Chương 197: 197：The Warlord's Spoils

"Again." Soren continued to crank the heavy winch. With armor-piercing bolts raining down from the fortress's highest vantage point, combined with the bloodshot, frenzied heavy elites swarming through the breached front gates with their halberds raised...

"It's over... It's all over!" The fortress's Deputy Commander, Urgar, completely broke down. He could only watch helplessly as his remaining forces were utterly pulverized within this three-dimensional, omni-directional meat-grinder. The final thirty Orcs, unable to even organize a semblance of a defensive formation, lasted less than two minutes under this suffocating crossfire before their morale completely shattered!

Led by Gary, the blood-soaked Frontline Elites surged unstoppably into the heart of the fortress courtyard. Faced with an assault vanguard boasting such terrifying killing efficiency, the final dozen elderly Orcs attempting a last stand—alongside Deputy Commander Urgar, who was still futilely trying to work the communication slate—were mercilessly skewered hundreds of times. They were reduced to nothing but gruesome, mangled heaps of meat upon the stone slabs.

This supreme forward stronghold, the Blood Province's Bloodhorn Fortress, had been thoroughly and absolutely conquered!

"My Lord! You need to see this!" The Trap Master, Gary, shouted from the entrance of an underground vault built into the side of the mountain. Soren had just received a [Healing Art] from the military priestess, Elena. The horrific, through-and-through puncture wound on his left shoulder had already scabbed over. Stomping through the puddles of the inner courtyard, he strode toward the heavy vault doors, which were sealed behind multiple layers of iron grating.

Leona and Cedric sheathed their weapons, following closely behind with undeniable curiosity. Two elite infantrymen jammed crowbars into the massive raw-iron padlock, violently snapping it with sheer brute force. As the half-foot-thick ironwood doors were slowly pushed open... A wave of warm air instantly washed over them, carrying the rich, intoxicating aromas of roasted grain, cured fat, and strong alcohol.

The light of their torches flooded the vault, illuminating a cavernous space large enough to sustain over a thousand troops through a brutal winter.

"By the Holy Light..." Elena drew in a sharp breath of cold air. Even this priestess, who was well-accustomed to the grand, opulent displays of the Silvermoon Kingdom, couldn't hide her profound shock. Laid out before the soldiers of Greywater Village was a strategic treasure trove overflowing with a mountainous stockpile of supplies. On a dry stone terrace to the left sat thousands upon thousands of coarse burlap sacks. From the slightly open tops, plump, dehydrated premium sorghum spilled out.

This was a high-grade staple food exclusively allocated by the Orcish Alliance to sustain the massive caloric intake of their heavy legions. Further inside, hanging from rows of heavy iron hooks, were massive slabs of fresh meat and entire carcasses of cattle and sheep, their surfaces thickly crusted with coarse preservative salt. In a perpetually damp, rotting environment like the Misty Swamp, preserving such an astronomical amount of fresh meat required an unfathomable expenditure of manpower and resources.

Even more staggering were the dozens of oak barrels neatly lined up in the corner. Gary couldn't resist using his dagger to pry open one of the wooden corks. The rich, pungent scent of alcohol instantly permeated the air. It was fruity, high-proof rum—a luxury so rare that on the black market, a single flask could buy a man's life. And in the absolute deepest recesses of the vault lay hundreds of neatly stacked crates filled with [Minor Health Potions].

Beside them sat literal tons of meticulously refined black iron ingots, all slag and impurities completely purged. They were stacked in perfectly uniform layers, forming metallic hills of raw industrial power.

"These black iron ingots... this completely skips almost a month of smelting work for Uncle Luger. If we haul this back, we just need to heat and hammer it to immediately forge full-plate heavy armor and halberds." An elite infantryman stared blankly at the iron pile, his voice trembling. For the soldiers of Greywater Village—men who had long grown accustomed to gnawing on bitter [Swamp Tubers] and hoarding every single drop of purified water—the sight before them was an absolute, overwhelming sensory overload.

A young infantryman stepped forward, gently touching a beautifully cured, mouth-watering ham. His eyes turned bloodshot as tears welled up. Staring at this apocalyptic haul of spoils, Soren's cold, chiseled features slowly relaxed.

"Exhilarating! Absolutely exhilarating!" Soren turned around, laughing heartily at his teary-eyed soldiers.

"I was just worrying that Greywater Village's diet was getting a bit too repetitive, and here Warchief Blackstone couldn't wait to deliver a feast right to our doorstep!" He drew his longsword and lightly tapped the flat of the blade against the nearest oak barrel, emitting a crisp, resonant thunk.

"Remember this, brothers! From this day forward, Warchief Blackstone is the undisputed, unpaid logistics quartermaster of Greywater Village!"

"Once we finish this campaign, we are hauling every last scrap of this back to our home! I want every single one of you sitting by a warm brazier, eating roasted meat, and drinking yourselves blind on rum!"

