Translator: CinderTL
In the council hall of the lord's manor in Alden Town, the flames on the candlesticks flickered violently.
Paul Grayman unrolled the parchment sealed with orc blood, on which bold and aggressive words were inscribed in ink.
"In the name of the War Wolf and Thunder! Abal Zarg, chieftain of the Zarg Tribe, master of the Orc Warchief Tent, and chosen of the Spirit of the Steppe, condemns your harboring and sheltering of fugitives."
"Your despicable actions have severely harmed the interests of the lords of the Yellow Earth. As their current protector, the Orc Chieftain must address this matter!"
Catherine stood beside her husband, reading out the audacious demands word by word. "Cede the Blackstone Plain and pay an annual tribute of one million silver coins," her voice suddenly tightened, like a bowstring drawn to its limit, "or else the Northwest Bay will be reduced to ashes."
Old Knight Schroeder slammed his hand on the table with a loud bang, causing ripples in the inkwell.
"Arrogant beasts!" His graying beard trembled with rage. "Have they forgotten how they were driven back by muskets and cannons the last time they set foot on the Blackstone Plain?"
Paul's fingers gently traced the rough strokes on the parchment, each symbol resembling the mark of a battle axe.
"It seems Abal is quite skilled in negotiation tactics," Paul suddenly chuckled, tossing the scroll onto the table. "By proposing impossible conditions first,"
His gaze swept over every general present, "he can make the ensuing bloodshed appear justified."
Scholar Alvey, who had been invited to the meeting, stroked his beard and remarked, "Hmm, how should I put it? The orcs' behavior is starting to align more with that of us humans. In the past, they wouldn't have bothered to fabricate reasons for war."
Around the same time, in the Golden Hall of the Crystal Glare Palace, the crisp sound of tearing parchment echoed like a thunderclap.
Rodney XVIII tore the orc's declaration in two, his sleeve cutting a sharp arc through the air.
"Two million silver coins?" The king's voice was like a cold wind, reverberating under the vaulted ceiling. "Abal might as well ask for my crown directly!"
The fragments fluttered down onto the polished floor of the hall, the bold runes still menacing even in their broken state.
"Send someone to urge our troops to hasten their march northward."
The king's sword was suddenly drawn halfway, its cold gleam reflecting off the portraits of past kings on the walls. "I want to see the orc's battle banners burning on the soil of Aldor!"
Crystal Glare had already communicated with Alden Town, and Paul's response had greatly boosted Rodney XVIII's confidence—the Alden army was not the least bit afraid of Abal's forces; they were certain of victory.
The expelled orc envoy, Yujin, hurried through the streets of Crystal Glare. The citizens of the capital had been instructed to give this orc envoy a proper send-off—not with flower petals and cheers, but with rotten vegetables and curses.
Yujin passed through the towering gates of Crystal Glare. When he finally stepped out of arrow range, he suddenly turned around, his face smeared with rotten vegetables, baring his ferocious fangs.
"Pathetic humans!" He shook his fist at the soldiers on the city walls, his voice like grinding gravel. "When the Orc Chieftain's iron hooves break through your gates, I will personally tie your king to the back of a warhorse and parade him through the streets!"
He pulled a leather pouch from his waist and poured the strong liquor onto the ground before the city gate, swearing in the name of the Spirit of the Steppe, "Next time I come, the glittering gold will cover the tent of Orc Chieftain Abal!"
Yujin mounted his horse, taking one last look at the shining spires of the capital under the sunlight, his single eye flickering with an inexplicable light. "Wait, humans. Once we breach the Northwest Bay, your Golden Birdcage will be next!"
He flicked the reins, and the hoofprints of his steed were deeply imprinted in the mud of the road, like a trail leading to war, stretching northward.
Inside Abal's Chieftain's Tent, the charcoal in the brazier crackled, casting flickering shadows on the chieftain's ever-changing expression.
His rough fingers were tracing the map spread out on the table.
It was a map from the Northwest Bay, carefully laid out on the desk, with geographical details so precise it was astonishing—every curve of the rivers was accurately depicted, the height of every hill marked with intricate contour lines, and even the smallest village was pinpointed without error.
The chieftain's rough fingers brushed over the neatly printed place names, a stark contrast to the crude maps drawn from memory by the Orc Clan, like the difference between a divine artifact and a child's scribble. "Look at this scale... look at these contour lines..."
Abal murmured the new terms he had just learned from the humans, his eyes shining with awe.
He measured the distance from Stonebridge Town to Laos City with his dagger, the length of the blade perfectly matching the "ten leagues" marked on the map, a precision that was almost unnerving.
Abal thought of the maps drawn by the shamans in his clan—rivers would suddenly disappear behind mountains, and the borders of forests were extended purely by imagination.
"Fools!" The chieftain suddenly slammed the table in a fit of rage, causing the inkwell to shake.
He wasn't cursing the shamans of his own clan, but Paul Grayman.
"How could such a treasure of secrets be allowed to fall into the hands of the common folk!"
He couldn't understand why anyone would casually print such crucial geographical intelligence for merchants and travelers to purchase.
The generals in the tent were silent, only Old Shaman Otasi noticed the small print in the corner of the map.
Civilian Edition - 5th Revision.
What Abal didn't know was that within the Alden army, there was another version of the map. It marked hidden mountain paths, seasonal fords, the best high ground for artillery deployment—all the information truly critical to the outcome of war was meticulously annotated.
The map he treasured so dearly was merely a declassified civilian version.
"Tomorrow, send out the troops and notify all the lords. All such maps must be confiscated. Anyone who dares to hide them will be executed without mercy!"
The flickering light in his eyes revealed the chieftain's urgency. Such important geographical information could not be allowed to circulate among the common folk.
"Yes, Chieftain!" The Orc generals in the tent responded in unison.
Abal's thoughts finally returned to the matter at hand.
That letter from Acosta...
"Too deliberate!" Abal muttered, his single eye flickering with suspicion. He wouldn't easily trust Acosta just because of his defection.
"Send the Night Walkers to investigate again," the Orc Chieftain pressed his finger heavily on the map at the location of Stonebridge Town. "I need to know the movements of Grayman's army. Gather every piece of information about their deployments!"
In the following days, the spies under the control of the Orcs began to work intensively.
No matter how well the secrecy was maintained, much information was difficult to hide, or even openly available. For instance, large groups of people passing through certain roads would inevitably be witnessed by residents along the way. Similarly, a sudden increase in food prices in a particular area indicated that many more mouths needed to be fed there.
The information brought back by the spies could be roughly summarized—activities in the direction of Laos in the northwest were indeed increasing, while activities towards Stonebridge Town were relatively fewer.
Although it wasn't exact information on military deployment, it still corroborated the contents of the letter, albeit from the opposite direction.
"Grayman is too impatient."
After compiling all the messages, Abal sneered and tossed the final piece of intelligence into the brazier. The paper curled and turned to ashes in the flames.
"Order the warriors of all tribes to assemble in three days. We will turn Grayman's schemes into a trap that buries him."
Abal narrowed his eyes with satisfaction, having determined his main direction of attack. Soon, the waters of Stonebridge Town would be stained with blood.
(End of the Chapter)
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