Chương 297: 297：New Life in the Mire

As Warchief Blackstone's thirty-thousand-strong vanguard prepared to break camp, radiating a terrifying, suffocating aura... Deep within the Misty Swamp, hidden inside a miasma-choked forest that hadn't seen the sun in centuries, the air itself was tainted a sickly, unnatural green. The concentration of toxic gas was so lethal that even the incredibly resilient twin-headed demon crocs didn't dare set foot in this absolute dead zone. Shadow Priest Zagar stood silently before a bubbling, acidic bog.

His naturally shriveled frame was entirely enshrouded in a dense, swirling miasma of purple-black shadow magic. Due to the severe damage his soul core had sustained, every single breath he took sent waves of agonizing pain ripping through his chest. Yet, the pure, unadulterated malice and venom burning within his reptilian slit-pupils were more intense than ever before.

"Soren..." Zagar hissed into the toxic fog.

"You completely humiliated me in front of the Alliance's upper echelon. You drove a wedge between the Spire of Shadows and the Blood Province. I will wash away this disgrace with your very soul!" Zagar slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the hidden army concealed behind him in the mist. Standing at the very front were five massive figures—the towering, four-meter-tall [Sons of Titan].

Though they had barely survived the previous assassination attempt with a sliver of health, driven by Zagar's dark secret arts, they now radiated a berserk, overwhelmingly oppressive physical aura. However, the true nightmare—the sight that would haunt anyone who laid eyes upon them—stood silently behind the Sons of Titan. Thirty grotesque abominations. The Abomination Corpse-Fiend Unit. Zagar coldly admired his masterpieces.

Using the forbidden necromantic arts of the Spire of Shadows, he had meticulously stitched these horrors together using the mangled corpses of the elite Iron and Steel-tier Orcs who had died at Soulbreak Gorge! He had forcefully sewn thick steel wire through the robust limbs of the Orcs, violently fusing them with the internal organs of twin-headed demon crocs and venomous pythons. He had baptized their unnatural bodies with the fresh blood of the living and the wailing souls of the dead.

These monsters felt no pain. They knew no fear. They didn't even possess vital organs! As long as their shadow cores remained intact, even if they were decapitated, they would continue to swing their venom-drenched claws and mercilessly rip apart any living creature in their path!

"The Warchief's army of thirty thousand is massive. While they can steamroll anything in their path, they are far too slow," Zagar muttered. As a priest highly versed in strategy, Zagar's mind was meticulous. He mentally simulated the reactions Soren was most likely to make.

"Soren is a master of unconventional, specialized tactics. The moment he realizes he cannot withstand a frontal assault from thirty thousand troops and Ironclad Earth Dragons, he won't be foolish enough to defend Greywater Village to the death."

"Given his commanding prowess, he will undoubtedly disperse his main forces. He will exploit the complex terrain of the swamp, retreat into the deep mist, and execute the guerrilla warfare and pocket-traps he excels at!"

"If he is allowed to escape into the heart of the swamp, the thirty-thousand-strong army will be dragged into an endless war of attrition in the mud. They will ultimately be bled dry!" Zagar's withered fingers violently clenched the air, causing purple-black magic to detonate in his palm.

"Therefore, I will absolutely not give him the chance to retreat!" Zagar raised his head, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick fog, locking directly onto the coordinates of the Greywater Village command post.

"That hidden piece, Zim, will soon prove his worth. He will mark the blind spots in Greywater Village's anti-air magic arrays and pinpoint the exact stilted longhouse where Soren sleeps."

"Soren, you love executing decapitation strikes, don't you? This time, I'm going to let you taste what it feels like to have your throat directly seized!" Zagar thrust his shadow staff high into the air. The skull affixed to its tip pulsed with a terrifying, ghastly light.

"Target: Greywater Village Command Post!" Zagar commanded, his voice dripping with malice.

"Full stealth! Bypass the frontline battlefield! Initiate the decapitation strike!" Accompanied by the horrifying sound of grinding bones and squelching flesh, the five surviving Sons of Titan and the thirty nightmarish Abomination Corpse-Fiends melted silently into the sickly green mist. Meanwhile, the biting northern winds continued to howl across the Misty Swamp, but the dense cluster of stilted longhouses within Greywater Village managed to keep the harsh cold at bay. Inside the Lord's Command Post.

Fina Hawthorne, the Chief of Finance, held a parchment ledger in her hands. Her blonde hair was tied up in a simple bun, and her expression was exceedingly spirited.

"My Lord, the final verification of the outer defensive perimeter has been completed." Fina took a deep breath, reporting in a crisp, efficient tone.

