Chương 133: 133：They Were Simply Too Fragile

"Die!" Just as Gruul struggled to yank his massive battleaxe free from the muck, Buck seized the opportunity. Gripping the three-meter-long shaft of his black iron spear tightly with both hands, he didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. Driving power from his waist through his legs, he channeled every ounce of his strength into a spiraling burst through his wrists. The spear shot forward like a striking dragon! A black blur tore through the air, leaving an afterimage in its wake. Squelch!

The sickeningly clear sound of tearing flesh rang out. The razor-sharp, triangular black iron spearhead sank deep, punching through armor and ribs to utterly obliterate the orc's heart! Thud! With a dull, heavy impact, the bloody point erupted from the back of Gruul's armor. The centurion's hands locked rigidly around his axe handle. His eyes bulged out like a dead fish's. Those bestial pupils, brimming with sheer arrogance mere seconds ago, were finally swallowed by suffocating despair.

Buck's expression was as cold as frost. The muscles in his arms corded like carved granite as he let out a thunderous roar.

"Up!" Shifting his weight atop his direwolf mount, he exerted a monstrous amount of leverage, actually lifting the two-hundred-plus-pound orc centurion completely off the ground! Bang! With a vicious spin, he flung the massive body off his spear. Gruul's corpse slammed heavily into the muddy earth directly between the two armies. For a moment, even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The riderless orc wargs pawed nervously at the acidic mire.

As for the remaining fifty or sixty axe-wielding Orc Wolf Riders—who had been eagerly waiting to watch their commander tear a human limb from limb—they were completely stunned. Every single greenskin sat frozen like a statue, jaws hanging slack in utter disbelief.

"C-Commander..."

"Gruul the Slaughterer... he was killed in a single strike!" Their proud centurion. Gruul, the monster capable of ripping magical beasts apart with his bare hands. Dead. Slain in a one-on-one duel by a human officer, finished in the blink of an eye. This total collapse of their martial faith shattered the orcs' psychological defenses far more thoroughly than the previous arrow volleys and cavalry charges ever could. Splash! A battleaxe slipped from a trembling orc's grip and plummeted into a muddy puddle.

"M-Monster!"

"They aren't human! Run for your lives!" It was impossible to tell who let out the first scream of broken panic. The remaining elite Orc Wolf Riders lost every shred of their will to fight. Faces ashen with terror, they frantically kicked and spurred their panicked mounts. Some even abandoned their heavy armor and weapons to shed weight, scrambling back through the treacherous bogs of the Misty Swamp as if hellhounds were snapping at their heels!

Watching the routing enemy disappear into the distance, Buck slowly lowered his blood-drenched black iron spear to his side.

"HURRAH!"

"For the glory of the Lord! All hail the Alpha Wolf, Buck!" Behind him, the ninety-two Wolf Riders of Greywater Village erupted into fanatical cheers, their voices so thunderous they seemed to shatter the thick swamp mist! This bitter skirmish had proven that human soldiers could perfectly execute high-mobility warg tactics. Moreover, their commander's victory in a pure duel had completely transformed the morale of this second-line unit, sparking a true rebirth through fire.

A fierce, unyielding pride now burned in their eyes—a haughty defiance that sneered at death itself. Buck had just proven to them that even without Lord Soren stepping onto the battlefield, the cavalry of Greywater Village could harvest the heads of elite orcs all on their own! Lone Cliff Heights, Eaglebeak Ridge. The biting wind howled across the barren, dark-brown rock faces, carrying with it a thick, suffocating stench of blood.

High in the air, several red-crested swamp carrion crows, lured by the scent of death, began to circle and descend. Emboldened, one of the scavengers landed directly on the headless corpse of an orc, its sharp beak snapping down to feast on the still-warm green blood.

"Shoo! Get out of here!" A large hand swiped through the air, startling the carrion crow into letting out a harsh caw before wildly flapping back into the fog. Gary, Captain of the Trappers, planted a boot on the two-hundred-pound headless corpse and unceremoniously kicked it over. Wielding a refined steel dagger, he expertly wedged the blade into the latches of the black iron plate armor. Clack. The heavy iron plating popped open.

"Now this is some good loot..." Gary murmured, running a hand over the raw iron breastplate, which was nearly half a finger thick.

"These greenskins might have nothing but muscle between their ears, but they forge some damn thick plates!" He turned and barked orders.

"Hurry it up! Strip every last piece of armor from them, and bundle all the battleaxes together with rope!" Across the entire elevated plateau, sixty-three frontline elite infantrymen from Greywater Village were silently sweeping the blood-soaked battlefield. With their long halberds planted upright in the soil, they moved like a colony of diligent worker ants.

They systematically stripped five hundred sets of heavy black iron full-body armor, gathered five hundred bloodstained refined steel double-bladed battleaxes, and collected countless throwing hatchets scattered across the ground, hauling everything to a flat clearing near the cliff's edge. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Before long, the mountain of raw iron armaments formed a small hill.

