Chương 253: 253：We Are No Longer Cannon Fodder

Talon looked up, his eyes bloodshot and brimming with hot tears.

"And yet, you! All the way from Greywater Village over a hundred kilometers away... For us, a bunch of unrelated barbarians, you braved the dangers and force-marched through the snowy night! You are the eternal benefactor of our Steppe tribes!" Vice-chief Sangho and the surrounding lieutenants dropped to one knee in perfect unison, their voices thundering across the snow: "We thank Lord Soren!" Facing such profound gratitude, Soren stepped forward swiftly.

Grasping Talon's massive forearms, he firmly hauled the towering chieftain back to his feet.

"Brother Talon, get up! You honor me too much!" Soren's face was filled with utter sincerity and sorrow. He clapped Talon on the shoulder, his voice ringing with righteous conviction.

"What 'barbarians'? What 'unrelated'? As long as you hold a blade and point it at the Orcs, you are Soren's brother-in-arms!" Soren swept his gaze over the scarred, bloodied Steppe warriors, his tone resolute.

"Slaughtering Orcs and defending human lands is the absolute duty of every man in our faction! The high command of the Ironpeak Duchy might be blind enough to abandon true warriors, but my Greywater Village forces will never watch our brothers fight and die alone in the blizzard!" These words carried no arrogance, no condescension—only the purest camaraderie. In an instant, they breathed life back into the deadened hearts of the Steppe warriors, men who had endured endless discrimination.

"Your honor is unmatched, My Lord..." Talon was moved beyond words. He glanced at the Greywater Village soldiers standing perfectly straight behind Soren. Even with their helmets obscuring their faces, the sheer exhaustion from a hundred-kilometer forced march and a brutal bloodbath was evident. Talon immediately stepped aside, offering a deeply passionate gesture of invitation.

"Lord Soren, your troops have marched over a hundred kilometers and fought a hellish battle. The brothers must be exhausted!" Talon pleaded sincerely.

"The pass is in ruins, but it can still block this damn blizzard. We have a few hot cauldrons left. Please, you must lead your men inside to rest for the night! Allow us to offer whatever hospitality we can muster!" Soren looked up at the intensifying snowfall and nodded inwardly. The grueling trek combined with the high-intensity combat had indeed pushed his soldiers to their physical limits. More importantly, this was the perfect opportunity to bond with and eventually recruit these fierce barbarian warriors.

"Since Brother Talon is so gracious, we won't stand on ceremony!" Soren laughed heartily.

"Into the fort! Rest up!"... As the main forces of Greywater Village marched into the pass encampment, the entire barbarian camp boiled over with excitement. Bonfires were reignited. Under the dancing flames, the absurdly luxurious armaments of the Greywater troops were laid bare before the eyes of the dirt-poor Steppe warriors.

"By the Eternal Sky... feel this armor..." Vice-chief Sangho's solitary eye went wide. Sucking in a breath of cold air, he circled a frontline Greywater elite who was unbuckling his gear to rest. He gingerly traced the matte black, rock-solid surface of the [Black Steel Full-Plate]. The streamlined, curved design intended to deflect blows, the impregnable defense, even the intricate chainmail protecting the joints—it was all flawless.

"How... how many gold coins does this cost? Wearing this, a crude Orcish axe wouldn't do shit!" Sangho's voice trembled. If only the barbarian brothers had possessed even ten sets of armor like this today, so many wouldn't have had to die! In another corner of the camp, sixteen-year-old Barlow was staring wide-eyed at a winch-drawn heavy repeating crossbow resting on the ground. Just hours ago, he had nearly died trying to take an Orc down with a broken spear tied to his wrist.

"Wanna give it a try?" A friendly Greywater veteran noticed Barlow's gaze. Smiling, he walked over, hoisted the heavy repeater, and handed it to the boy along with a specialized armor-piercing steel bolt. Overwhelmed by the gesture, Barlow took the incredibly heavy weapon. Following the veteran's instructions, he used every ounce of his strength to crank the gears and draw the string.

"Aim for that busted wooden shield and pull the trigger," the veteran instructed, pointing at an iron-banded heavy wooden shield set up fifty paces away for testing. THWACK! A dull, explosive crack echoed out. The steel bolt instantly tore through the air. With a vicious squelch, it not only punched clean through the iron-banded heavy shield but carried enough momentum to embed itself deeply into the rock face behind it, the fletching vibrating violently! Hssss!

