Chương 303: 303：Blind Vanguard, Marching Prey

Clack, clack. The crisp, rhythmic sounds of heavy crossbow mechanisms being cranked and loaded echoed relentlessly through the howling blizzard. Soldiers meticulously checked the heavy buckles of their [Dark Silver Armor], stuffing handfuls of dry wood ash into the linings of their [Padded Cotton Armor] to stave off the biting, paralyzing cold. Directly ahead of them, one hundred towering, fiercely muscled frontline elites had already donned their full heavy plate in complete silence.

They stood like absolute monoliths atop the forward slope. They wore menacing, full-visored helms. The gleaming blades of their two-and-a-half-meter-long armor-piercing heavy halberds caught the faint light amidst the swirling snow. There was no chaotic shouting. There was no frantic waving of banners. There was only the dull, heavy clinking of overlapping steel and the steady, scorching plumes of white breath exhaled into the freezing air. This absolute, suffocating silence...

was the most terrifying threat of all. Meanwhile, to the north of the Misty Swamp, on a muddy wasteland a mere ninety miles from Greywater Village... The very earth shuddered violently, unable to bear the crushing weight upon it. RUMBLE! A dense, thunderous cacophony of hooves shattered the thin layer of ice coating the swamp. Flinging up a massive storm of acidic, rotting mud and slush, a colossal army surged forward with apocalyptic momentum.

This was not a standard Orc vanguard cobbled together from various clans. This was an entire, fully mobilized Centaur tribe—every single member of their race marching as one! Viewed from above, this massive horde of over ten thousand Centaurs formed a sprawling, mud-yellow wedge. They trampled the withered reeds and rotting muck beneath their hooves, radiating a savage, primal aura that threatened to brutally crush absolutely anything in their path.

Without a doubt, Centaurs were the undisputed masters of speed on this continent. They possessed a gargantuan physique that humans could never hope to match. Their lower halves were the massive, heavily muscled bodies of warhorses, their four hooves capable of generating an explosive, high-mobility charge that tore through wind resistance. Their upper halves were humanoid torsos covered in coarse, stiff bristles.

The sheer physical strength in their arms allowed them to easily draw heavy longbows even while galloping at maximum speed. On an open plain, a massed charge from ten thousand Centaurs generated a kinetic shockwave so devastating that even the elite heavy pike phalanxes of the Holy Halycon Empire would be shattered upon impact, their bones pulverized and their formations instantly routed. However, this massive, ferocious race possessed two glaring, fatal flaws. First: a severe lack of armor.

To maintain their proud, terrifying speed, Centaurs simply could not wear the heavy plate steel favored by the Pigman infantry. The vast majority of them wore nothing but crudely cured, hardened animal hides, or merely strapped a few rusty, jagged iron plates over their vitals. Second—and this was their most lethal vulnerability—terrain adaptability. With bodies longer than a warhorse and four long legs, the moment they left the open plains and entered the Misty Swamp... it became a death trap.

This environment was a labyrinth of highly acidic mud, hidden sinkholes, and densely intertwined vines. In these narrow confines, their proud charging momentum became a severe hazard to themselves. Turning was an agonizing chore. Flexible tactical reformations were completely impossible. If their vanguard was suddenly halted during a full-tilt charge, the Centaurs in the rear simply wouldn't have the time or space to brake or swerve... triggering a catastrophic, multi-layered stampede.

"Faster! Don't you dare stop! Move those hooves!" Leading the horde were the true elites: three thousand prime, adult male Centaurs. Each beast stood nearly three meters tall, their bodies rippling with explosive muscle. Strips of raw, bloody meat hung from their flanks. Their massive hands tightly gripped two-meter-long cast-iron javelins and heavy longbows. Every heavy pant sent thick plumes of white vapor into the freezing wind. They hungered for blood, acting like a pack of tireless, killing machines.

Yet, trailing directly behind these three thousand elites was a starkly different, chaotic, and sluggish sight. It was a disorganized mob of seven thousand Centaurs. Among them were elderly Centaurs with greying bristles; female Centaurs carrying crude bundles on their backs with simple scimitars strapped to their waists; and even half-grown adolescents whose hooves hadn't fully hardened. They gasped violently for air, their legs struggling to pull free from the ever-deepening, rotting mud.

