Chương 142: 142：Strategic Domination and Impossible Ratios

Soren took a slow sip of ruby-red wine to moisten his throat.

"I had already personally led my sixty-three frontline elites, all clad in heavy black iron armor, around to the completely unguarded rear precipice of Lone Cliff."

"The cliff was too steep? We used grappling hooks and climbing ropes. The orcs believed it was physically impossible for human heavy infantry to scale such a sheer drop. But my men can."

"A completely unforeseen strike from the rear instantly tore their defensive line to shreds."

"And at the exact moment my heavy infantry breached their rear, the Longbow Battalion ambushed at the front initiated a high-angle, parabolic saturation bombardment."

"From the front, a torrential rain of armor-piercing arrows with zero blind spots. From the rear, point-blank volleys of heavy crossbow bolts."

"Caught in an utterly unexpected two-way crossfire, it only took a single wave of assault. The Bloodaxe Battalion's defensive matrix didn't just break—it naturally, inevitably collapsed." Soren spoke of the slaughter with offhand casualness, but the veteran generals listening felt their scalps tingle with sheer disbelief. Magical suppression synchronized with heavy catapults. Heavy infantry executing gravity-defying rock-climbing maneuvers. Longbow formations unleashing parabolic saturation fire...

It only took a few sentences to describe, but on a chaotic, ever-shifting battlefield, to weave multiple, entirely different troop types into such a flawless tapestry of destruction? To nail the timing down to the exact second? Just what kind of terrifying, monstrous command art did that require?

"Brilliant... absolutely brilliant!" Grand Duke Valentine couldn't contain himself, slamming his hand hard against the table. For a man who had spent his entire life commanding armies, listening to this tactical breakdown was like admiring a flawless, blood-soaked masterpiece.

"However..." As the Chief Tactician of the Northern Defense Line, General Marr's razor-sharp mind immediately caught onto a glaring discrepancy. His brow furrowed as he pressed the issue:"The logistical transfer at Lone Cliff was highly classified. You were stationed leagues away in Greywater Village. How did you preemptively predict the orcs' intentions? How did you know with absolute certainty that the Bloodaxe Battalion would strike that exact defensive line?" Every gaze in the hall snapped back to Soren.

This was the most incomprehensible part of it all. In warfare, absolute information asymmetry was the deadliest weapon of all. Soren merely spread his hands, completely unfazed.

"It has nothing to do with mystical intuition, gentlemen. There's no need to be so surprised. I simply have an entire company of Hobgoblin scouts at my disposal."

"Goblins?" A collective gasp of bewilderment echoed around the table. In the traditional worldview of humanity, goblins were nothing more than vile, cowardly bottom-feeders—a lesser species utterly useless for anything besides petty theft.

"And that universal contempt from everyone is exactly what allowed me to forge an impenetrable intelligence network." A flicker of cold mockery toward the world's secular prejudices flashed in Soren's eyes.

"Your elite human scouts march into the Misty Swamp only to be swallowed alive by acidic sludge, or breathe in the miasma and fall into comas."

"But goblins? They don't. They are biologically immune to the swamp's toxic gases and corrosive mud. Their diminutive stature provides absolutely flawless natural camouflage."

"I do not doubt the men I use, and I elevate strictly based on merit."

"Within the treacherous terrain of that swamp, the reconnaissance capabilities of my goblin scouts exceed the finest human elites of both the Empire and the Silvermoon Kingdom by a factor of ten."

"A full two days before the assault, they had already placed the exact marching route of the Bloodaxe Battalion directly onto my desk." The words hung heavily in the air. The three supreme commanders exchanged glances, and immediately after, a profound, unified awe surfaced in their eyes. To shatter deeply ingrained racial prejudices, to unabashedly employ a despised species for the absolute sake of victory—this level of open-mindedness forced every general in the room to accept one undeniable reality.

This young man named Soren was a true, once-in-a-century prodigy of war! He didn't just possess wild, unconstrained tactical brilliance; he commanded an absolute, chilling clarity of the grand strategic board.

"Excellent!

'Elevate strictly based on merit'! Hahaha! My Silvermoon Kingdom is truly blessed by the heavens!" Old General Rodman was trembling with excitement, the vicious scar on his face flushing red with pure ecstasy. He so desperately needed a massive victory like this—and a talent like this—to inject life back into the Kingdom's crumbling morale. Rodman heaped on the praise, his eyes practically glowing:"Soren! I personally reviewed the archives of the Crimson Moon Knights!

Barely over two months ago, when you took command of Greywater Village, you were handed nothing but twenty-five crippled, elderly, and infirm men!"

"Yet, in just over two months, not only did you establish an unshakable foothold in that death-trap of a swamp, but you expanded your ranks to a massive force of seven hundred souls! And you forged them into frontline elites entirely capable of clashing head-on with Black Iron Orcs!"

"Such a terrifying talent for troop training is extraordinarily rare across the entire continent! No—it is absolutely unparalleled!" Faced with General Rodman's unrestrained, booming praise, Soren merely dipped his head slightly, maintaining an attitude of perfect, grounded humility.

"You praise me far too highly, General. It is not because I, Soren, am incredibly strong. It is simply the primal human instinct to survive when pushed to the absolute brink. I merely provided a little guidance, and a military soul was naturally forged." This deeply restrained, unshakable composure—this absolute refusal to let arrogance cloud his mind despite his staggering achievements—caused Grand Duke Valentine to nod profusely. His appreciation for this young man skyrocketed.

In fact, the Grand Duke's mind was already spinning with calculations, trying to figure out exactly what astronomical price he would have to pay to poach this kid straight out of the Silvermoon Kingdom. But right at that moment.

