Chương 343: 343：Collapse of the Ten-Thousand

"Listen to me! I am the Ironblood Grand Warlord! Chieftain of the Ironblood Clan! Blackstone is dead! The entire army answers to me now!"

"Just lower that damn bow! Do that, and I swear I will immediately order this entire ten-thousand-strong Minotaur army, and the Pigmen legions still mustering in the rear, to withdraw entirely!"

"We will pull completely out of the Misty Swamp! You have my word—we will never launch another attack on Greywater Village!"

"And that's not all! Warchief Blackstone's Royal Pavilion, the eight armored Kodo beasts pulling it, and every single coin, crate of supplies, and magical material hoarded inside... I will leave it all to you! Consider it absolute compensation for a supreme powerhouse such as yourself!" The Grand Warlord swallowed hard, desperately stacking the deck to prove his sincerity.

"I also swear that if I make it back alive, I will personally travel to the capital of the Blood Province and plead your case before the Governor!"

"I swear upon the ancestors of the Ironblood Clan! I will ensure the Blood Province never dispatches another army to invade your lands! Just do not loose another arrow! Spare my life!" The Grand Warlord's pathetic, begging roars echoed endlessly over the frozen avenue. Five hundred meters away, Soren—who had just been preparing to draw his longsword and melt back into the darkness—paused. Beneath the icy steel of his visor, a cold, contemptuous smirk slowly spread across his face. Begging for peace?

And throwing in such an obscenely lucrative offer? Soren knew perfectly well that his absolute trump card was gone. Where in the hell was he supposed to pull a second [Arrow of Concealment] from? If the Grand Warlord hadn't completely lost his nerve—if he had instead flown into a rage and ordered those hundred-plus heavily armored Pigmen Royal Guards to shield-wall their way forward under the cover of the Shamans' magical bombardment......

then the standard heavy arrows Soren had left, driven purely by brute physical force, wouldn't even dent those black-steel tower shields. Let alone assassinate a Grand Warlord cowering behind multiple overlapping layers of magical wards. But the enemy commander was trapped in a massive tactical blind spot. He equated the unknown with absolute invincibility, literally dropping to his knees under the crushing weight of his own imagined terror.

Since the enemy was actively waving the white flag, and offering terms so flawless they completely shattered Soren's initial strategic expectations... why the hell not? Not only would this instantly dissolve the ten-thousand-strong invasion force without shedding another drop of blood, totally averting the destruction of Greywater Village, but he was also getting a Warchief's obscenely luxurious Royal Pavilion and a mountain of strategic supplies absolutely free of charge!

As for the Grand Warlord's promise to plead his case in the Blood Province? Soren obviously wasn't naive enough to entrust the survival of his territory to the word of an enemy. But if this bluff bought him a few months—or even half a year—of strategic buffer time to safely establish his academies and successfully develop firearms? That was a massive, indisputable net positive. Perfectly aligned with my current interests, Soren concluded internally, making his decision. He didn't waste a single word of breath.

Relying on the enhanced visual range of his [Eagle Eye Perception], he stared straight into the Ironblood Grand Warlord's terror-stricken eyes. Deliberately projecting an aura of absolute, contemptuous supremacy, Soren slowly, casually lowered his [Windwhisper Bow], and with a crisp click, snapped his longsword fully back into its scabbard. Then, he made a universally understood, highly arrogant human hand gesture. Dismissed. Get out of my sight.

Seeing Soren actually lower that lethal longbow, the Ironblood Grand Warlord felt a wave of absolute, hysterical relief wash over him. Only then did he realize he was completely drenched. Cold sweat had thoroughly soaked right through the thick leather padding beneath his armor. Not daring to hesitate for even a fraction of a second—terrified that Soren might suddenly change his mind—the Grand Warlord violently spun around.

He forcefully snatched the magical communication slate directly from the trembling hands of the elderly Shaman beside him.

"ALL FORCES, HEAR MY COMMAND! I am the Ironblood Grand Warlord! Supreme Commander Warchief Blackstone has been killed in action!"

"Everyone, cease all counterattacks immediately! Abandon all pursuit of the humans! The entire army is to withdraw at once! Fall back to the north of the Misty Swamp! Anyone who dares linger will be executed without mercy!" Amplified by the slate's magic, his roaring command echoed like thunder across the pitch-black canopy of the Misty Swamp. It cut clearly through the blizzard, drilling directly into the ears of every single Minotaur struggling in the muck.

Trapped in the acidic mud, utterly driven to madness by the relentless sniper fire and wind blades from Buck, Ilya, and the high-mobility detachment, the Minotaur legions had been wildly hoisting their totems, roaring in pure fury as they blindly searched for the enemy. Upon hearing this sudden, earth-shattering order, the entire army plunged into an eerie, dead silence. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The Supreme Commander is dead?

