Chương 292: 292：The Scholar's Spine

A profound surge of secret delight swelled in Soren's heart. In this low-magic, cold-steel era—where communication was primitive and human life was cheaper than dirt—his past life's doctrines of modern military ideological arming and psychological warfare had actually unleashed terrifying power! These five hundred-plus youths and veterans who had crossed vast, perilous distances were absolute proof.

His prestige had shattered the information blockade of the Silvermoon Kingdom's rotting nobility, officially becoming the spiritual beacon for the bottom-tier humans across the entire continent!

"Once the floodgates are open, the greatest talents in the world will flock to my banner. Why worry about Greywater Village's defenses then?" Soren mused inwardly. However, as an elite Special Forces operative who had survived countless life-and-death crucibles, the euphoria quickly evaporated, seamlessly replaced by cold, calculating rationality.

Soren knew perfectly well that a sudden influx of over five hundred outsiders of unknown backgrounds was an opportunity, but for a fortress actively bracing for a siege, it was an immense security threat.

"Meyer, calm down." Soren hung the [Windwhisper Bow] back onto its weapon rack, his voice dead serious.

"Fame breeds trouble. Shadow Priest Zagar of the Orc Alliance suffered a catastrophic loss at our hands; he won't let this go. And that Prince Regent in the Royal Capital dreams of seeing me nailed to a cross here."

"Out of these five hundred men, how many are passionate patriots? And how many are deep-cover spies bought with heavy gold, waiting to sabotage us from the inside at the critical moment?" Meyer shivered violently. The sharp instincts of an intelligence officer abruptly snapped him out of his excitement, and a layer of cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Summon Kyle and Fina to the outer defensive line immediately." Soren snatched his black windbreaker cloak from the wall and strode purposefully out the door:"Transmit my military decree! Open the frontline recruitment center immediately, but scrutinize every single face!"

"I want warriors who dare to fight the Orcs to the death. I don't want refugees looking for a free meal, and I absolutely do not want enemy infiltrators!"

"Remember the law of Greywater Village: We would rather recruit fewer men than make up the numbers with trash!" At the northern outer perimeter of the Misty Swamp. Rows of sharpened chevaux-de-frise barricades stood menacingly, entirely blocking any prying eyes from the outside. Right now, on the hard, frozen mud just outside the barricades, over five hundred humans—exhausted and dressed in rags—were packed closely together.

The biting winter wind carried the sharp, acidic stench of the swamp's toxic bogs, leaving many shivering uncontrollably. It was a truly bizarre assembly. In the crowd, there were farm boys barely sixteen or seventeen, their faces still carrying the softness of youth, gripping crude pitchforks with white-knuckled intensity. There were also forty-year-old, one-eyed veteran mercenaries wrapped in tattered, blood-stained leather armor. They spoke in a dozen different accents and were complete strangers to one another.

Yet, when they looked up at the Greywater Village banner snapping wildly in the wind, their eyes were filled with absolute, burning reverence. However, among this crowd of mostly mud-caked, ruggedly built men, one exceptionally frail silhouette stood out, looking entirely out of place—even slightly comical. It was a young man in his early twenties named Horace.

Incredibly, he was wearing an exquisite scholar's robe—a garment exclusively seen within the opulent halls of the Royal Magic Academy of the Holy Halycon Empire. Though this once-astronomically expensive silk robe was now splattered with swamp muck and torn to shreds at the hem by thorns, he still stubbornly kept his frail spine ramrod straight. Cough... cough... A freezing gust of wind swept past, causing Horace to cover his mouth and cough violently.

His hands—hands accustomed only to gripping a delicate quill—were currently clutching a thick, ancient parchment tome tightly to his chest. An old, scar-faced veteran carrying a heavily notched greatsword on his back side-eyed him, unable to hold back a coarse, mocking sneer:"I say, My Lord Scholar, didn't you take a wrong turn? This is the Misty Swamp! We're here for a bloodbath, not some poetry tea party hosted by the noble ladies in the Royal Capital!"

"With that frail frame of yours, one gust of wind could knock you over. If you meet a Green-skin Orc, you won't even survive a single swing of their clubs!" The surrounding crowd immediately erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter. Clearly, in the eyes of these hardened warriors who worshipped sheer physical power, this young man in a scholar's robe was nothing more than a suicidal idiot. Faced with the mockery, Horace's face flushed a deep crimson, but he absolutely refused to back down.

He hugged his book even tighter, glaring stubbornly at the veteran.

"I... I do not know how to wield a sword," Horace gritted his teeth. Though his voice trembled slightly, it was forged with ironclad conviction.

