Chương 296: 296：Roar of the Ironclad Earth Dragons

It was a flawlessly crafted lie, airtight and devoid of a single loophole. It not only accounted for the exact timeframe he was missing and explained the source of his gruesome left arm injury, but it also cleverly utilized the act of "staying behind to protect the recruits"—a deed perfectly in line with the heroic dogma of the Crimson Moon Knights. It flawlessly masked the agonizing shame of him kneeling and surrendering in the dark depths of the dungeon.

"Well done! A ten-year veteran ranger—you certainly didn't bring shame to my name!" Leona praised, harboring absolutely no suspicions. She had always been a straightforward warrior. Besides, who would ever doubt a grizzled veteran who had bled for the Order for a decade, returning covered in horrific scars after risking his life to cover his comrades' retreat?

"May the Goddess of the Bright Moon be praised for her protection," Combat Medic Elena murmured, tracing a holy symbol over her chest. She added gently, "The refugees' herbs managed to staunch the bleeding, but the wound is deeply infected. Zim, don't worry about anything else for now. Just focus on resting and recovering here in the main camp." Faced with the unwavering trust and warmth of his two commanders, Zim felt a crushing, agonizing torment within.

Whatever remained of his human conscience clawed viciously at his soul. In his mind, he was screaming: 'Commander! Lady Elena! I'm lying to you! I sold you out! I gave the orcs the coordinates to our main camp!' However, his primal instinct for survival—and his bone-deep terror of the dark shadow magic now festering inside him—ruthlessly crushed his conscience down into the dark.

"Commander..." Zim took a shaky breath, forcibly suppressing the emotional turmoil in his chest. He knew he had to initiate the second phase of Zagar's plan.

"On my way back... I heard some of the refugees talking. They said Vice-Commander Soren won a massive victory? That the whole continent is talking about it?" Zim asked, feigning a look of sudden, spirited excitement. At the mention of Soren, Leona's face instantly lit up with radiant pride.

"You bet he did! That kid Soren is practically a hero to all of humanity right now! His tactical maneuvers played those orc bastards like absolute fools!" Seizing the opening, Zim pleaded, "Commander, my left arm is mangled. It'll be a long time before I can draw a longbow or couch a lance again. If I stay here in the main camp, I'll just be a useless cripple eating into our rations." Zim looked up, his eyes wide with desperate sincerity.

"I heard Lord Soren is spearheading the Four-Front Defensive Alliance. They say Greywater Village is taking in massive waves of new recruits every single day. They must be severely lacking experienced veterans to teach them proper formations and swamp survival skills." He leaned forward.

"Commander, please! Appoint me as the Crimson Moon Knights' liaison officer and transfer me to Greywater Village! I might not be able to fight in the melee, but I have the entire map of this swamp committed to memory! I can help Lord Soren train the recruits. I can help him survey the terrain for traps!" It was a flawless performance. Every word resonated perfectly with the image of a crippled veteran refusing to be cast aside, desperate to continue serving the defensive line.

Leona and Elena exchanged a glance, both seeing deep admiration in the other's eyes. To them, this was the unyielding honor of a true Crimson Moon veteran. Furthermore, Greywater Village's defensive perimeter was currently incredibly secure. Sending the heavily wounded Zim there would not only allow him to contribute his remaining worth, but it would also provide him with a much safer environment to recover.

"Alright!" Leona agreed without hesitation, clapping Zim on his good shoulder.

"You rest here for two days. Once the wound scabs over, I'll dispatch a squad of light cavalry to personally escort you to Greywater Village!"

"Thank you, Commander!" Zim bowed his head, burying his face in the shadows. Leona and Elena turned and left to attend to their heavy military duties. They could never have imagined that the heart of this seemingly fiercely loyal veteran had already succumbed to treason. His journey to Greywater Village wasn't to train recruits.

He was carrying out Zagar's absolute death order: infiltrate Soren's core territory, map out the blind spots of the hidden magic arrays and anti-air tunnel networks, and when the main Orc army finally descended... deliver a fatal, devastating blow to Soren from the inside! Meanwhile. In the northern reaches of the Misty Swamp, at the Orc Alliance Main Headquarters: Bloodfang Fortress. The atmosphere was suffocating.

Inside the central command hall, the air was not only thick with the pungent stench of blood but also heavy with an oppressive, explosive aura that felt like it could detonate at any second. Crash! A solid gold goblet was crushed into a twisted lump of metal before being violently hurled against the stone floor.

"Incompetent fools! An irredeemable pack of worthless trash!" Warchief Blackstone paced furiously back and forth across the center of the hall, every heavy footfall causing the very ground to tremble. Flanking the hall were over a dozen high-ranking Orc Warlords and Clan Chieftains—men who were usually unruly and fiercely independent. Yet right now, every single one of them was kneeling on one knee, trembling in terror, not even daring to breathe too loudly.

Scattered on the floor before them were several urgent intelligence reports, just delivered by messenger hawks. The reports painted a crystal-clear, horrifying picture: Nak, the City Lord of Abysswater Keep, had his head blown off by an arrow fired by the human commander, Soren—in front of everyone, right in the middle of a heavily guarded banquet inside the City Lord's Manor! Stolen novel; please report.

