Chương 114: Raid on the Logistics Train

While Li Qinwu was locked in a bitter struggle with the enemy's main force, Gobu Run had already guided his Spider Cavalry detachment in a massive, sweeping circuit, maneuvering directly into the rear of the human host. Given the sheer size of the human host, Gobu Run's tactical infiltration was, of course, detected by outriders.

However, because the human host was severely lacking in mobile cavalry and completely bogged down by the sheer organizational inertia of an army group that large, they simply lacked the capacity to react. Gobu Run's sole objective was the enemy's baggage train; he had zero intention of stopping to engage in minor skirmishes. The human infantry could do nothing but watch in sheer amazement as the giant war-spiders blurred past their positions, stripped of any opportunity to deploy intercepting columns.

Piecing together the terrain intelligence provided by his scouting pickets, Gobu Run tracked a deep instinctual layout in his mind, and remarkably, he managed to pinpoint the exact coordinate of the logistics encampment. Unfortunately, the human commanders were no fools. Recognizing the absolute strategic gravity of their food and supplies, they had secured the baggage train within a highly defensible, dangerous geological grid. Looming before Gobu Run was a massive, U-shaped mountain valley.

The surrounding cliffs were incredibly steep, possessing a jagged, vertical prominence reminiscent of classic karst typography; every single stone face rose at a terrifying angle exceeding seventy to eighty degrees. The massive sea of supply wagons was parked squarely in the dead center of this natural fortress. Choking the narrow entrance of the U-shaped valley stood a defensive division of over five thousand heavy human infantry.

The moment they caught sight of Gobu Run's incoming Spider Cavalry, they dropped into a dense defensive array, raising thousands of long, gleaming spears to form an impenetrable wall of anti-cavalry stakes. Gobu Run immediately reined in his unit, his brow furrowing deeply as he evaluated the perimeter. How the hell do we crack this? With nothing more than a single, light cavalry detachment, launching a head-on charge against a five-thousand-man pike wall to burn the supplies was an absolute suicide mission.

Gobu Run carefully analyzed the sheer rock faces of the U-shaped ridge, and a sudden spark of inspiration flashed in his eyes.

"Follow me!!" Shouting the command, he wheeled his mount and guided the cavalry away from the heavily fortified valley entrance. Watching the massive arachnids turn and retreat, the human sentries let out a collective, profound sigh of relief. By the Heavens, those giant spiders are utterly terrifying! Gobu Run skirted around to the rear of the mountain formation, eventually locating a steep section of the cliff face that sloped at a slightly manageable seventy-degree angle.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he firmly patted the flank of his personal war-spider.

"It's all on you now, buddy. Up!!" The war-spider immediately churned its eight powerful, segmented legs. The natural treading grip of the arachnid's limbs possessed a terrifyingly high coefficient of friction; it literally anchored its claws directly into the sheer vertical rock, clawing its way up the precipitous incline until it successfully crossed the crest of the summit. Gobu Run exhaled a slow breath of relief and immediately gestured to the riders waiting down on the plain.

"Get up here! Move, move, move!" Seeing their commander successfully conquer the vertical terrain, the remaining cavalrymen immediately spurred their mounts forward. The war-spiders aggressively scaled the cliff face, and within a few short minutes, nearly a hundred elite riders had successfully established a high-ground position atop the U-shaped ridge. Standing at an elevation of over fifty meters above the valley floor, the entire landscape lay completely exposed beneath them.

Gobu Run crept toward the inner precipice overlooking the human logistics camp, his eyes instantly gleaming with a brilliant green light. Sprawled across the valley floor below was an immense expanse of livestock pens, transport carriages, granary stacks, and thousands of supply tents. The sheer volume of logistics gathered in this single grid was staggering to contemplate!

"Hahaha! Begin the operation! Drop every explosive and incendiary payload we have down onto their heads!!" Gobu Run roared in raw excitement. Reaching down, he pulled a heavy demolition charge from his pack, touched a match to the slow-burning fuse, and hurled the cylinder straight off the cliff face. Down on the valley floor, the human logistics personnel looked up and instantly froze in absolute, paralyzed disbelief. Who could have ever predicted such madness?

