Chương 306: 306： Not Defense, But Total Annihilation!

"It's been a grueling journey. Welcome to Greywater Village," Soren said with a warm, disarming tone. He then turned his head, his gaze landing on the knight beside him.

"Felix."

"Here, My Lord!"

"Brother Zim and these twenty knights have traveled a vast distance; their physical stamina is completely overdrawn. The meat grinder at the frontal defensive line is far too brutal and ill-suited for them in this state. Transfer them all into the fourth-echelon logistics battalion. Strip them of their heavy armor and warhorses. Their sole duty will be transporting [Swamp Tubers] and repeating crossbow bolts through the underground tunnel network." Soren's tone left absolutely zero room for negotiation.

"Remember, these are extraordinary times. No one is permitted to wander near the frontlines without authorization. You will personally subject them to the strictest oversight. If anyone disobeys a military directive... execute them on the spot!" Zim's head snapped up, his face painted with sheer, unadulterated shock. His entire plan hinged on being stationed at the frontline, perfectly positioned to launch a coordinated pincer attack with Zagar at the critical moment.

He never expected Soren's arrangements to be this utterly airtight. The Lord had effortlessly banished their formidable combat power straight to the logistical rear!

"Lord Soren! We are knights! We belong on the battlefield, slaughtering the enemy—" Zim desperately tried to argue his case. Shing! Felix drew his longsword a half-inch from its scabbard, the cold steel gleaming as he locked a deadly, uncompromising glare onto Zim.

"In Greywater Village, the Lord's command is absolute truth. Surrender your weapons, strip off your armor, and come with me!" Zim violently gritted his teeth. Forced to bow his head to conceal the creeping panic in his eyes, he obediently followed Felix toward the rear supply encampment. However, later that very evening, as Zim was struggling to haul a heavy wooden crate, he overheard a conversation that completely shattered his entire worldview. A window to the command post was left half-open.

Inside, Soren was conducting his final tactical deployments with his core commanders. Using the transport of supplies as cover, Zim pressed himself against the shadowed corner of the wall and strained his ears to listen.

"My Lord, as long as we hold the line to the bitter end for five days, the Orcs will absolutely run out of provisions and be forced to retreat!" Talon declared, his voice thick with excitement.

"Retreat?" Soren's cold, razor-sharp retort cut through the howling blizzard with terrifying clarity.

"When did I ever say our objective was simply to drive them away?" The room instantly plunged into a dead silence.

"Passively taking a beating has never been my style! Since these ten thousand Centaurs dared to set hoof into my Misty Swamp, they can forget about ever leaving it alive!"

"The entire army is not only to remain utterly nailed to their defensive positions, but you must all prepare for a full-scale counter-charge! The absolute second the Orcs exhaust themselves against our walls, their provisions run dry, and their formations completely collapse into the mire..." Soren's voice dripped with apocalyptic bloodlust.

"I want you to shatter the main force into autonomous fireteams and execute a three-dimensional envelopment tactic! The frontline elites will steamroll them from the front! Buck's Wolf Riders will ruthlessly slice through their flanks! Right here, in this godforsaken swamp, I want to completely annihilate these ten thousand Centaurs and swallow the incoming Orc main force whole!" Boom! Standing in the freezing shadows outside the window, Zim went completely rigid.

The heavy wooden crate nearly slipped from his numb fingers. His eyes bulged in sheer, unadulterated terror and awe. What an absolutely terrifying, monstrous tactical ambition! Facing a catastrophic numerical disadvantage, this Lord wasn't just plotting how to survive—he was actively orchestrating the total annihilation of a ten-thousand-strong elite army! Such staggering audacity, such overwhelming sovereign presence—it sent violent shivers racing down Zim's spine.

Compared to Soren, Zagar—the Shadow Priest who relied on underhanded poisons to control his pawns—seemed like nothing more than a pathetic, cowardly rat hiding in the gutter!

"My Lord! Critical emergency intelligence!" Meyer, the Captain of Intelligence, practically vaulted into the command post from the howling blizzard. His magical camouflage hadn't even fully dissipated yet, and he was gasping violently for air. But empowered by his [Memory Imprint], his report was flawlessly precise.

"The Orc Alliance's ten-thousand-strong Centaur vanguard is completely ignoring the hazards of the swamp mire! They are blitzing toward our coordinates at maximum speed! They have not stopped to rest for a single second!"

"Based on their current velocity, it is projected that by noon tomorrow, this apocalyptic horde will officially breach the perimeter of Greywater Village's northern slope defensive zone!" The delivery of this pinpoint intelligence marked one undeniable fact: the war that would dictate the absolute survival or utter annihilation of Greywater Village had officially entered its final countdown!

"Tomorrow noon..." Soren murmured, his eyes locked onto the tactical map. His expression was as unreadable and placid as a frozen lake.

"Meyer, the Scout Battalion is not to retreat. Maintain deep cover and continue reconnaissance. I want to know the coordinates of every single hoofbeat! Commanders, return to your respective battle stations immediately. Execute the final, comprehensive inspection of the defensive lines and armaments! Before the sun rises tomorrow, absolutely no one is permitted to sleep!"

