Chương 347: 347：Monopolizing the Misty Swamp

Memories of their blood-soaked days fighting side-by-side at Stormrift Keep flooded her mind.

"He... he actually secured this much..." Leona's fingertips gently traced the signature on the parchment, her voice a barely audible whisper. Trapped in this frozen hellscape, utterly abandoned by the Kingdom's high command and surrounded by deadly crises, her former Vice-Commander hadn't just remembered her. He had miraculously reached out and breathed life back into the entire Knight Order.

Far away in Greywater Village, had Soren witnessed this deeply touching scene, he might have offered a gentle, nostalgic smile. But deep in his calculating mind, this gesture was far more than a simple act of battlefield camaraderie in a time of crisis. The true, pragmatic objective behind sending this massive shipment of supplies to Leona was to forge an unbreakable bond with the Crimson Moon Knights.

In Soren's grand strategic blueprint, they were the only foreign armed faction he would ever permit to operate within the borders of the Misty Swamp.

"Phase one executed flawlessly." Back in Greywater Village, Soren issued his second directive to Quartermaster Kyle: "Take the second portion of the relief supplies and split it into three separate convoys. Dispatch them to the veteran General Galahad at Ironwood Fortress, Gabriel at Broken Horn Ridge, and that merchant, Thomas, over at Lone Cliff."

When Greywater Village's convoys rolled into those three respective strongholds, the sheer, earth-shattering sensation they caused was even more violently explosive than at the Crimson Moon Knights' camp. Inside Ironwood Fortress. General Galahad, a famously rigid, old-school commander, ran his calloused hands over the black-iron half-plate armor that Greywater Village had essentially tossed out as garbage. He was so utterly overwhelmed with emotion that hot tears streamed down his weathered cheeks.

"Good steel! Flawless craftsmanship! No corners cut on the materials!" The old general's hands violently trembled as he clutched a set of the heavy armor tightly to his chest. Beside him, the surrounding soldiers stared at the pristine gear with eyes burning with pure, desperate hunger.

"General Galahad!" the Greywater Village officer in charge of the convoy barked clearly.

"My Lord Soren explicitly stated: the winter is brutal. He absolutely refuses to let the brave human warriors holding the line against the Orcs die a senseless death merely because they lack decent weapons! These steel pikes and armor are Lord Soren's token of respect!"

"Lord Soren... he is a true hero gifted to humanity by the heavens! Righteous! What absolute, unquestionable righteousness!" Galahad violently drew his longsword and held it vertically before his chest, executing a flawless, deeply respectful Knight's Salute. Meanwhile, over at Broken Horn Ridge. Gabriel stared at the towering mountains of [Swamp Tubers] and heavy military armaments piled high in the center of his camp. His face was etched with absolute, unadulterated awe.

"In an apocalyptic era like this, any other Lord would hoard this kind of wealth deep underground. Yet Lord Soren is willing to share military-grade hardware of this caliber with us, entirely free of charge!" Gabriel struck his breastplate violently.

"Such staggering magnanimity... I, Gabriel, am utterly convinced! From this day forward, within the Northern Defense Alliance, Broken Horn Ridge will answer absolutely to the command of Greywater Village!" And far out at the trade route stronghold of Lone Cliff. The famously obese, bulging-bellied merchant, Thomas. Staring at the mind-boggling mountain of supplies before him, his shrewd, beady eyes narrowed into absolute slits.

Thomas, however, saw through the veil far more profoundly than those battle-hardened meatheads. As his fat, ring-laden fingers brushed against the heavy black-iron armor, a wave of profound, marrow-freezing shock washed over his mind.

"Soren... this Lord of Greywater Village... is actually giving away military-grade heavy armor as surplus?!" A bead of cold sweat visibly formed on Thomas's forehead. As a ruthless, calculating merchant of the Holy Halycon Empire, he knew exactly what this underlying data meant. It meant that Greywater Village's military-industrial production capacity had already reached the point of absolute, grotesque overflow!

It meant that Soren's core elite troops were undoubtedly wearing top-tier, heavy-duty armor that was at least ten times better than this scrap! Swallowing hard, Thomas secretly swore a blood-oath right then and there: absolutely, under no circumstances, would he ever dare to offend this newly risen, terrifying Overlord of the North. Galahad, Gabriel, and Thomas all accepted this massive shipment of supplies with hearts overflowing with gratitude and sheer awe.

To them, Soren had solidified his status as an unconditionally generous, selfless ally and their ultimate savior. Yet, not a single one of them managed to see through the absolute veil. None of them grasped the profoundly deep, terrifyingly calculated open conspiracy that this transmigrated Special Forces Operator had woven into every single crate of armor and sack of grain. Night fell over Greywater Village.