The surrounding Steppe warriors sucked in sharp breaths in collective shock. Barlow's jaw hit the floor. He stared blankly at the repeating crossbow in his frostbite-riddled hands, trembling with unrestrained excitement. He couldn't tear himself away from the terrifyingly lethal weapon. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"It's too powerful... If we had these, those thousands of Orcs wouldn't have even touched the walls!" Barlow muttered. The astronomical gap in equipment left the Steppe warriors utterly spellbound. Yet, beyond the shock, they harbored a profound, genuine respect for this heavily armed, monstrously capable force. In this day and age, noble armies with the best gear were usually cowards terrified of death. But these Greywater troops?

Not only was their gear obscenely luxurious, but when it came to slaughtering Orcs, they were even more vicious and decisive than the barbarians themselves! This was a true elite force! At the same time, inside the most wind-sheltered stone hut in the center of the camp. The fire pit blazed brightly. Talon took out the absolute best piece of air-dried meat left in the camp, personally carved off the fattiest, most succulent portion with his dagger, and offered it to Soren.

As he hosted his savior, the Steppe chieftain's heart was caught in a tumultuous struggle. Noting the deep conflict etched on Talon's face, Soren didn't rush to extend a recruitment offer. Instead, with the relaxed demeanor of an old friend, he tossed over a flask of strong rum.

"Don't overthink it for now, Talon. Have a drink of the hard stuff and warm up," Soren said softly. The burning liquid slid down his throat, thoroughly igniting the pent-up fury and grievances festering in Talon's chest.

"Lord Soren... in all my life, I have never bowed to another man. But today, you have truly, thoroughly earned my submission." Talon's eyes were bloodshot. The veins on the back of his hand bulged as he gripped the flask, finally baring his soul to Soren:"Look at my brothers! We answered the human defensive line's call to arms. We left the lush pastures of the northern steppes, abandoning our homes to throw ourselves at the front lines!" Talon's voice trembled with agonizing pain.

"We didn't seek high ranks or fat stipends; we just wanted to kill some Orcs! And what did we get in return?"

"No logistics. The brothers can't even get a full meal! We don't have enough clothes, losing limbs to frostbite in the blizzard! We can't even scrape together decent armor, forcing us to fight iron-clad Orcs in hand-to-hand combat with broken blades!" Talon suddenly slammed his fist into the ground, shattering the stone tiles beneath it.

"We endured all of that! But today... facing annihilation by an army of five thousand Orcs, the regular army of the Ironpeak Duchy—the heavily armored legion that shares this very defensive line—didn't even send a single messenger! They just broke camp and retreated, abandoning us here as disposable meat shields to die!" He looked up, his face a portrait of bitter despair.

"We use our lives to hold the line, and they use our lives to buy time for their cowardly escape!"

"Yet you... separated by over a hundred kilometers, not even part of our command chain... you braved certain death and force-marched just to save our lives!"

"The contrast... it's just too cruel." Talon squeezed his eyes shut, twin streams of hot tears tracing down his scars.

"Lord Soren, the hearts of us Steppe men have been thoroughly, completely broken by the Ironpeak Duchy!" Listening to Talon's blood-weeping accusations, Soren maintained a solemn expression. He didn't fan the flames; he simply listened quietly, looking at the man with profound empathy. Soren knew the time was ripe. In the very act of hosting him, Talon had officially begun contemplating leading his Steppe warriors to join Greywater Village.

Though the words hadn't been spoken yet, the seed of fealty had already been deeply planted within his overwhelming gratitude. As the night deepened, the heavy snow finally ceased. The Broken Blade Mountains pass ushered in the final night of its defensive mandate. With Commander Noga dead and an army of five thousand routed, the Orc alliance was utterly incapable of mounting a counterattack in the short term. This horrific battlefield finally enjoyed a peaceful night.

Yet, atop the ramparts of the pass, the scene was bustling with energy. The Greywater elites didn't rest. Instead, they took the initiative to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Steppe warriors. Burly Black Steel soldiers hoisted massive logs, while the barbarians packed mud and rubble into the gaps. With absolutely no barrier between them, the two forces worked as one to repair the fortifications shattered by magic and boulders.

Once the work was done, they gathered around the bonfires, roasting meat and passing around flasks of ale.

"Brother, that move of yours, shoving a broken spear into an Orc's eye? Fucking brutal! I gotta try that next time!" a Greywater soldier laughed, handing Barlow a skewer of roasted meat and flashing a thumbs-up. Barlow just scratched the back of his head, looking a little bashful.