"Excluding Duran, Felix, and Duran's mother—whom you brought back previously—yesterday, through rigorous screening, we successfully recruited a net total of three hundred and sixty-two able-bodied men!" The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. She turned a page of the ledger.

"Currently, the total registered population of Greywater Village has skyrocketed from 2, 019 to exactly 2, 384!" Hearing the exact figure, Soren, standing on the other side of the tactical map, smiled with deep satisfaction.

"2, 384..." Soren silently weighed the military gravity of that number in his mind. To the grand nobles of the royal capital who governed entire provinces, a mere two-thousand-odd people was nothing more than an insignificant, unrated hamlet. But here, in the death trap of the Misty Swamp, completely surrounded by enemies, every single living, breathing person added to their ranks was a precious cornerstone—someone who could grip a spear and reinforce the firepower of their defensive line!

He was keenly aware of the dire situation looming over them. According to the intelligence Alaric had brought back, upon learning of Warlord Mog's death, Warchief Blackstone had flown into an apocalyptic rage, mustering a main force of thirty thousand elite troops to march south. Soren's gaze fell upon the complex markers of poison gas belts and mud pits on the map. After rigorous mental calculation, he openly analyzed the current strategic landscape for the generals present in the room.

"Although the Orc Alliance boasts that they have deployed a hundred thousand troops on the outskirts of this swamp, that seemingly terrifying number is actually a massive logistical burden," Soren stated calmly.

"The terrain of the Misty Swamp is atrocious, littered with highly acidic mud and lethal miasma. This narrow, fragmented geography dictates that it is utterly impossible for Warchief Blackstone to deploy his hundred thousand troops all at once, like a cavalry charge on an open plain." Soren gestured toward the map.

"Furthermore, the vast majority of those hundred thousand troops are just ordinary greenskin orcs with no strict military training. These greenskin monsters might be more than enough to overwhelm a malnourished, regular human army. But facing Greywater Village's well-equipped Black-Steel elite, facing our three-dimensional, overlapping crossfire matrix... they will be reduced to mere sacrifices in a one-sided slaughter!"

Soren lifted his head, his commanding aura instilling a profound sense of security in everyone present.

"Therefore, our true source of pressure is those thirty thousand ace elite Orcs—the ones whose formidable individual combat capabilities are largely unhindered by the terrain!"

"Right now, every additional person in Greywater Village who can pull the trigger of a repeating hand crossbow in the trenches, every extra laborer who can transport [Swamp Tubers] in the rear... adds another fraction of a percentage to our chance of victory in this impending war for survival!" Just as he finished speaking, the tightly shut wooden door of the command post was violently shoved open with a loud bang. Kyle, the Chief of Logistics, stumbled into the room.

This usually stoic, unshakeable man was currently drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as his breathing hitched with violent tremors.

"My Lord!"

"What is it? Did the outer sentries spot Orc scouts?" Lyra, Soren's personal bodyguard who had been standing silently behind him, instantly dropped into a combat stance. With a flick of her wrist, a throwing knife slid effortlessly into her reverse grip.

"No! It's not the Orcs! It's... it's life!" Kyle was so agitated he could barely form words. A joyous, almost ecstatic smile broke across his face as he yelled, his eyes red with unshed tears.

"She gave birth! My Lord, the pregnant woman we rescued from the Reed Bay dungeon... she gave birth! It's a healthy, chubby baby boy! Both mother and son are safe!" The moment those words left his mouth, a pin-drop silence fell over the entire command post. A newborn! In an era where human life was utterly worthless, where thousands froze and starved to death every single day... here, in this Misty Swamp filled with nothing but deadly poison and rotting mud... they had actually welcomed the birth of a new life!

Soren himself froze in sheer shock. A second later, an unprecedented wave of intense emotion slammed into his chest. He quickly rounded the tactical map and grabbed Kyle tightly by the shoulders, his voice laced with a rare, desperate urgency.

"Take me to see them!" In the Greywater Village medical district, inside a stilted longhouse heavily insulated with thick animal pelts. The air inside carried the faint, soothing scent of herbs and the warm, curling steam of boiling water. Waaah! Waaah! A loud, crystal-clear baby's cry pierced through the wooden walls, carrying far out into the howling blizzard. To the soldiers of Greywater Village, that sound was a hundred times more beautiful than the most rousing war drums.

Outside the door, a crowd of spearmen and refugees who had heard the news quickly gathered. These rough, hardened men—who were usually ruthless and brutal on the battlefield—were now furiously rubbing their hands together in the cold, standing on their tiptoes to peek inside, their faces plastered with wide, foolish, and thoroughly genuine grins.