How could a mobile strike force possibly conquer a sheer vertical cliff that rose at a seventy-degree angle? Panicking, the officers began frantically shouting orders to organize a defensive perimeter, rushing a few hundred bowmen to the base of the ridge to project arrow fire upward. However, before the archers could even form their lines, multiple heavy demolition charges plummeted from the sky and detonated directly within their center, instantly vaporizing them into a soaring spray of blood and flesh!

The catastrophic blasts sent a wave of unmitigated terror through the logistics guards, causing men to scatter frantically in all directions while the immense concussion instantly killed dozens of draft beasts where they stood. Several charges landed squarely upon heavy transport wagons loaded to the brim with grain; the subsequent explosions violently scattered tons of loose wheat and rice across the camp, throwing the entire valley into total, chaotic disarray.

"Oil! Start dropping the volatile oil! Incinerators, unleash your fire spells at maximum output!!" Receiving the directive, the spider riders began raining heavy ceramic canisters down onto the packed supply piles. Each ceramic vessel carried roughly two liters of highly refined volatile oil, and every rider on the ridge was packed with four of these canisters.

A continuous shower of pottery plummeted from the sky like a storm of lethal hail, shattering violently upon impact with the earth and soaking the wagons, tents, and grain stacks in a slick, highly flammable coating. Immediately following the oil, the specialist Goblin Incinerators began rapidly manifesting their arcane projectiles.

As tier-two aristocratic specialists, their capabilities were infinitely superior to those of raw Incinerator Recruits; the massive fireballs they generated carried a destructive yield roughly equivalent to an 81mm incendiary mortar shell, and they possessed the capacity to discharge up to fifteen consecutive bursts within a microscopic window of time. Ten Goblin Incinerators began methodically launching a non-stop barrage of blazing spheres down into the valley floor.

Fueled by the immense sea of spilled oil, the logistics depot instantly detonated into a roaring, apocalyptic inferno! Desperate human supply clerks attempted to rush forward to establish fire lines, but the acceleration of the blaze was far too rapid; it was an absolute flashover. Compounding the disaster, the goblin riders atop the ridge continued to systematically drop heavy demolition charges into any area where personnel attempted to gather, completely breaking the human resolve.

No one dared approach the wall of fire. They could do nothing but watch in absolute, weeping despair as the conflagration tore across the valley floor with mechanical indifference, consuming hundreds of tents, mountain-sized grain reserves, and heavy transport carriages in seconds. A few brave logistics officers attempted to lead a contingent of draft beasts away from the encroaching firestorm.

Seeing the movement from the high ground, Gobu Run immediately raised his long-barreled firearm and barked: "All units, target their livestock! Shoot them down!!" Aligning his sights with a massive Earth Dragon Beast, he smoothly squeezed the trigger. BANG! The heavy lead projectile tore across the distance and punched deep into the creature's flank, causing the massive beast to collapse heavily onto the dirt, letting out a series of pathetic, agonizing wails.

Because the Earth Dragon Beasts possessed such a colossal physical profile, it required zero marksmanship to secure a hit; the riders simply had to point their barrels at the mass of muscle. The remaining cavalrymen immediately followed their commander's example, systematically discharging their weapons into any draft animals attempting to pull supply carriages out of the inferno.

As dozens of beasts were shot dead in their harnesses, the heavily laden transport wagons were completely immobilized, transformed into static fuel for the spreading fire. The blaze grew increasingly volatile, thick columns of black smoke soaring kilometers into the stratosphere as a vast ocean of strategic resources was utterly incinerated.

By the time the human supply personnel managed to salvage a meager fraction of the livestock and a handful of carriages, they stood clear of the fire lines, their faces completely hollowed out by unmitigated despair. This singular, asymmetric raid had instantly erased at least sixty percent of Count Fischer's total logistics base.

