Chương 358: 358:A Knight's Shame and an Inescapable Battlefield

Warchief Blackstone's head had literally rolled. Tens of thousands of elite vanguard troops were utterly, catastrophically routed. For a long, bloody period to come, the Blood Province would inevitably be paralyzed by vicious infighting and power struggles to fill the massive vacuum. The apocalyptic threat the Orc Alliance posed to the Northern Defense Line had been violently, drastically crippled by Soren's single, piercing counterattack.

Consequently, the survival pressure on Ironwood Fortress and Broken Horn Ridge plummeted to the absolute bottom. They no longer had to live in constant, suffocating dread, waiting for the reaper. They no longer had to watch helplessly as their soldiers froze to death in the trenches wearing nothing but thin linen.

"Regardless of the reasons, we are basking in Lord Soren's light. Not only did we survive, but we also picked up a massive batch of premium armaments that will absolutely get us through this winter." Galahad picked up the black-iron breastplate from the snow, dusting off the flakes. A genuine, profoundly emotional smile surfaced on his weathered face.

Because Soren technically still held the title of Vice-Commander of the Crimson Moon Knights, the old general couldn't help but sigh:"That untamed beauty over at the Withered Bone Forest Highlands—Commander Leona of the Crimson Moon Knights—has truly struck absolute gold this time!"

"I thought taking Soren in was just an act of desperation. Who could have imagined that under her banner, a peerless commander like Soren would emerge—a man capable of single-handedly, violently reversing an apocalyptic defeat!" Gabriel placed his helmet back on, a hearty, unrestrained smile spreading across his face as he agreed,"Exactly.

Especially considering the desperate situation the Crimson Moon Knights are in right now—forced into a corner by those bureaucratic parasites in the Capital, bearing that draconian edict to reclaim the entire region within a year."

"Even though this epic, history-shattering victory was entirely orchestrated and executed single-handedly by Soren from start to finish..."

"The mind-bending prestige of assassinating the Warchief of the Orc Alliance and routing an army of tens of thousands... as long as even a fraction of that glory lands on the banner of the Crimson Moon Knights..." Gabriel looked toward the Capital, his voice dripping with vicious mockery.

"That battle record is more than enough to ensure that Commander Leona, and her fiercely loyal Crimson Moon Knights who refused to yield to the blizzard, are permanently, gloriously seared into the military history of the Silvermoon Kingdom—and the entire human faction! It is a mark that absolutely no one can ever erase!"

"I honestly cannot wait to see the looks on the faces of The Prince Regent and Duke Fernando when they hear this news. That mix of pure, venomous hatred and absolute, pathetic impotence is going to be a sight to behold." Meanwhile, on the northern border of the Holy Halycon Empire. The garrison of the Royal Griffon Knights. This was an impregnable military fortress violently carved straight out of the apex of a towering cliff. Outside the fortress walls, gale-force winds whipped up a blinding blizzard.

Deep within the stone roosts carved into the cliff face below, the agitated, piercing shrieks of the Royal Griffons—the inherently ferocious apex predators of the sky—echoed constantly into the night. Inside the command post. The most renowned, prodigious young general of the Empire's new generation—the Commander of the Royal Griffon Knights, Alaric. The handsome face of the young commander was currently etched with profound, suffocating gravity.

"A dead end. No matter how I run the simulations, it is an absolute, hopeless dead end!" Alaric's brows were locked in a fierce frown. Pinching a black chess piece representing an Orc Wyvern, he violently slammed it down onto the space above the Greywater Village defensive line on the massive sandbox. Over the past three days and nights, this famous Imperial general had stood entirely alone before this sandbox, running over a hundred tactical simulations.

In his mind, he had completely swapped out the measly two thousand ragged defenders of Greywater Village for his own elite Imperial Royal Griffon Knights. He even magically conjured two of the Empire's fiercely proud heavy infantry phalanxes to bolster their ranks. And then, Alaric simulated the apocalyptic siege currently unfolding just dozens of miles away.

Twelve Wyverns casually raining down alchemical-fire from the heavens, violently sealing off all avenues of retreat; Ten thousand Centaur sharpshooters utilizing ultra-high mobility to rain down an endless, suffocating barrage of suppressive fire; And on the absolute frontline: ten thousand Minotaur light infantry executing a devastating Totem Charge with logs weighing hundreds of pounds, backed by the slow, inevitable meat-grinder advance of the Pigmen heavy armored legions...

"If I were in command..." Alaric muttered to himself, meticulously calculating the board.

"Relying on the toxic miasma and highly acidic mud of the swamp as a natural barrier, coordinated with heavy ballista anti-air fire..."

