating in a tight column sprint, they had absolutely zero time to hit the brakes. The despairing screams of the fallen Orcs were instantly snuffed out.

Without even the chance to push themselves up from the muck, the downed riders were swallowed by the tidal wave of their own advancing Wargs, their bodies and armor trampled into unrecognizable, pulverized meat paste! The battlefield erupted into an apocalyptic symphony: the sickening thud of lances rupturing flesh, the infuriated curses of Orcs swinging at empty air, and the harrowing death-rattles of dying beasts.

Viscous green blood and severed limbs flew wildly through the air, painting the rotting trees and acidic puddles. In just a single, devastating penetration charge! The massive, unbroken column of the Orc outriders was violently cleaved perfectly in half! In the span of a mere five breaths, over thirty elite Orc riders and their Wargs were transformed into nothing more than floating chunks of gore in the toxic sinkholes.

"DAMN IT ALL! PIVOT! DRAW FLAILS! DRAG THESE PATHETIC HUMANS INTO THE MUD!" Centurion Gruul, his face completely splattered with the hot blood of his own slaughtered subordinates, roared like a maniac. He violently yanked his Warg's reins, desperately attempting to pivot the vanguard and drag the humans into the chaotic, close-quarters brawl he excelled at. In his mind, it was simple: As long as we stick to them, our absolute Orcish strength will rip these fragile humans clean in half!