Granted, because Count Fischer commanded a massive host of seventy thousand men, his overall supply network was incredibly vast, meaning this localized loss would not instantly starve his army out of the theater. Yet, the macro-outcome of an entire campaign was ultimately nothing more than the cumulative mathematics of successive, micro-victories. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

As the fires reached their absolute peak, the intense thermal draft caused the blaze to leap across the valley floor, catching the dry timber of the surrounding forests. Within an hour, the localized sabotage had evolved into a sweeping, uncontrollable forest fire. Seeing that the surviving human personnel had fled well beyond the effective accuracy threshold of their firearms, Gobu Run wasted no time.

He promptly commanded his detachment to descend the mountain along the same path they had climbed, maneuvering back toward the rendezvous point to link up with the Chieftain. Executing another wide, multi-kilometer circuit to completely bypass the enemy's primary infantry columns, the Spider Cavalry encountered several human infantry detachments attempting to establish blocking positions along the main roads.

However, the war-spiders possessed an unparalleled all-terrain flexibility; they simply veered away from the established thoroughfares, scaling rugged ridges and traversing deep ravines to leave the human blockades completely stranded in the dust. By dusk, the detachment safely returned to the perimeter where Li Qinwu's main force was currently resting. Marching directly into the command tent, Gobu Run delivered a comprehensive report of the successful sabotage.

Li Qinwu was thoroughly ecstatic, slamming a heavy, appreciative hand down onto the goblin's shoulder.

"Superb work, Gobu Run! Incredible execution! Take your riders and get them fed and rested immediately. Tonight, you march alongside me—we are going to raid their main encampment!" Li Qinwu had already solidified his overarching operational strategy for the coming days: he would ruthlessly exploit the extreme operational range of his black-powder firearms to continuously harass and bleed the human host, subjecting them to a state of absolute, unmitigated psychological exhaustion.

This was especially true for night operations. Goblins naturally possessed pristine, biological night-vision capabilities; launching an assault under the cover of total darkness handed his forces a massive, asymmetric tactical advantage. He immediately issued commands to set up the cooking cauldrons, feed the battalions, and meticulously clean and maintain every firearm and artillery piece. Tonight, he was going to deliver a truly devastating blow to the human warlord.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the sector, Count Fischer sat slumped on a campaign stool, his face completely pale as he stared blankly at a limp, mangled corpse resting on the dirt before him. The broken body belonged to his second-born son, Keith.

The Count had genuinely believed this campaign would be nothing more than a swift, decisive punitive expedition—a perfect opportunity for his younger son to accrue easy military merits and establish the necessary prestige to govern a portion of his territories in the future. He had never, in his wildest nightmares, imagined that his flesh and blood would return to him as a pulverized corpse. The old warlord's eyes welled with moisture, his facial features twisting into a mask of absolute, unmitigated rage.

Looking at the broken remains of his boy, a savage, primal shriek tore out of his throat. He drew his ancestral longsword and began violently hacking at the luxurious tapestries and decorative furniture lining his command pavilion. Outside the tent, two passing infantry sentries caught sight of the terrifying display; they quietly turned on their heels and cautiously retraced their steps, not daring to draw the warlord's wrath.

After exhausting his raw, physical rage, Count Fischer forcefully composed himself and summoned an immediate council of war. Gathered inside the smoky command tent, his voice boomed out in a furious, trembling roar directed at his assembled vassal lords:"We march on Poloia! I will slaughter every single demon creature that breathes! Every goblin! Every kobold!!

"I want them hacked into mincemeat! I want them torn apart by wild beasts! I will subject every single one of them to the most agonizing, horrific tortures this world has ever known!!" The minor barons and lords kept their heads lowered, not a single one daring to speak out of turn. Finally, a few elderly lords who shared a lifelong personal familiarity with the Count stepped forward to offer their condolences.

"My Lord Count, please restrain your grief. Every man assembled here pledges his absolute blade to the breach. When we lay siege to the city and drag the demon commander from his nest, we will personally deliver him to you to be torn into a thousand pieces!"