Every single high-ranking warlord and human logistics supervisor inside the keep had been slaughtered to the last man! Worse still, with the upper echelon of leadership wiped out, the tens of thousands of human slaves toiling in the lower levels of Abysswater Keep had seized the chaos to launch a massive, violent uprising. They had burned the granaries to the ground and smashed the armories!

"Who wants to explain it to me?!" Warchief Blackstone's roar shook the hall so violently that dust cascaded from the vaulted ceiling.

"How does a measly human border officer, leading a mere handful of men, silently slip through our defensive lines and assassinate my Chief of Logistics right under the noses of several thousand guards?!" His fury wasn't solely born from the absolute humiliation of the event, but from the brutal strategic reality it created. As the supreme commander, Warchief Blackstone knew exactly what the paralysis of Abysswater Keep meant.

To completely obliterate Greywater Village, he had mobilized a main force of thirty thousand elite troops! Thirty thousand massive, ravenously hungry Orc warriors required a staggering, astronomical amount of dehydrated wyvern meat, rye, and fresh water every single day. And Abysswater Keep had been the vital logistical transit hub for this massive army!

"Please, quell your anger, Great Warchief..." An elderly Foxkin tactician crawled forward trembling, cold sweat soaking through his ornate shamanic robes.

"The granaries of Abysswater Keep are ashes. Their logistics are paralyzed. According to the calculations of our war shamans, the provisions we currently have stockpiled at the frontlines can, at best, sustain our thirty thousand troops for... five days." The Foxkin tactician swallowed hard before proposing the inevitable choice dictated by conventional warfare.

"Great Warchief, our supply lines are severed, and the terrain of the Misty Swamp is treacherous. If our army rashly pushes deep into enemy territory and fails to breach Greywater Village within five days, our troops will literally starve to death in that poisonous quagmire!

"This old servant advises... we temporarily halt the offensive. We must pull the army back fifty miles and wait for the rear to requisition new provisions..."

"Retreat?" Warchief Blackstone stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locking onto the Foxkin tactician with a murderous glare. He strode forward, grabbed the old fox by the collar of his robes, and effortlessly hoisted him into the air.

"Soren used a continent-wide newspaper to grind the Orc Alliance beneath his boot and humiliate us!" Warchief Blackstone snarled viciously.

"If I order a retreat now because of a supply issue, what will the other clans in the Alliance—the ones who already despise me—think? How much will the Blood Province and the Spire of Shadows laugh at me?!

"If I take a single step back, my absolute authority will crumble! This war... even if we have to gnaw on mud, even if we have to cannibalize our own dead, we are fighting this war!" Bam! Warchief Blackstone ruthlessly hurled the Foxkin tactician aside. He spun around, facing the kneeling warlords, and issued an absolute, unquestionable death order.

"Relay my command to the entire army! Do not bring any excess baggage! Do not waste time building fortified camps! Take five days of dry rations and advance at maximum speed!" The Warchief marched over to the strategic sand table. With a sweep of his massive hand, he ripped out the flag representing Greywater Village and snapped it in two.

"Soren thinks cutting my supply lines will force me to tuck my tail and run? He gravely underestimates the war-will of the Orcs!" He held up three thick fingers.

"Three days! I am giving you exactly three days!" Pointing violently at the route on the sand table, he roared, "Take the thirty thousand vanguard and steamroll straight through! I want you to turn every inch of mud in the Misty Swamp upside down!" At that moment, a heavily armored Wolf-Rider Commander spoke up hesitantly.

"Great Warchief... this human, Soren, is incredibly cunning. Our Tauren and Centaurs are brave without peer, but if they charge through the deep swamp terrain, they will inevitably suffer catastrophic casualties..." Warchief Blackstone's lips curled into a remarkably cruel, chilling sneer. He walked over to the towering floor-to-ceiling windows of the hall and violently tore back the heavy curtains. Down below, on the massive drill grounds of Bloodfang Fortress, stood three thousand warriors with blood-red eyes.

Their bodies were painted in crimson totems, and their sense of pain had been completely eradicated by dark magic. This was his ace in the hole: the elite [Bloodbone Legion]. But even more terrifying than them were the dozens of gargantuan beasts chained to the outer perimeter of the grounds with massive iron links. Ironclad Earth Dragons! These were sub-dragon magical beasts, each over ten meters in length!

Not only did they possess the raw, brute strength to easily shatter city walls, but Orcish blacksmiths had ruthlessly riveted two-inch-thick cast-iron armor plates directly onto their backs and skulls!

"Doesn't Soren love shooting arrows? Doesn't he love using heavy halberds and chevaux-de-frise to block cavalry?" Warchief Blackstone threw his head back and let out a wild, manic laugh.

"Let's see if the heavy ballistas of his pathetic Greywater Village can pierce the hides of my Ironclad Earth Dragons! They will be our siege vanguard!" He turned back to his commanders, his voice booming like thunder.

"The Earth Dragons clear the path! The Bloodbone Legion follows right behind them! The thirty-thousand-strong main force will form an iron wall and encircle them! I want Greywater Village wiped off the map! Leave absolutely nothing alive!"