Chương 76: 76：Three Days to Break a Scout's Mind

Every single blowpipe in their hands was aimed dead-center at Falk's throat. These were definitely not the mindless, carrion-eating savage non-humans that rolled around in the mud! These were highly disciplined, professional scouts!

"Don't shoot! I'm human! A scout of the Crimson Moon Knights!" Terrified out of his wits, Falk threw his hands into the air and screamed hoarsely. He frantically tore open the collar of his shirt, revealing the waning moon insignia that proved his identity. The goblin scout captain leading the squad narrowed his eyes. Without lowering his blowpipe, he barked in stiff, broken Common:"Bind him. Strip him. Blindfold him. Take him back to the main camp for the Lord to judge!"

Several goblins dropped from the trees like agile apes. In two swift motions, they disarmed Falk of his dagger and bound his arms behind his back with thick vines. An hour later. Greywater Village, Central District. The Command Post within a stilted wooden cabin. The blindfold was ripped from Falk's eyes. After being in the dark for so long, the sudden flare of torchlight made him wince. As his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was a massive beast-hide map pinned to the wall.

It was densely annotated in charcoal, detailing topography, enemy deployments, and patrol routes. A young, black-haired man with a straight, imposing posture sat calmly behind the desk. The moment he recognized that face, Falk's legs gave out from sheer relief. He dropped heavily to one knee, crashing against the wooden floorboards.

"C—Commander Soren! It's really you!" Tears spilled from Falk's eyes, his voice trembling with emotion.

"I'm from the Seventh Scout Squad under Commander Leona! We've been searching for you... it's been hell trying to find you!" Soren scrutinized the emaciated Knight scout kneeling before him.

"Leona is still alive?" Falk gasped for breath as he spoke, "She's alive! Commander Leona and two thousand six hundred of our brothers are still holding the line in the Misty Swamp. She ordered us to scatter and break through at all costs, just in the hopes of finding you and re-establishing contact!"

"The Commander said our current situation is an absolute death trap. She needs you!" Soren stood up. In name, he was still the Commander of the First Vanguard Battalion of the Crimson Moon Knights. Deep down, in a world where human lives were treated as cheaply as insects, Soren actually respected Leona's character. Her willingness to disobey direct orders and fight to the bitter end just to protect the commoners resonated with his own values.

"I accept her request for contact." Soren turned on his heel and walked over to the bookshelf behind his desk.

"I won't be marching my troops back to the main camp just yet. The time isn't right." He pulled out several thick beast-hide scrolls. These were topographical maps of the Misty Swamp he had hand-drawn himself—a partial map painstakingly pieced together through a combination of extorted intelligence and active scouting. The map was covered in circles and tactical markings.

It clearly outlined the Orcs' blind spots, the locations of deadly stagnant pools, the optimal spots for ambushes and raids, and the enemy's supply lines. Another scroll contained a detailed post-battle analysis of his operations over the last half-month: the annihilation of Orc convoys, a series of successful ambushes, and the storming of the Shattered Bone Pass.

"Deliver these into Leona's hands."

"And tell her that if she doesn't want her men to starve to death, she needs to follow this map and raid the Orcs' supply trains." Soren paused, taking in Falk's deathly pale complexion and swaying, exhausted frame.

"Kyle!" Kyle, the burly Chief of Logistics, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Take our brother here to the mess hall. Get a hot, filling meal in him, and set him up with quarters in the village for the next three days. He needs to recover his strength before he heads back to report."

"Yes, My Lord." Three days. Over the mere three days he spent resting in Greywater Village, the scout Falk's entire worldview was utterly shattered. Day One, Early Morning. Falk, sleeping comfortably in a dry, warm stilted cabin, was roused from his slumber by the rich, mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat. He scrambled out to the center of the village, staring dumbly at a massive, steaming iron cauldron.

Inside, large chunks of Demon-Crocodile meat, dried jerky, and a thick, white, starchy porridge were bubbling away into a hearty stew. He simply couldn't believe his eyes. Back at the main camp, meat was a distant dream. Even Commander Leona herself was reduced to gnawing on moldy wheat cakes every day! At the civil administration distribution point, he spotted an elegant woman with the undeniable bearing of a noble: Fina.

Fina's pale fingers danced across an abacus with dizzying speed, producing a crisp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack.

"The reserve units consumed three hundred pounds of dried meat today. Hmm, and the blacksmith forge has been allocated two thousand pounds of charcoal! The books are balanced!" Following her calculations, Kyle, the Chief of Logistics, meticulously checked the ledgers. Here, in the middle of a desolate and barren swamp, crates upon crates of supplies were distributed to every single villager and soldier with perfect, mechanical order!