Following a prolonged wave of reassurance from his inner circle, Count Fischer's volatile emotions gradually stabilized, and the war council officially shifted its focus to the immediate tactical crisis: they had to determine a viable countermeasure to combat the demon host's supernatural weapon systems. A minor lord stepped toward the center of the pavilion, offering a detailed analysis based on his firsthand observations: "My Lords, I was stationed at the absolute vanguard during the engagement.

Based on my evaluation, the enemy has deployed roughly two distinct classifications of these unique engines.

"The first variant possesses a colossal physical profile, requiring a crew of over a dozen creatures to operate, and is mounted upon a heavy wheeled carriage. Its operational range is utterly terrifying, capable of projecting force from well over a thousand meters. It discharges massive, solid iron spheres carrying an immense kinetic energy; the slightest clip from one of those projectiles results in instantaneous dismemberment and a spray of gore.

"The second variant possesses a smaller yield and functions as the individual armament for the demon infantrymen. Its effective reach spans roughly three hundred meters, and it possesses the raw velocity required to punch clean through our standard heavy plate armor.

"Lords, look here—these are the exact iron projectiles I personally recovered from the soil of the battlefield!" At his gesture, several camp followers carried two woven wicker baskets into the tent. The first basket contained three massive, heavily deformed solid iron cannonballs, while the second was packed with a handful of small, spherical lead musket balls. Count Fischer stared down at the dull, metallic spheres.

The realization that his son had been brutally brought down by such crude, ungraceful objects caused his blood to boil once more.

"Curse them! Will someone among you learned men tell me what manner of engine this is?! Why do those accursed iron tubes possess the capacity to claim human lives so effortlessly?!" The assembled aristocrats fell into a flurry of animated whispering, trading various hypotheses. One baron boldly offered a guess: "Could the demon host's weapons perhaps be a highly advanced variant of the mechanical ballista? Are these perhaps solid iron spheres launched via extreme mechanical tension?"

Another lord immediately scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal.

"Impossible. A standard ballista does not emit a deafening, thunderous crack upon discharge. Furthermore, these iron spheres carry far too much physical mass; no mechanical tension system in existence could project such weight across a kilometer!"

"Then what in the Gods' names are we dealing with?! Is it some form of localized magic?!" The moment the word 'magic' echoed through the pavilion, every single eye in the tent simultaneously pivoted toward a dimly lit corner of the space, where an elderly man with pristine white hair sat entirely detached from the commotion. He wore a traditional pointed archmage's hat and an elegantly tailored silk magus robe.

His face was immaculately clean, completely untouched by the grime of the campaign trail, and he was casually puffing on a polished wooden pipe. The white-haired elder puffed a series of perfect, uniform smoke rings into the air. Realizing the entire council was staring at him, he slowly rose to his feet, sauntered over to the wicker baskets, and casually poked one of the massive iron cannonballs with the tip of his enchanted staff.

"There is not a single trace of residual mana within these objects. They are entirely mundane, secular weapons." Count Fischer's bloodshot eyes locked onto the elder.

"Advisor Fortier, the Mages' Guild has always dedicated its vast resources to the absolute absolute apex of frontier research. I ask you plainly—do you recognize these weapon systems? These damnable things murdered my son!!" The ancient mage, Fortier, simply shook his head with an air of mild indifference.

"Regrettably, Lord Count, I have never encountered a secular mechanism of this nature in all my years of study. I cannot begin to deduce the underlying mechanical principles based on these blunt objects alone." A deep, suffocating wave of disappointment washed over Count Fischer. If even a highly educated, profoundly omniscient magus of the Guild could not trace the lineage of these weapons, a dark, unsettling shadow officially loomed over every heart in the command tent.