"Understood, My Lord!" The commanders roared in perfect, thunderous unison. Radiating a suffocating, bloodthirsty aura, they rapidly dispersed to carry out their orders. Across the entire territory of Greywater Village, the final preparations were executed with terrifying, clockwork precision. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The geothermal black steel furnace roared like a caged beast as crates of freshly quenched, heavy armor-piercing bolts were hauled to the frontlines. Amidst the howling blizzard, the engineering corps painstakingly applied a fresh coat of highly lethal toxin to the trapdoor spikes. The second-line regulars stood in the biting cold, silently inspecting the shafts and tips of their spears. The air was overwhelmingly thick with the grim, suffocating tension that always precedes a massive slaughter.

As night fully descended, the blizzard grew exponentially more violent. The mournful howling of the wind sounded like the wailing of the damned, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of impending death. Inside the command post, the charcoal within the iron braziers crackled and popped. Soren stood entirely alone before the tactical map, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation.

Beneath the overwhelming facade of an apocalyptic ten-thousand-strong army bearing down on them, everything seemed perfectly logical and straightforward. Yet, the razor-sharp tactical intuition he had forged through countless life-and-death crucibles as a special forces operative on Earth was currently screaming in the back of his mind. It was too quiet. Shadow Priest Zagar... there had been absolutely zero intelligence regarding his movements.

"A treacherous snake like that would never sit out a siege of this magnitude," Soren deduced coldly in his mind. He closed his eyes, forcefully projecting himself into Zagar's perspective. If I were Zagar, what would I do? Launch a frontal assault with the main force? No. That's far too idiotic.

"The Centaur vanguard arrives tomorrow at noon..." Soren's eyes snapped open, blazing with absolute certainty.

"The perfect tactical window is the time discrepancy! Zagar will absolutely use the cover of tonight's blizzard to execute a decapitation strike against the command structure!" The enemy's lethal stratagem unraveled flawlessly in Soren's mind: Zagar intended to infiltrate the village tonight, entirely paralyzing Greywater Village's command post—or even directly assassinating him, the Lord.

If the supreme commander died tonight, the apocalyptic charge of the Centaur vanguard tomorrow would effortlessly steamroll a leaderless, chaotic Greywater Village!

"You want to play decapitation strikes with me?" Soren let out a dark, mocking sneer. In his previous life, he was an absolute master of deep-cover sabotage and HVT (High-Value Target) assassination!

"Gary!" Soren barked. Gary, the Trap Captain who had remained on standby outside, stepped in immediately.

"My Lord."

"Immediately construct hidden, lethal traps throughout the interior and exterior of the command post's courtyard," Soren commanded with chilling calm. He added, his voice dripping with killing intent, "Furthermore, relay my orders to Renn and Duran. Have them take the hundred frontline elites currently equipped in [Dark Silver Plate Armor] and embed them in absolute stealth along the rooftops, corridors, and blind spots surrounding this building."

Soren glanced at the flickering candlelight dancing upon the tactical map. Exhibiting the absolute confidence of a master tactician, he finalized the trap.

"Tonight, do not extinguish a single light in this building. We are turning this command post into the ultimate bait. Right here, in this kill zone, I am going to slaughter every last one of Zagar's elites!" In the dead of night. 4: 00 AM. This was the darkest hour before dawn, the exact moment when human biological fatigue peaked and vigilance was at its absolute lowest.

Deep within the lethal, toxic miasma clinging to the outskirts of Greywater Village, a mass of pitch-black shadow was squelching soundlessly over the acidic mud. Shadow Priest Zagar gripped his bone staff tightly. His sinister, withered face was heavily contorted with pure, unadulterated venom and malice. Looming silently behind him were five gargantuan [Sons of Titan], flanked by thirty nightmarish [Abomination Corpse-Fiends]—grotesque horrors brutally stitched together with thick steel wire!

For tonight's revenge, Zagar had completely emptied his accumulated capital, betting everything on this single strike. Enshrouding his entire horrific detachment in a mass shadow-concealment spell, he had flawlessly bypassed the conventional sentry posts along the outer perimeter.

"Soren... so what if you turned your frontline into an iron fortress?" Zagar sneered, his heart swelling with arrogant conceit as he observed the heavily guarded village.

"Before the supreme power of shadow magic, your pathetic sentries are nothing but blind, deaf decorations!" Convinced his infiltration was absolutely undetectable, he ravenously anticipated the moment he would severe Soren's head, finally washing away his humiliating disgrace before Warchief Blackstone. After slipping deep into the settlement, Zagar cunningly split his forces into two detachments. He quickly locked his gaze onto the dead center of the village.

There stood the tallest stilted longhouse, possessing a sprawling courtyard, its windows blazing conspicuously with bright candlelight.

"Found you." Driven by his inherently paranoid nature, he did not order the massive Sons of Titan to launch a direct, brute-force assault just yet. Instead, he swept his bone staff through the air, issuing a silent, telepathic command. Serving as the vanguard shock troops, the thirty Abomination Corpse-Fiends—boasting terrifying, unnatural strength—savagely tore themselves free from the veil of shadows.

Their brutally thick, mismatched limbs coiled and exploded with force, silently vaulting over the heavy wooden barricades of the command post's perimeter and slipping straight into the sprawling courtyard. Their horrific objective was simple: blitz straight into the longhouse at breakneck speed, mercilessly rip every single breathing creature inside to bloody shreds, and end the battle before an alarm could even be raised!