Translator: CinderTL
Just as the first wave of Orcs set foot on the opposite bank, a row of torches suddenly lit up along the riverbank. The Alden defenders, who had been lying in ambush, were already in position. The roar of cannons and volleys of gunfire instantly tore through the quiet night. Countless water columns erupted on the river surface, and the Orc warriors who were hit sank into the water. Blood spread across the river, quickly dispersed by the swift current.
The One-Eyed General, who was leading the charge himself, roared from the middle of the river, ordering a retreat. His warhorse had been struck by a cannonball, and the heavy corpse nearly dragged him to the riverbed. In the end, the drenched and battered remnants of the Orc forces retreated in disarray to the eastern bank, marking a disastrous end to the river-crossing operation.
"Messenger!" The One-Eyed General grabbed a soldier beside him, his single eye burning with frustration. "Go tell the Orc Chieftain that Stonebridge Town is a tough nut to crack. We need siege equipment and more troops!"
As the retreat horns sounded, the Orc vanguard set up camp two miles outside the town. Under the glow of the campfires, the groans of the wounded echoed continuously. On the city walls, Major Hodgson gazed at the scattered campfires in the distance, knowing that the real test was yet to come—Abal's main force was on its way.
The War Wolf of the Orc messenger skidded to a halt in front of Abal's Golden Tent, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Orc Chieftain was enjoying roasted venison with his generals, his wine cup already raised high when he saw the messenger arrive.
"Already taken the town?" Abal's laughter shook the braziers inside the tent. "It seems Kruger has some skill after all!"
But the messenger fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the carpet. "G-Great Chieftain... Stonebridge Town... we couldn't break through..."
The laughter in the Golden Tent came to an abrupt halt. The wine cup in Abal's hand suddenly shattered, amber liquid dripping through his fingers.
"Useless!" His furious roar made the Totem Flags on the tent ceiling tremble. "Kruger took five thousand elite troops, yet he couldn't even take a small border town?"
Someone in the tent whispered, "Perhaps the defenders were stronger than expected..."
"Nonsense!" Abal slammed his hand on the low table in front of him, sending the roasted venison tumbling onto the woolen carpet. "The main force of the Northwesterners is in Laos!" His bronze face turned purple, the veins on his neck writhing like earthworms. "Go tell Kruger that by the time I arrive, if he's still squatting outside the town—" His battle axe slammed into the ground, "I'll use his head to fill the moat!"
Outside the tent, the night wind carried the scent of blood from afar, brushing against the war flags. As the messenger scrambled out of the Golden Tent, he heard the Orc Chieftain roaring at the engineers to speed up the assembly of the Siege Hammer.
Kruger's fingers nearly crushed the messenger scroll, Abal's words—"use his head to fill the moat"—echoing in his ears. Cold sweat seeped from his rough palms, soaking the frantic handwriting on the scroll. In the distance, the outline of Stonebridge Town loomed faintly in the twilight, the lights on the city walls like mocking eyes.
"Gather the Night Raid Squad," Kruger's voice was colder than the night wind, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his fear. He remembered all too well the fate of the last general who had disappointed the Orc Chieftain—that man's skull now served as a wine cup in the Golden Tent.
The One-Eyed Orc general decided to organize a night raid before dawn.
When the moon was swallowed by the clouds, five hundred elite Orcs had already assembled. They smeared mud on their armor to eliminate reflections and wrapped their weapons with cloth to avoid clattering. Kruger personally inspected each warrior's equipment, his trembling fingers tightening the leather straps of a young Orc's armor.
"Remember," he whispered in front of the troops, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, "we either return with victory or fill the trenches with our corpses." The warriors silently bumped fists, their tusks glinting faintly in the shadows.
Led by Kruger himself, under the perfect cover of night, the group advanced like ghosts toward the city walls. Compared to human soldiers, Orcs had superior night vision, and even with the nutritional deficiencies of the grasslands, night blindness was rare. He clearly spotted the sentries on the battlements—they were vigilantly scanning their surroundings, but unfortunately, they failed to notice the small Orc unit's approach. The forward Orc scouts had already reached the base of the wall, signaling safety with hand gestures.
Kruger let out a low growl, and the Orc warriors immediately untied the steel grappling hooks from their waists. The three-pronged hooks gleamed coldly in the moonlight, their tails wrapped with oil-soaked hemp ropes. With a series of whistling sounds, a dozen grappling hooks accurately latched onto the battlements.
"Up!" Kruger commanded in a hushed voice, and the strong Orc warriors immediately began climbing the ropes. Their muscles tensed like bowstrings in the night, their sharp clawed boots digging deep into the stone crevices.
Just as the first group of warriors reached halfway up the wall, a sharp whistle suddenly rang out from above. Immediately after, several blinding white lights erupted, pouring down like divine punishment.
These were magnesium flares, the latest innovation from the Northwest Bay's chemical technology, freshly equipped by the troops.
"Curse the gods—!" Kruger shut his eyes in pain, the Orcs' sensitive night vision now a fatal weakness. The figures climbing the wall were fully exposed in the intense light, like insects pinned to a specimen board.
"Fire!" came the calm command of a human officer on the wall. In the roar of volley fire, the climbing Orcs fell like ripe fruit. One warrior, even after being hit, clung desperately to the rope, leaving a long streak of blood on the wall.
Kruger staggered back, green spots from the flares still lingering on his retinas. He heard the cheers of the militia on the wall and the chattering of his warriors' teeth in fear behind him.
The Orc Chieftain's threat still echoed in his ears, but now the walls of Stonebridge Town seemed insurmountable, towering like mountains in the intense light.
Kruger let out a heart-wrenching roar, his single eye blazing with final madness. He drew two battle axes, their edges reflecting a bloody light in the glare of the flares.
"For the glory of Zarg—!"
He charged toward the wall like a wounded beast, his boots trampling over the still-warm bodies of his comrades. On the wall, a dozen rifles simultaneously locked onto his sprinting figure.
The first bullet struck his left shoulder, erupting in a mist of blood. Kruger staggered but ran even faster. The second bullet pierced his thigh, and he dropped to one knee, only to struggle back to his feet. When the third bullet tore through his lung, he finally collapsed at the base of the city wall, blood frothing from his mouth.
"Keep going," he growled, his bloodied fingers clawing five streaks of blood into the stone wall, his single eye glaring fiercely at the battlements. Then, almost simultaneously, the fourth and fifth bullets struck his back, shaking the Orc commander like a rag doll.
In the end, Kruger fell face down in a pool of blood, his two battle axes clattering to the ground. His corpse lay precisely at the starting point of the path paved with Orc blood—a path that stretched from the city wall all the way to the Orc camp, littered with the bodies of warriors who had fallen that night.
The flares on the city wall gradually dimmed, and moonlight once again enveloped the battlefield.
(End of the Chapter)
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