"And I do not know how to cast offensive magic. But in the Halycon Royal Magic Academy, I was the top scholar of Ancient Runes and Mana Energy Theory under the Grand Archmage! I possess knowledge!" Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Horace shouted, his eyes turning violently red. His mind flashed back to the apocalyptic tragedy he had witnessed just half a month ago while visiting his hometown. Orc outriders had raided his village.

A sea of fire had swallowed the town, and those brutal beasts had casually butchered his family in the streets. And he? Possessing a mind overflowing with profound magical theory, he was cursed with an innate inability to perceive the elements. He couldn't even cast a basic fireball. He could only hide in a root cellar, forced to watch the slaughter unfold helplessly.

"I read that gazette!" Horace violently pointed at the gates of Greywater Village, roaring with every last ounce of strength in his frail lungs:"Lord Soren said it! Humanity should not be slaughtered like defenseless livestock! I abandoned my life of warm fireplaces and fine wine in the Academy! I walked a thousand miles to this godforsaken mud pit for one singular reason: to kill Orcs!"

"Even if all I can do is calculate the exact ballistic trajectory of a trebuchet for the warriors holding the blades! Even if all I can do is tear off a chunk of an Orc's flesh with my teeth before I die... I am staying here!" This slightly academic yet incredibly blood-soaked, tragic roar instantly silenced the surrounding laughter. The scar-faced veteran who had just mocked him quietly turned his head away.

He reached out with his massive hand and heavily patted Horace on the shoulder—a silent gesture of absolute respect for the scholar's unbreakable spine. Just at that moment, the heavy gates of the barricade slowly groaned open with a harsh scraping sound. Kyle, the Grand Steward responsible for logistics and recruit integration, strode out with heavy, authoritative steps. Beside him stood Meyer, the Captain of Intelligence, and Fina, the Head of Internal Affairs, clutching a thick ledger.

Behind them stood a row of Greywater Village's second-line elites. Clad in [Dark-Silver Half-Plate] and gripping three-meter pikes, they radiated a chilling, lethal killing intent forged in the crucible of countless bloodbaths. Their mere presence instantly suppressed the entire crowd. Kyle's wide eyes swept critically over the exhausted assembly. He took a deep breath and unleashed a deafening roar:"Silence!" The five-hundred-strong crowd fell utterly quiet. You could hear a pin drop.

"I know where you came from, and I know exactly what you read!" Kyle bluntly pointed toward the outer bogs bubbling with highly toxic gas, his voice intensely severe.

"You traveled all this way because you saw Lord Soren win battles here! You think there's a hero here you can follow to glory, right?!"

"Let me tell you: Everything printed in that gazette is the absolute truth! The fallen are buried with honor! The crippled are provided a lifelong pension! Greywater Village does not abandon a single brother who spills blood for us!" An uncontrollable, ecstatic commotion instantly rippled through the crowd. But Kyle violently slammed the butt of his pike into the frozen mud, unleashing an even louder, earth-shattering bellow:"BUT! Open your damn eyes and look at where you are! This is the Misty Swamp!

This is a death trap about to be entirely encircled by an apocalyptic Orc army of tens of thousands!" Kyle took a heavy step forward, the oppressive aura of an iron-willed veteran fully bearing down on them:"The law of Greywater Village is absolute: We would rather have fewer men than settle for trash! We do not want cowards who only know how to shout slogans! We do not want soft weaklings! And we absolutely do not want deep-cover scum with hidden agendas!"

"During the registration and screening, Captain Meyer's men will interrogate every single one of you! They will dig into your backgrounds and thoroughly test your mettle!"

"If we find out anyone here is a spy sent by the Orcs, or a rat sent by the human nobility..." Kyle violently drew the short sword from his waist and savagely hacked it deep into a nearby wooden post.

"We take absolutely no prisoners!"

"As for those of you who came here on a whim, and are now terrified after seeing this hellish mud pit... Step out and leave right now. There is no shame in it!"

"Grand Steward Fina will issue each of you three days of dehydrated rations and two silver coins for travel expenses! It is more than enough to get you back to the safe zones alive!" Kyle cast one final, piercing look over the crowd:"If you want to leave, get the hell out right now! If you want to stay, prepare to lay down your lives!" The freezing winter wind howled. Kyle's brutal, blood-soaked reality check poured ice water over the hot-headed youths.

Several sixteen-year-old boys stared at the ominous, toxic miasma, their faces turning deathly pale, their legs trembling uncontrollably. A few individuals with previously shifty, suspicious expressions felt the piercing glares of Meyer's intelligence squad and guiltily lowered their heads. After about half a minute, a dozen or so people finally buckled under the apocalyptic pressure of life and death. Hanging their heads in shame, they walked over to Fina to collect their travel expenses and leave.

But the vast majority of the crowd... Stood firmly rooted to the frozen earth. They did not take a single step back!