"On the first day, my heavy infantry phalanx would be violently smashed open by the sheer momentum of the Minotaurs' totem poles." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"On the second day, the Wyverns' alchemical-fire would reduce the anti-air bunkers to slag, and the Centaurs' arrow rain would carpet the entire camp."

"By the third day... no, we wouldn't even last until dusk on the third day. The Imperial defensive line would be utterly, catastrophically shredded. Every single man would be buried in that mudhole. Not a single intact corpse would make it back!" With an aggressive swipe of his hand, Alaric violently knocked over the tiny red flag representing the human defenders.

Even as a commander leading the absolute ace legions of the Empire, he couldn't find a single viable counter-strategy against an overwhelming siege of that magnitude. So how in the hell was that miserable settlement called Greywater Village—cobbled together from refugees and broken stragglers—supposed to survive? What the hell could that man named Soren possibly use to hold the line?

At this point in time, Alaric had absolutely no idea that Soren held trump cards like the [Arrow of Concealment], the forbidden-tier [Meteor Swarm Scroll], or that his entire army had been fully equipped with [Dark Silver Armor]. Bound by conventional military logic, Alaric fully believed that Soren's absolute best option—his only path to survival—was to weaponize the treacherous terrain of the Misty Swamp and use human lives to plug the meat grinder.

"As long as Soren is ruthless enough to treat his two thousand men as pure, expendable cannon fodder, grinding them down in a primitive war of attrition to buy time..." Alaric straightened his back. He walked over to the arched stone window, staring out at the suffocating, pitch-black blizzard.

"The heavy snow has completely severed their supply lines. As long as Soren can use oceans of blood to stubbornly survive the first five days, forcing the Orc legions to actively withdraw once their rations run dry... that is the absolute best-case scenario he could possibly forge." At that thought, Alaric's fists clenched so hard thick veins violently pulsed on the backs of his hands. A crushing wave of guilt and pure, unadulterated shame as a Knight gnawed viciously at his heart, bringing sharp, agonizing pain.

He turned his head, his gaze landing on the Griffon war banners hanging beside the sandbox. As the Empire's apex elite aerial mobile force, the Royal Griffon Knights possessed terrain-crossing combat capabilities that completely eclipsed every single other military branch on the continent. The highly acidic muck of the Misty Swamp, the Two-Headed Demon Crocodiles lurking in the fog, the lethal bogs that no infantryman could ever hope to cross...

to the Griffons soaring through the heavens, none of it presented even a fraction of an obstacle! Alaric knew with absolute certainty that if he issued a single command right now... In just a few short hours, he could personally lead hundreds of fully armed Griffon Knights, bringing the crushing, divine pressure of the clouds directly down onto the defensive lines of Greywater Village!

As long as the Griffon Knights helped Soren lock down the Wyverns in the airspace, with Soren's peerless ground-tactical command, humanity could flawlessly execute a stunning air-ground coordinated defense! It would drastically mitigate Greywater Village's casualties and forcefully shatter the Orc siege! That man was his close friend! A peerless commander who had displayed absolute, fearless courage before all of humanity!

Alaric possessed a desperate, burning desire to violently draw his longsword right now, mobilize his Knights, reinforce Greywater Village, and fight shoulder-to-shoulder with a true hero! However, reality had descended like a merciless iron collar, violently choking his neck and preventing him from taking even a single breath of defiance. Alaric's gaze shifted agonizingly toward a sealed missive resting on his desk—a missive bearing the crimson wax seal of an Imperial Grand Duke.

"In the name of the Empire, you are absolutely forbidden from mobilizing even a single soldier to reinforce the defensive line of Greywater Village in any form!"

"That is a death trap destined to be violently ground into meat paste by a massive army. I absolutely refuse to allow the Empire's noble Griffon Knights to throw their lives away for a foreign lord."

"Alaric, my son. Bury that pathetic, laughable Knight's sympathy. I order you to forcefully suppress all action. You will not intervene. You will patiently wait!"

"Wait until the Orcs have trampled Greywater Village into dust! Wait until the critical juncture when every last drop of Soren's military strength has been bled dry!"

"Only then will you deploy those fifty elites carrying the teleportation scrolls. You will descend upon him to display the Empire's boundless, majestic grace, and violently fish Soren out of the mountain of corpses!" Alaric squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath of freezing air as his chest heaved violently. He perfectly understood his father's ruthless grand design. It was all for the future hegemony of the Holy Halycon Empire.

But in this exact moment, this notoriously proud, prodigious general of the Empire felt a deep, visceral wave of nausea.

"Using the blood of thousands of innocent lives as bargaining chips... weaponizing the absolute desperation of a brother-in-arms purely to pave the way for the Empire's 'grace'..."