Translator: CinderTL
The Orc army surged into the streets like a tidal wave, only to find that the defending forces had retreated into a series of gray-black stone towers.
These towers were distributed in hexagonal or circular formations, each resembling a dormant Steel Hedgehog.
"Boom!"
A cannon on the top floor of one tower suddenly spat fire, and the shrapnel swept across the entire street. The Orc warriors at the forefront fell in droves, their blood forming small streams on the bluestone pavement.
"Watch the right flank!" Ajil, who was overseeing the battle from a distance, had just shouted when a dozen tongues of fire spat out from the firing ports on the second floor of another tower to the west.
The lead bullets clattered against the thick shields, but several Orc warriors were still brought down by bullets that slipped through the gaps.
Ajil immediately retreated to a safe distance under the protection of his guards.
The design of these buildings was extremely cunning. The lower levels were built with heavy stone, and the Orc warriors who desperately charged forward could only strike sparks with their battle axes. The firing ports on the third to fifth floors were arranged in a honeycomb pattern, allowing the defenders' rifles to fire in all directions without blind spots. The platforms on the top were equipped with light cannons, ready to bombard distant Orc gathering points at any moment.
The most terrifying aspect was the coordination between the towers. They were staggered in their distribution, so when the Orcs concentrated their attack on one tower, the nearby towers would immediately provide crossfire support.
An Orc Centurion finally managed to break through the wooden door of the southern tower with his men, only to find a deep tunnel inside. These intruders were quickly killed.
These towers were designed by Paul, inspired by the Devil's Pillbox from the Anti-Japanese War period.
Although the Northwestern Army did not have rapid-fire weapons like machine guns, the Orcs they faced were also only armed with cold weapons.
Ajil organized several assault teams in an attempt to capture the tower directly in front of him, but it only resulted in more casualties.
"Your Highness!" A soldier, his face covered in blood, ran up. "The fifth assault team has been forced to retreat! Half of them are dead, and the survivors are all wounded!"
In the past, Ajil might have offered some words of encouragement to the failed warriors, but after repeated failures, all he felt now was frustration.
Ajil punched the wall beside him. As he looked at the towers spitting fire, he suddenly understood why the defenders had voluntarily abandoned the city walls—these damned fortresses were the real meat grinders.
"Go outside the city and search for materials to build new City Hammers!" Ajil's voice roared like it came from hell. "Smash these turtle shells one by one!"
The equipment they had prepared earlier had already been destroyed by the defenders' cannons during the assault on the city walls.
When Ajil turned to look back, he saw exhaustion in the eyes of his soldiers. These once-fearless warriors of the steppe, after repeated setbacks, were beginning to lose their fighting spirit.
Abal stood on the high ground outside the city. The one-eyed Orc Chieftain gazed gloomily at the smoke-filled Stonebridge Town. Every burst of gunfire from within the city felt like a whip lashing at his heart.
"Something's wrong," he muttered, stroking his battle axe, then suddenly turned to Otasi beside him. "I suddenly feel like we might have been tricked!"
The old Shaman's Bone Staff trembled slightly. "What does the Chieftain mean?"
"That fox, Grayman!"
Abal slammed his fist on the armrest of the chariot. "He used Acosta's mouth to deliberately make that letter look like a trap, making us think that Laos was his main force." He pointed to the towers within the city that were still spewing flames. "But... look at the resistance of this town, how tenacious their fight is. If it weren't Grayman's main force, how could they have such combat strength?"
Under Abal's analysis, the people around him gradually came to their senses.
"Cunning humans!"
"Damn Grayman!"
Curses erupted one after another.
"Bring Acosta to me!" the Orc Chieftain roared in anger.
Inside the Golden Tent, the flames from the bronze brazier cast Abal's ferocious face in a hellish light. When two Orc warriors dragged Acosta into the tent like a dead dog, everyone heard the dull thud of the viscount's kneecaps hitting the ground.
"G-Great Chieftain..." Acosta's lips were cracked and bleeding, his expensive silk shirt already torn to shreds, revealing the whip marks on his back. His right eye was swollen shut, and his left leg was twisted unnaturally—clearly, he had already enjoyed the Orcs' special treatment before being brought here.
Acosta's face still bore a look of confusion and terror.
"G-Great Chieftain?" he asked in a trembling voice, his throat hoarse from thirst. "What have I done to anger you?"
Abal slowly rose to his feet, each step of his boots making Acosta tremble. The Orc Chieftain walked up to him, grabbed the viscount by the hair, and dragged him to the entrance of the tent, forcing him to look up at the fierce battle raging in the distance within Stonebridge Town.
"Look!" Abal bellowed, his eyes burning with rage. "My attack has met with strong resistance. Stonebridge Town is garrisoned by Grayman's main force! That damned letter of yours was no false intelligence! It was a trap, a trap, and you played a part in it!"
Acosta's face turned pale in an instant. "No, that's impossible!" he struggled to shake his head, his voice sharp with fear. "My father would never lie to me! He clearly told me it was fake, that it was meant to deceive you..."
"Shut up!" Abal, unable to contain his fury, delivered a heavy punch that knocked Acosta to the ground. The viscount curled up on the floor, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, but he still muttered, "My father wouldn't... he wouldn't harm me..."
Abal's voice was like sandpaper grating on iron. "The blood my warriors have shed because of you could fill the trenches of Stonebridge Town three times over!" He pressed Acosta's face into the ground. "Speak! What did Grayman offer you?"
Acosta's teeth hit a hard stone, and blood dripped from his chin. "I swear, I really don't understand what's going on..."
"Slap!" Abal's eyes flashed with ferocity in the firelight, and a backhand sent Acosta flying into the corner of the tent. The viscount knocked over a weapon rack, and several battle axes grazed his scalp as they embedded themselves in the ground.
"Still acting?" The Orc Chieftain pulled a red-hot branding iron from the brazier. "Do you know why I spared your worthless father's life back then?"
The branding iron swayed before Acosta's eyes, the scorching heat curling his lashes. "This is for the day we can skewer all you Bradleys on a stake! Too bad he got away!"
Acosta suddenly broke down into a wailing sob, urine soaking through his luxurious riding breeches. "Spare me! I can lead you to the real traitor... he's... he's..."
He couldn't fabricate any further.
Suddenly, urgent horn blasts sounded outside the tent. As the messenger rushed in, the branding iron in Abal's hand still emitted wisps of smoke.
"Orc Chieftain! Urgent report from the scouts—a large army is moving toward Stonebridge Town from the north!"
(End of the Chapter)
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