Many of the old and young were physically exhausted, their steps stumbling, yet they grit their teeth, forced to keep pace. This was the sheer, venomous cruelty of Warchief Blackstone. While the elderly, the young, and the females lacked the stamina of prime males, their innate racial strength meant they still possessed formidable archery and melee capabilities. Any random Centaur elder possessed a comprehensive combat strength that far exceeded a standard human city guardsman.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. To the supreme commander of the Orc Alliance, there was no such merciful concept as a "non-combatant." Ever since Soren had severed Abysswater Keep's logistical hub, the Warchief had been consumed by a blend of apocalyptic rage and the paralyzing anxiety of starvation.

To completely overwhelm Greywater Village's terrifying defenses and drain their crossbow bolt reserves in the shortest possible time, he had issued a blood-chilling military directive, perfectly willing to pay an agonizing price. He didn't issue this vanguard a single wagon of supplies. Instead, he forced the entire Centaur tribe to march as sacrificial pawns for his hundred-thousand-strong army! He was willing to sacrifice the continuation of an entire tribe just to brutally grind Soren's resistance into the dirt!

Greywater Village has a defensive line of toxic spikes? Then fill those trenches with the corpses of these seven thousand elders and children! However, the direct executor of this impending tragedy, the current Chieftain of the Centaur Tribe, Heka, was completely oblivious to his tribe's doom. Instead, he was drowning in blind excitement and rabid greed.

"Hahahaha! Do you hear the earth shuddering?! This is the power of our Centaur iron hooves!" Chieftain Heka galloped at the very front of the main formation. His physique was a full tier larger than even the prime males. His upper torso was covered in jagged, terrifying scars from past slaughters. Comically, yet arrogantly, he wore a magnificent, heavily modified steel breastplate—plundered from a human noble—that had been forcefully stretched and riveted over his chest.

Heka casually swung a massive, spiked flail with one hand. He turned his gaze to his second-in-command, Luke, riding beside him, his face twisted with haughty pride and an eager lust for glory.

"Those pathetic Pigmen and slow-ass Tauren are still eating our mud in the rear! Warchief Blackstone bestowed the supreme honor of the vanguard onto us! Luke, do you understand what this means?!" Heka tilted his head back, guzzling half a waterskin of foul-smelling, coagulated beast blood. He excitedly licked the crimson foam from his lips, boasting loudly to his subordinate:"Soren? What a load of shit! He's nothing but a weak human hiding in the woods!

With our numbers and this charging speed, I only need three days to utterly trample his pathetic Greywater Village defenses into dust!" Heka grew increasingly agitated, completely intoxicated by his own fantasy of a glorious victory. His hooves seemed to strike the mud with an even lighter, faster cadence.

"I heard that village has mountains of fine sorghum stockpiled! And that strong rum—the kind that drives a male mad with just one sniff!"

"Once we shatter their lines and crush the bones of those inferior humans, all that mouth-watering liquor, those bulging grain silos, and all the human women—they will all be the spoils of our tribe!"

"When the time comes, I'm going to personally hack off that Soren's head and present it to the Warchief! When the Warchief is pleased, the fertile plains east of the Misty Swamp, right by Abysswater Keep... that will be the eternal territory of the Centaurs!" The howling gale carried Heka's utterly delusional boasts to the ears of the surrounding elite warriors, triggering a cascading chorus of savage, greedy, and bloodthirsty roars.

In stark contrast to Chieftain Heka, who had completely lost his mind to greed, his Vice-Chieftain, Luke, who trailed exactly half a horse-length behind, wore an incredibly grim expression. Luke was a Centaur stepping into his middle years. The weight of time had granted him something Heka lacked: a clear, rational pair of eyes capable of reading the battlefield. He did not echo the Chieftain's manic laughter. Instead, he threw a deeply anxious glance over his shoulder.

He looked at the seven thousand elders, children, and women stretching for miles behind them, their steps growing increasingly sluggish as they bogged down in the mire. Just then, a pregnant female Centaur's hooves sank deep into a pool of acidic mud. She cried out in pain and collapsed. Before she could even attempt to scramble up, a tribesman behind her, unable to brake in time, accidentally trampled her arm, drawing a harrowing, muffled scream. Witnessing this, Luke's heart seized with dread.

"Chieftain..." Luke finally couldn't hold back his cautious warning.

"Our speed is indeed fearsome, but... look beneath our hooves! The hard earth has completely vanished. The mud of the Misty Swamp is growing deeper by the mile!"

"Our formation is stretched far too thin! If we hit an ambush or a massive human trap in this godforsaken bottleneck, our ten-thousand-strong army won't even be able to turn around! If the vanguard is suddenly halted, our own massive momentum will cause the rear lines to violently crash into us! We will crush ourselves to death!"