Translator: CinderTL
Paul stood atop the towering walls of Laos City, his fingers gently tapping against the stone bricks of the parapet.
In the morning light, heavy cannons were lined up along the battlements, their dark barrels gleaming with a cold metallic sheen. He reached out to caress the icy surface of one of the cannons, a slight smile curving his lips, confident of victory.
"Are all our cannons ready?" he asked without turning his head.
"All cannons are in position, my lord," came the straight-backed reply from Schroeder at his side. "We have plenty of ammunition, and the gunners are all seasoned veterans."
Paul nodded in satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over the meticulously arranged defenses outside the city: three serrated trenches, anti-cavalry obstacles bristling with sharpened stakes, and those seemingly haphazard yet strategically placed pits—death traps prepared for the Orc cavalry.
In the distance, reconnaissance balloons had already risen, standing out vividly against the azure sky.
"Very good." Paul took the binoculars, the lenses reflecting his calm eyes. "Based on the enemy's departure time, they are about a day's march from here. Let the soldiers rest well; when the enemy arrives..." His finger traced the cannon barrel, "we'll treat them to these 'salute guns.'"
On the city walls, soldiers were checking their rifles, the sounds of metal clashing, loading, and occasional laughter mingling together, filled with the tension and anticipation before the great battle.
Paul took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and grease—this was the essence of his war.
He turned to his officers and declared, "I want Abal to take a big fall here, hahahaha!"
Marquis Paul Grayman was brimming with ambition.
Despite his absolute confidence in his own forces, the current Northwest Legion was primarily infantry, lacking the mobility of the Orc army, which was cavalry-heavy.
According to intelligence, Abal and his generals preferred to exploit the high-speed movement of cavalry to strike where the enemy was weak. Their warhorses had incredible endurance, and Orc cavalry often had multiple mounts, rotating them to travel day and night, seeking out the enemy's vulnerabilities for a decisive strike.
To actively capture the elusive main force of the Orcs would require dispersing troops for a net-like search, which would also give the enemy opportunities to pick them off one by one.
So Paul devised a plan: to wait for the prey to come to him.
Thus, he sent that letter to Viscount Acosta, the illegitimate son of Grand Duke Bradley.
When the messenger from Grand Duke Bradley returned, he patted his chest with pride, assuring Paul that Abal, that fool, had believed the contents of the letter and had decided to personally lead his army to attack the "weakly defended" Laos.
Naturally, Paul was very pleased, leading to the current situation.
He pulled out his pocket watch, glancing at it repeatedly, eager to get through this day and finally see if the legendary Orc Chieftain really had two heads and four arms.
And so, half a day passed…
A staff officer hurriedly ascended the city wall, the sound of his military boots echoing sharply on the stone steps. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the reconnaissance report he clutched was already dampened at the edges.
"My lord!" the staff officer stood at attention, "Scouting cavalry reports an urgent message: the Orc army has suddenly changed direction in the Green Dragon Forest, and their main force is moving at full speed towards Stonebridge Town!"
Paul's binoculars paused slightly in his hands. He did not respond immediately, staring blankly at the wilderness outside the city.
"Confirmed?"
"Confirmed!"
"Understood." The marquis's voice was calm, devoid of emotion as he set down the binoculars, his fingertips lightly tapping twice on the cold metal tube.
The staff officer hesitated, wanting to say something but ultimately remained at attention.
It was Schroeder who broke the silence first. "My lord, we need to adjust our strategy immediately!" Bang! The brass binoculars shattered against the city bricks, the splintered lenses reflecting Paul's pale face.
"Bring Bradley up here!" His voice was like ice.
Moments later, a bewildered Grand Duke Bradley was brought to the city wall by two guards.
The old noble staggered to steady himself, confusion filling his murky eyes. "My lord Grayman, this is...?"
"I want to ask you, was it your son who did this?"
Paul seized the duke by the collar, dragging him to the edge of the wall, pointing south as he shouted, "Why has the entire Orc army turned towards Stonebridge Town?"
Bradley's face turned ashen. "Impossible... Abal clearly believed the contents of that letter, Acosta replied that..."
"Replied what?" Paul's grip tightened suddenly. "Replied to cooperate with your charade? Or replied to sell the real troop deployment to the Orcs?"
He violently threw the duke against the parapet. "I should have realized that a traitor family that has allied with the Orcs has betrayal flowing in their veins!"
Bradley trembled, clutching the edge of the wall, the jagged stones cutting into his palms until they bled. "My lord Grayman, you must understand! I did indeed have my trusted subordinate clearly tell Acosta that the letter was a false intelligence to deceive Abal!"
Paul sneered as he released his grip. "Then explain why Abal knows that Stonebridge Town is our real weak point?"
"Perhaps... perhaps..." the duke suddenly grasped at straws. "Abal believed the contents of the letter; he desperately wanted to find your main army for a decisive battle, which is why he went to Stonebridge Town! It must be that way!"
"Wow!" Paul mocked. "A cunning Orc, well-versed in the art of war for half his life, suddenly changes his nature and wants to bite the hardest bone right off the bat!"
The old duke fell into despair, collapsing onto the ground with a heart-wrenching wail. "That wretch! He has betrayed his own father!"
The soldiers on the city walls silently turned their faces away.
Paul turned his gaze towards Stonebridge Town, his fist pounding against the parapet, drawing blood.
The carefully laid chessboard had been ruined by a cowardly traitor.
But most critically, Stonebridge Town, including the militia, had only a little over five thousand troops, and their weak forces were about to bear the brunt of the Orcs' main assault.
Schroeder reminded him again, "My lord Grayman, we need to adjust our strategy immediately!" The old knight's voice carried a sense of urgency.
Paul struck the parapet again, his knuckles bleeding without him noticing.
A cold voice rang out: "Send orders to the entire army! Depart immediately; I want to march south to confront Abal in battle!"
Schroeder cautioned him, "My lord, I suggest leaving two regiments in Laos to prevent the enemy from using their speed advantage to turn their attacks back here. Abal is likely trying to deceive us; he wants to lead us by the nose, making our forces exhaust themselves between two locations."
Paul nodded, "Then leave two regiments for defense!"
He reached for his sword at his waist, drawing it with a sharp sound, the blade slicing through the map, drawing a straight line from Laos to Stonebridge Town: "Notify Alden Town, within three months, I want to recruit five more infantry regiments and two artillery battalions."
"No more playing with schemes!" Paul drove the sword's tip heavily into the Yellow Earth, "Our army must grow larger, large enough to crush the enemy on every front, advancing in unison without leaving any gaps, like a steamroller rolling over them!"
Below the city wall, the bugle sounded urgently, and soldiers hurriedly packed their gear, the clatter of iron echoing all around.
Since schemes and tricks could not be relied upon, they would pave the way with steel and gunpowder; before absolute power, any tactic was futile.
TL/N: Holy Shit, the Paul from this chapter seems to have grown up!
(End of the Chapter)
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