Inside the stilted wooden command post, Soren's piercing gaze was locked dead onto the massive sandbox detailing the entire geographical layout of the Misty Swamp. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"The world bustles and rushes. Men bleed and die. And it is all driven by the pursuit of absolute profit." Within the hyper-calculated simulations running in his mind, the geopolitical board was already crystal clear. Following his flawless, single-handed decapitation of Warchief Blackstone last night, the hundred-thousand-strong Orc Alliance army, now entirely bereft of its supreme dictator, had completely and utterly routed.

Originally, the draconian military decree issued by the capital of the Silvermoon Kingdom—demanding the complete reclamation of the Misty Swamp within a single year—was a political death warrant. It was designed purely to use the Orc army as a meat grinder to wipe out the Crimson Moon Knights. But now? This theoretically impossible objective wasn't just on the verge of being completed; it was going to be achieved months ahead of schedule!

The scattered remnants of the Orc legions, currently shivering and hiding in the deepest bogs of the swamp, no longer posed any substantial tactical threat. But... what came after the reclamation? That was the singular, burning question that truly concerned Soren. Once the entirety of the Misty Swamp was officially liberated, this massive, thousand-mile expanse of territory would instantly transform.

The incredibly rich mineral veins buried beneath its muck, and the absolute choke-point trade routes bridging the human kingdoms and the Orc borders, would turn this hellscape into a treasure trove of unimaginable geopolitical and economic wealth. When that day arrived, the very same allies who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder, bleeding into the same mud to repel the Orcs, would inevitably be driven by the invisible hand of profit.

They would instantly morph into vicious rivals violently scrambling to carve up the territory. Galahad and Gabriel were the armed proxies of the Silvermoon Kingdom. Thomas, worse still, was a direct pipeline to the Holy Halycon Empire.

"Right next door to my absolute core territory, how could I possibly permit the armed proxies of foreign powers to comfortably set up shop?" Upon this land—a land he had dragged from the jaws of annihilation through sheer, bloody tactical miracles—Soren intended to forge something unprecedented. He was going to build a nation of absolute new order: one completely devoid of aristocratic oppression and racial prejudice.

He absolutely refused to let the fat, corrupt bureaucrats of the Capital stroll in, arbitrarily bark orders, and casually steal the fruits of his bloody victory. Nor would he ever allow foreign military factions to establish forward operating bases here, carve up the strategic resources, or secure long-term garrison rights! The Misty Swamp must be, and could only ever be, the exclusive domain of Greywater Village! However, executing this absolute monopoly presented a massive strategic obstacle.

General Galahad and Gabriel were both highly respectable, honorable military men. If Soren ruthlessly turned his blade on them and violently purged them the exact second the Orcs retreated, he wouldn't just be branded with the vile stigma of a backstabbing tyrant who slaughtered his allies the moment they outlived their usefulness. He would instantly lose the geopolitical high ground, being violently crucified by the public opinion of the entire continent's Daily Gazettes.

Furthermore, to preserve the overarching military strength of the human faction against future existential threats, Soren had absolutely no desire to engage in a bloody, pointless civil war with capable human generals. Therefore, he had deployed this flawless, multi-layered stratagem: smother them in unconditional generosity now, setting the absolute moral stage to drop the hammer later. I supplied you with top-tier, standard-issue heavy armor. I delivered mountains of absolute grain to your starving troops.

In your darkest, most agonizing moment of this freezing winter, I reached into the abyss and violently hauled you back to life. This life-saving grace, these obscenely expensive military assets... this is the severance package I am paying you in advance. With this single shipment of supplies, I have successfully bought out your garrison rights to this entire region.

When the day finally comes that the last Orc is purged from these bogs, and I politely, diplomatically 'request' that you withdraw from the Misty Swamp... tell me, General Galahad, Knight Gabriel. Staring into the eyes of the benefactor who not only saved your lives but entirely re-equipped your shattered legions... bound by your rigid Knight's Honor and your unyielding military morality, would you really have the sheer audacity to stubbornly squat on my land?

If it truly came to that, and they still shamelessly refused to leave, then on the geopolitical chessboard, they would be the ones guilty of biting the hand that fed them, utterly betraying all morality and honor. When that time came, whether Soren merely deployed his troops as a terrifying show of force, or unleashed his heavy repeating crossbows to violently purge them from the map, his Casus Belli would be absolutely, flawlessly justified!

Not a single soul on the continent would dare utter half a word of blame against the Overlord of Greywater Village!