There was no desperate scrambling, no corrupt skimming off the top, and no bloody brawls sparked by starvation. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Everything operated with perfect efficiency. Day Two. Still reeling from the shock, Falk wandered to the rear of the village. As he approached the edge of the muddy bogs, he heard bursts of boisterous, hearty laughter. There was no atmosphere of gloom or despair here.

A group of shirtless human farmers, their faces plastered with beaming smiles, were driving several massive Wargs. The beasts were hitched to heavy iron plows, churning up the acidic, bubbling mire! Falk crouched down and reached out to touch the freshly overturned, acidic soil. A second later, he recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

Right there, rooted in the dark brown, highly toxic swamp muck, vibrant green sprouts the size of a baby's fist had pushed their way through the sludge. They were actually growing!

"By the Gods... how is this even possible?" Falk's jaw practically hit the floor. Even the hardiest, weed-like Glowgrass would be melted into mush by this acidic mud! An old farmer resting his hoe on his shoulder grinned, showing off with immense pride.

"These beauties are called Swamp Tubers! The seeds were a gift from the Lord himself!"

"They yield a full harvest in just sixty days! Swamp or no swamp, they grow like weeds! How about that? A real eye-opener, eh?" Falk's mind went completely blank. He knew exactly what this meant. Military rations! A self-sustaining food source in this hopeless death trap! This single crop solved the garrison's most fatal vulnerability! But that was merely the beginning. Around noon, he wandered toward an area that looked like a volcanic crater, continuously belching thick white smoke from a geothermal pool.

The rumbling of heavy waterwheels powered massive bellows, drawing up the searing heat from the earth's core. Standing before an enormous, highly sophisticated geothermal blast furnace, Falk spotted an elderly goblin waving a forging hammer, screaming himself hoarse as he directed dozens of other goblins.

"Burn it! Throw that shattered Dark-Iron scale armor in! Melt it all down!" A battered, ruined set of Dark-Iron armor—looted straight off an Orc corpse—was tossed into the glowing geothermal crucible. Amidst blinding sparks and the rhythmic, deafening clang of heavy hammers...... A newly forged, standardized Dark-Iron breastplate perfectly tailored for a human physique was gripped by tongs and plunged into a quenching trough, releasing a violent hiss of white steam. And it wasn't just armor!

Three-meter-long Dark-Iron pikes with razor-sharp tips were lined up on weapon racks in massive batches! While the main forces of the Crimson Moon Knights were still fighting desperately with chipped, dulled iron swords, this local forge had actually achieved industrial-scale smelting of Orc gear, mass-producing standardized human equipment! Day Three. Falk made his way over to the newly expanded training grounds. It was on this day that he truly learned the meaning of "elite soldiers."

"Charge! KILL!" Rumble! The earth itself shuddered. Cavalry Commander Buck—a man who commanded considerable fame back in the Silvermoon Kingdom—held his lance high. Right before Falk's eyes, Buck led a unit of ninety-two human cavalrymen, all mounted on giant Wargs, executing a breathtakingly flawless pincer charge straight through the muddy terrain! Warg Cavalry! Humanity had actually managed to tame the Orcs' Wargs to form their own terrifyingly fast light cavalry regiment!

On the other side of the field, Kyle roared out a command: "Form up!" One hundred and one infantrymen, clad in matching Dark-Iron breastplates, raised heavy, studded iron shields in absolute unison. Three-meter-long Dark-Iron pikes thrust forward through the gaps in the shield wall, transforming the formation into an impenetrable forest of steel. The oppressive, immovable weight of the formation radiated a suffocating sense of despair for any hypothetical attacker.

A little further away, the bald warrior monk, Renn, stood with a stoic expression, watching dozens of soldiers grapple, brawl, and choke each other out in a pit of mud.

"Elbows higher! Strike the armpit! Crush his windpipe! When you lose your weapon, your fists are the last weapons you have!" Falk shifted his gaze again, his disbelief deepening. Over two hundred women, elderly villagers, and even half-grown teenagers were lined up before rows of wooden training dummies. Armed with short Dark-Iron spears, they were gritting their teeth and relentlessly practicing the most monotonous—yet utterly practical—defensive thrusts!

"Kill! Kill! KILL!" The sheer bloodlust echoing in the air was staggering. These were no longer fragile, helpless refugees; they were a legion of well-drilled soldiers. But what truly made Falk's scalp tingle with awe was happening on the cliff overlooking the highest point of the village. A cloaked figure stood there, a glowing crystal grasped tightly in his hand as he continuously traced profound, arcane runes in the air. Falk's lips trembled.

"Are those... fluctuations of mana?"

"Is that... Grand Commander Victor? The magical genius of the Silvermoon Kingdom?!"

"Wasn't he stripped of his rank and exiled? Why is he here, willingly researching and casting spells for this village?" Finally, Falk's gaze drifted to the very center of the training grounds. His eyes locked onto a specific group of sixty-four men, and he couldn't look away.