As the lords continued their desperate, circular arguments, the twilight outside rapidly dissolved into pitch-black night. Archmage Fortier returned his pipe to his lips, taking slow, measured draws. His glazed, otherwise vacant eyes remained fixed upon the small lead spheres, a profound, intense curiosity quietly kindling within his mind. Fascinating... a purely secular piece of metallurgy capable of projecting a destructive yield that directly rivals mid-tier arcane spells...

how on earth did they achieve such a kinetic threshold? I must secure a pristine sample of these engines. If I can unravel this mechanism, I will have more than enough groundbreaking data to publish a truly magnificent thesis. Besides, those stubborn, archaic traditionalists back at the Grand Guild headquarters have spent far too long focusing exclusively on abstract mana theory; it is high time they diverted their intellectual gaze toward secular physical mechanics.

Fortier had originally accepted the deployment mandate from the Mages' Guild with immense reluctance. He had been ordered to lead a detachment of two hundred battle-mages into the Haluin Province to assist Count Fischer in recapturing Poloia, with the primary objective of securing a vital guild asset—the Mana Tide Observatory. When the campaign initiated, he had found the entire affair profoundly tedious, viewing it as nothing more than a colossal waste of his precious academic hours.

He believed his infinite intellect was far too valuable to be squandered on a mundane provincial rebellion. But now, his intellectual fire had been thoroughly stoked. He had to conceive a viable strategy to capture one of those weapons intact for reverse-engineering. What manner of secular assembly could possibly unleash a velocity that closely mimicked the destructive force of high-tier magic? Unraveling this secret could potentially shatter the Guild's extreme, lopsided bias toward pure arcane theory.

"Ah, well. What's done is done. It is time for sleep." Realizing the gathered nobility were entirely incapable of producing anything more than useless bickering, Fortier casually turned on his heel, completely intent on returning to his quarters to rest. The remaining lords watched him depart without so much as a formal nod of farewell, yet not a single soul dared voice a word of criticism regarding his blatant discourtesy.

In this world, the practitioners of high-tier magic occupied an absolute, transcendently elevated social caste. Accompanied by a small retinue of arcane apprentices, Fortier strolled back into the designated sorcerous quarter of the army camp. This specific zone was packed with over two hundred pristine white pavilions, completely segregated from the grimy common infantry; every single magus was granted a spacious, independent tent.

Fortier stepped into his luxurious pavilion, the sheer opulence of the interior making it difficult to believe this was a temporary military camp. Thick exotic furs carpeted the earth, flanked by a polished mahogany desk, tall bookshelves, ergonomic chairs, a custom alchemical workstation, and a massive, gold-gilded vanity mirror. Every single detail existed purely to accentuate the supreme, aristocratic nobility of a master mage.

Fortier opened a delicate container forged of pure solid gold, carefully resting his wooden pipe inside before placing the box directly beside his silk pillow. Stripping off his heavy ceremonial robes, he slipped into a pair of soft, imported silk pajamas and reclined upon a plush, pristine mattress stuffed with premium swan down. Adjusting a custom silk sleep mask over his eyes and driving a pair of dense earplugs deep into his ears, the archmage slowly drifted off to sleep.

A supreme practitioner of the arcane arts, after all, demanded an absolute standard of refined, exquisite living—even when operating on a bloody campaign trail. However, the arrogant old codger had barely succumbed to his initial wave of drowsiness when a succession of thunderous, earth-shaking blasts tore through the midnight air just outside the camp perimeter. The sudden, colossal shockwaves carried enough acoustic violence to nearly trigger an immediate endocrine collapse within his elderly frame.

"What is happening?! What is the meaning of this?!" The old mage violently tore off his sleep mask, stumbling out of his velvet bed as he frantically lunged through the tent flaps to investigate. Across the surrounding sector, multiple other mages were poking their heads out of their pavilions, their faces pale and utterly bewildered by the sudden commotion.

At that exact moment, a blood-soaked human infantryman came sprinting into the sorcerous quarter, his voice cracking in a desperate, lung-bursting shriek:"Lord Magi! Prepare your defenses!! The demon host!! The demon host is executing a night raid!!!"