The exalted, tyrannical Warchief Blackstone of the Orc Alliance... assassinated? Despite the absolute protection of his elite royal guard and overlapping magical wards?! In that singular moment, whatever fragile combat resolve the Minotaur warriors had left utterly and completely shattered. They had only been coerced into this meat grinder by Warchief Blackstone's ruthless military law to begin with.

News of yesterday's battle—where three thousand brave, elite Centaurs were completely, unilaterally slaughtered by Greywater Village—had already deeply traumatized them. Tonight, this army that never wanted to fight in the first place had suffered catastrophic casualties during a night raid without even touching a single hair on the enemy's head. And now, the very tyrant forcing them to march to their deaths had just inexplicably lost his own life. What was the point?

Why the hell should they continue to bleed out in this lethal, toxic swamp for a dead tyrant?!

"The Warchief is dead! The battle is lost! Run for your lives!" Somewhere in the darkness, an utterly broken Minotaur Centurion threw his weapon into the mud, his voice cracking into a terrified, sobbing shriek. Like a spark to dry kindling, that sheer, unadulterated panic exploded through the ranks. The entire ten-thousand-strong Minotaur army completely routed! It was an unstoppable, catastrophic collapse! Not a single Minotaur wanted to stay and fight these ghost-like humans for another second.

They violently stripped off their gear. They hurled their massive, hundred-pound solid wooden totem poles directly into the bubbling, acidic muck, desperately shedding weight just so they could run a fraction of a second faster. The massive marching columns dissolved into a chaotic flood of routing deserters. Screaming and violently shoving each other aside, they desperately stampeded toward the northern edges of the Misty Swamp.

Swept up in the routing flood, the Ironblood Grand Warlord, tightly sandwiched between a phalanx of Black Steel Royal Guards and Shamans, didn't dare look back. He didn't even cast a single glance at the Royal Pavilion. He tucked his tail between his legs and blended seamlessly into the tide of fleeing Minotaurs, running for his life in absolute terror that Soren might suddenly change his mind. The blizzard continued to rage mercilessly against the earth.

But the earth-shattering warcries, the agonizing death shrieks, and the panicked wails of the fleeing army rapidly grew distant, fading into the night until they were completely swallowed by the howling wind. Within moments, the chaotic, deafening battlefield returned to an eerie, absolute silence. On that wide, frozen avenue painted deep crimson with blood, Soren stood completely alone. And five hundred meters ahead of him, Warchief Blackstone's colossal Royal Pavilion stood silently amidst the driving snow.

Bereft of the Shamans' constant mana supply, the eight overlapping, dazzling magical wards flickered weakly before violently shattering like fragile glass, dissipating completely into the freezing air. Bearing the immense weight of the pavilion were the eight heavily armored Kodo beasts. Possessing relatively docile temperaments for war beasts, these massive titans hadn't joined the panicked stampede of the Orc army.

They merely stamped their hooves uneasily, snorting massive plumes of white steam into the freezing air. Their trunk-like legs remained firmly planted on the ice. A thick layer of fresh snow had already begun to blanket their cast-iron armor plating as they faithfully stood by the now-masterless, ultra-luxurious carriage. They had all been completely abandoned. Left perfectly intact as Soren's ultimate spoils of war.

Soren slowly strode through the blood-soaked ruin of the battlefield, making his way over to the colossal beasts. He stood directly in front of a Kodo beast's massive skull, tilted his head back to take in its sheer, majestic bulk, and let out a deeply satisfied smile. Kodo beasts... these are absolute top-tier, heavy terrestrial transports! Soren's mind immediately shifted into logistical overdrive.

During the earlier skirmishes to wipe out the enemy's vanguard and logistics, he had managed to seize a total of eight Kodo beasts, handing them all over to Quartermaster Kyle to manage. Now, adding these eight pristine specimens to the tally? Greywater Village's beast pens would hold a staggering total of sixteen gargantuan Kodo beasts! While these massive titans couldn't match the agility of direwolves for frontline cavalry charges, their value in heavy logistics and supply transport was virtually incalculable.

They boasted an absurd payload capacity, limitless endurance, and an incredibly stable, low-center-of-gravity chassis. Even when hauling tons of cargo through the treacherous, sucking muck of the swamp, they remained phenomenally steady. Compared to them, the direwolves Buck was so fiercely proud of looked like mere lapdogs when it came to hauling capacity.

With these Kodos, any future loot—whether it was thousands of pounds of raw black-iron ore, massive crates of heavy crossbow bolts, or mountains of [Swamp Tubers] and cured meats—could be efficiently and rapidly transported right back to Greywater Village! In soaring spirits, and having thoroughly verified that no enemy stragglers remained in ambush, Soren smoothly and decisively slung the [Windwhisper Bow] over his shoulder.