Soren stood near the precipice of the cliff, his calm gaze sweeping over the metallic mound. Five hundred sets of heavy armor and weapons. This windfall should comfortably plug Greywater Village's raw iron deficit. In his mind, Soren was already rapidly calculating the territory's internal ledgers. Ever since Greywater Village established its foothold near the geothermal vents for their blast furnaces, the territory's population had exploded to seven hundred and thirty-six souls.

Though the military formations for various troop types had been successfully established, the raw iron supply at Chief Blacksmith Luger's forge had long since reached critical levels. Lacking access to an active ore vein, they had survived purely on scrap metal and previously captured weapons. Once the soldiers' armor and weapons had been forged, Luger was forced to pinch pennies just to forge iron plows for the farmers. But now?

Five hundred heavily armed Black Iron Orcs had essentially marched into the swamp as mobile iron reserves! Toss these chunky breastplates and massive battleaxes into the volcanic blast furnaces, and Greywater Village's raw iron stockpile would instantly overflow with surplus. What Soren didn't yet know was that, aside from the mountain of iron beneath his feet, the troops currently wrapping up operations at the two other battlefields within the Misty Swamp had secured equally glorious spoils.

Deep within Throat Valley, Quartermaster Kyle's Macedonian Phalanx had not only skewered two hundred Blackstone infantrymen but had also miraculously managed to salvage two hundred pristine sets of black iron armor and weapons without taking a single casualty. Meanwhile, at the edge of the Rotwood Forest, Cavalry Commander Buck had successfully slain the enemy captain in single combat.

Aside from capturing over thirty sets of cavalry armor, the most crucial prize was the thirty slain warg carcasses his men were hauling back. In a place as starved for resources as the Misty Swamp, thirty massive wolves—each weighing hundreds of pounds—meant a mountain of premium meat once skinned! The successive victories across these three battlefields would yield a combined bounty of over seven hundred and thirty sets of black iron heavy armor.

When these shipments arrived at Greywater Village a few days later, the Hobgoblin Luger would be laughing so hard at his forge he wouldn't be able to close his mouth. But of course, that was a story for later.

"My Lord." Ein, Captain of the Sharpshooters, walked up to Soren, a massive longbow as tall as a man gripped in his hand. Although the normally introverted and quiet hunter was trying his hardest to stand at strict attention, Soren's sharp eyes easily noticed the restless, heavy heaving of his chest. He was trembling with irrepressible excitement.

"What is it?" Soren turned his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"My Lord..." Ein took a deep, shuddering breath.

"This battle... it was simply too easy! It felt like a stage play that rolled its curtains before the climax even began." Ein looked back over his shoulder, his eyes tracing the charred, smoke-billowing blast craters and the trail of butchered corpses leading all the way to the cliff edge. He relished every tactical phase of the skirmish they had just executed.

"Luring the snakes from their holes, the covert cliff-scaling operation, and then Lord Luger's catapult battery syncing perfectly with high-tier fire magic to unleash a devastating, apocalyptic area bombardment."

"The very instant the enemy's formation crumbled, sixty-three heavy repeating crossbows shredded their rearguard, paving the way for my battalion to deploy a parabolic net of arrows from our high frontal vantage point." He paused, his eyes gleaming.

"A pincer attack. Total three-dimensional coverage."

"Those hulking orc brutes—monsters who would normally crush our skulls with a single punch—were reduced to livestock trapped in a slaughterhouse pen the moment they stepped into our kill-zone! All they could do was howl in futile agony. They couldn't even touch the hem of our cloaks!" Ein let out a half-satisfied, half-frustrated sigh.

"The sheer thrill of absolutely crushing them was intoxicating. My only complaint is that the green bastards broke too fast. I didn't even get to empty my quiver of armor-piercing bodkins! It ended before I could fully enjoy it!" Hearing his subordinate officer utter such unapologetically warmongering words, Soren's smirk widened into a genuine smile. This was exactly the military soul he was trying to forge.

By using overwhelming victories and the promise of martial glory, he was successfully transforming his men's primal fear of the orcs into a bloodthirsty, predatory greed!

"Wipe the blood off your remaining arrows and stow them properly. Every pure steel arrowhead is part of our territory's wealth." Soren reached out and firmly clapped Ein on his broad shoulder. His tone was casual, yet carried an undeniable absolute authority.

"Set your heart at ease, Ein."

"Our territory is planting its roots right here in the Misty Swamp." He looked out over the mist.

"As long as you men aren't afraid of death, I promise you, there will be plenty of opportunities in the future for you to empty your quivers ten times over. A hundred times over." Just as Soren and Ein were casually conversing... Clack, clack, clack... The heavy, rhythmic sound of iron-shod boots climbing the steep, winding goat path echoed from below. Leading the procession were two figures: Galahad, Commander of the Ironwood Fortress, and the rising star of the military, Gabriel.