"Hold on a minute..." General Marr's eyes narrowed into slits. He looked exactly like a bloodhound catching the scent of a fox in the dead of night. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. He stared directly into Soren's eyes, his tone thick with sudden realization and shock.

"General Rodman just stated that the total manpower of Greywater Village has expanded to seven hundred personnel. Is that correct?" Soren met Marr's gaze and gave a single, calm nod.

"That is correct. I have three active combat lines consisting of roughly two hundred and sixty human soldiers, and approximately two hundred goblins."

"Then we have a massive problem." General Marr took a heavy gulp of wine.

"If you possess an effective combat force of nearly five hundred troops, why is it that when you recounted the siege of Lone Cliff just now, the casualty and deployment numbers you mentioned..." Marr's gaze burned like a torch.

"Even including your rear-guard Longbow Battalion and your mage... the absolute total force you committed to storming the main battlefield of Lone Cliff was a measly one hundred and twenty men?!" The words struck like a muffled thunderclap. The joyous, celebratory atmosphere in the hall instantly crystallized into absolute tension. Grand Duke Valentine's thick, lion-like brows shot up violently. General Rodman's beaming smile froze solid on his face. By the Gods, he was right! The troop numbers didn't add up!

Facing a heavily fortified, easily defensible high ground held by five hundred Black Iron Orcs, literally any sane commander would have pushed every single available chip to the center of the table and gambled everything on a massive, all-out assault! This kid didn't deploy the rest of his troops?! Then where the hell did his remaining three hundred fresh soldiers go?! Watching the complexions of three apex-tier supreme commanders undergo a drastic, violent shift, Soren's expression remained perfectly serene.

He gently pushed his wine goblet aside, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin upon them. His gaze grew deep and profound.

"The Chief Tactician's instincts are razor-sharp," Soren began slowly, his voice smooth.

"From the very beginning, the Bloodaxe Battalion entrenched on the heights of Lone Cliff was never just a target to me. They were the absolute perfect bait."

"Bait?!" The Grand Duke jolted upright in his chair.

"Correct."

"I predicted that the orc captain, Garrosh, would inevitably fall back to the high ground and fight a defensive battle to the death. But more importantly, I predicted..." Soren's voice carried absolute, unshakable confidence as he continued:"I predicted that Warchief Blackstone, sitting at the center of his hundred-thousand-strong army, would not only refuse to leave them to die... he would attempt to beat me at my own game."

"He would leverage the psychological absolute that humanity had to secure Lone Cliff and its grain reserves. He would urgently summon all roaming cavalry and massive waves of infantry from the surrounding sectors to reinforce the basin, intending to use Lone Cliff as a bloody anvil to form a massive counter-encirclement net around our frontline forces!" Hiss! The sharp sound of dozens of high-ranking officers sucking in breaths of freezing air echoed across the hall.

Even a battlefield titan like Grand Duke Valentine gripped his goblet so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"So..." General Marr's voice trembled with sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

"You preemptively deduced Warchief Blackstone's entire grand strategic objective? And then what?!"

"And then? I simply applied a doctrine I frequently teach my subordinates: Besiege the objective to annihilate the reinforcements."

"Since I already knew the enemy planned to close a trap around us while we assaulted Lone Cliff, I simply turned the trap inside out!"

"I took my second-line shield-and-spear phalanx and drove them like an iron nail directly into Throat Valley."

"I took my newly formed Wolf Rider Battalion and laid an ambush deep within the misty northwest perimeter of the Rotwood Forest."

"And I personally led a mere hundred men into a hyper-aggressive, high-profile assault against the Lone Cliff heights... deliberately acting as the bait myself!" Thud. The heavy crystal goblet slipped right through Alaric's fingers, tumbling onto the thick wool carpet. Hearing the sheer, audacious madness spilling from Soren's lips, every single man in the room felt their heart violently contract!

Soren retracted his imaginary command baton, placing his hands flat against the mahogany table, and delivered his final, earth-shattering summary.

"In the Battle of Lone Cliff. At the high-ground objective: we annihilated the five hundred elites of the Bloodaxe Battalion."

"And on the outer perimeter."

"My Wolf Rider Battalion successfully ambushed the first wave of emergency reinforcements—an orc cavalry centuria in the Rotwood Forest. The enemy commander was slain in a duel, his head severed."

"My Macedonian Phalanx, utilizing fire attacks and rockfalls, intercepted a massive force of heavy orc infantry in Throat Valley. We ground over two hundred greenskins into meat paste. Not a single survivor escaped." The command hall was utterly, deathly silent. The only sound in the massive chamber was the soft hiss and crackle of grease dripping from the roasted meats onto the hot coals below. Grand Duke Valentine. Chief Tactician Marr. Old General Rodman.

These three apex commanders—men whose legendary names echoed across the entire human faction like rolling thunder... Were currently staring at the young man sitting across the table as if they were looking at a literal monster. This was no longer just a miraculous tactical victory of a smaller force defeating a larger one. This was absolute, humiliating, strategic domination! Soren hadn't just seen right through the bottom of Warchief Blackstone's hand.

He had used the terrifying ruler of a hundred-thousand-strong army as nothing more than a convenient whetstone to sharpen his own rookie troops! Grand Duke Valentine suddenly closed his eyes. He took a long, deep breath of the cigar-scented air, holding it in his lungs before letting it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, the condescending, evaluative gaze of an elder looking at a promising junior was completely gone.

From the eyes of this First-Rank Sword-bearing Grand Duke of the Empire—a man who had been unbroken and haughty his entire life—shone nothing but pure, unadulterated, absolute reverence.