"Long live the Warlord! Thanks for the supplies, Warchief!" A deafening, fanatical cheer erupted from within the vault, shaking the very dust from the ceiling. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. After ordering Gary to inventory the supplies and begin loading them onto whatever carts they could find, Soren strode out of the vault, heading straight for the Orc Commander's stone quarters. The furnishings inside were incredibly crude.

The floor was littered with gnawed bones and overturned tankards. But resting squarely in the center of a wide stone table was an ornate, purple-gold stone lockbox, heavily engraved with Orcish Shamanic runes. Utilizing his [All-Tribe Orcish Mastery] talent, Soren expertly deciphered and manipulated the crude mechanical tumblers surrounding the lockbox. With a sharp clack, the lid sprang open.

Inside lay several communication scrolls tanned from human skin, alongside a communication slate used for transmitting faint, long-distance magical signals. Under the dim, flickering candlelight, Soren rapidly skimmed the top-secret documents. They were personally signed by the Governor-General's estate of the Blood Province and bore the heavy wax seal of Warchief Blackstone. As he finished reading, the relaxed demeanor he had shown in the vault entirely vanished, replaced by a dark, heavy solemnity.

Leona and Cedric stepped into the stone quarters at that exact moment. Acutely sensing the drastic shift in the atmosphere, Leona quickly strode forward.

"What's wrong? What did you find on those scraps of paper?" Soren tossed the gruesome human-skin scrolls onto the table in front of her, his voice grim.

"Bloodhorn Fortress was indeed the designated observation post for the high-ranking inspection delegation. But it serves a second, infinitely more critical function... It is a transit hub." Soren straightened his back, completely dissecting the tactical landscape for the two veteran commanders before him.

"The Shadow Priest Zagar, and the eight [Sons of Titan] under his command, are a decapitation unit born exclusively for slaughter."

"But even monsters face limitations. Executing a covert, high-speed forced march for hundreds of miles through the treacherous Misty Swamp will inevitably result in severe physical exhaustion and mana depletion."

"Boulder Fortress is heavily fortified. If Zagar attempts to drag his exhausted, depleted body to assassinate Grand Duke Valentine, he would simply be throwing his life away."

"Therefore, Warchief Blackstone needed a waypoint. A location as close to Boulder Fortress as possible, absolutely secure, and fully capable of providing an abundance of magical potions and fresh meat." Soren tapped the table hard.

"Here! This fortress is Zagar's final staging ground and resupply point before he launches his assassination strike!"

"It is also the exact outpost where those aristocratic Orc officials planned to sit back, raise a glass of rum, and comfortably wait for Zagar to return with the Grand Duke's severed head." Hearing this, Cedric's face turned deathly pale.

"Are you saying... Zagar is currently marching toward this exact location?"

"Not just marching. He is arriving momentarily." Soren stood tall, an overwhelming, suffocating battle lust erupting from his core.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime strategic pivot point."

"If we allow Zagar to fully recover and resupply here, Boulder Fortress will be plunged into an absolute bloodbath."

"But right now? Zagar's march route, his ultimate destination, and even his exact psychological state of anticipating a safe haven upon arrival... all of it is resting squarely in the palm of my hand."

"Originally, when we conquered this fortress, my only goal was to loot the vault and immediately extract. Stretching our supply lines is fatal for an army of our size." Soren spun around, his piercing gaze sweeping over everyone in the room.

"But upon learning that he treats this place as his absolute safe house... I've changed my mind."

"Today, inside the walls of this very fortress, I am going to annihilate him where he stands!" Absolute, ironclad orders were rapidly relayed down the chain of command.

"General orders to the entire army! Cease all logistics transport! Every man is to assume combat positions immediately!"

"Kick all those charred Orc corpses outside the main gates off the cliff! Use the mud to completely conceal the blood! Reignite the braziers! I want a flawless illusion that this fortress is operating entirely as normal!"

"I want to deliver the ultimate, lethal blow the exact microsecond Zagar drops his guard, believing he has stepped into an absolute safe zone!" Two hours later. The damp, freezing fog from the deepest reaches of the Misty Swamp rolled in from the horizon, shrouding the jagged silhouette of Bloodhorn Fortress in a ghostly haze. A few miles down the muddy trail directly in front of the fortress, a writhing, twisting pillar of pitch-black smoke drifted slowly forward.

Radiating a sinister, oppressive aura of shadow magic, it was none other than the Shadow Priest, Zagar—a monster who had discarded his physical flesh, relying entirely upon unfathomable dark magic to tether his soul to the mortal plane. Following closely behind him were his eight towering guards. Standing over four meters tall, they were the [Sons of Titan]. Devoid of rational thought, their colossal frames were entirely encased in heavy rock shields condensed from raw Earth-attribute mana.

With every thunderous footfall of their massive, broad feet, the very earth trembled slightly. Yet, even these behemoths, driven by nothing but pure killing instinct, had been pushed to their limits by the grueling forced march. Their heavy, ragged panting echoed endlessly through the night wind. They were in desperate need of an abundant feast of fresh flesh and blood to fill their shriveled, aching stomachs.