Translator: CinderTL
The Northwest Legion released more than one hot air balloon.
The hot air balloon that soared over the Orcs had no tethering rope; its sole purpose was to intimidate the Orcs, who knew nothing about it, and then use "Layered Airflow Navigation" to find a safe place to land.
However, the Northwest Legion did not just release one hot air balloon.
On the hot air balloon actually used for reconnaissance, the scout held a telescope, and the Orc army below was fully visible. The observer quickly recorded the data while reporting a series of numbers to the signalman beside him.
"The enemy's phalanx depth is about 800 meters... the horizontal spread is about 1500 meters... the heavy cavalry is located on both flanks..."
The signalman immediately waved the red and blue signal flags to transmit the information to the command post on the ground.
Paul stood on the temporary observation deck, and his adjutant, holding a pair of binoculars, simultaneously interpreted the information from the air: "The total number of enemy troops is about 100,000... combatants number 60,000... heavy cavalry is about 8,000..."
The staff officers quickly marked the distribution of the Orc army on the map.
Paul nodded slightly, tapping the table with his fingers: "More than expected..."
The signalman on the ground immediately used a mirror to reflect sunlight, sending a confirmation message back to the balloon.
The observer on the balloon adjusted the length of the tethering rope to ensure it remained at the optimal observation height.
They could even clearly see the commotion caused by the appearance of the hot air balloon in the Orc army formation—those once-feared steppe cavalry were now panicking like a frightened herd.
"Continue to monitor the enemy's movements," Paul said to the messenger, "especially their cavalry units. I want to know the exact location of each one."
Abal's bronze face was as dark as iron. He suddenly drew his battle axe and hacked at a wooden stake beside him, the flying splinters instantly silencing the restless generals.
"Otasi!" he growled, and the old Shaman immediately raised his Bone Staff embedded with a beast's skull.
The staff's head suddenly burst with an eerie green flame, forming a ferocious wolf's head shape in the air.
"See clearly!" Otasi's hoarse voice was simultaneously amplified and spread around by the wolf's head, "That is just a puppet made of cloth and rope by humans!"
Ajil led the Chieftain's Tent guards into the most chaotic phalanx, cutting down several soldiers who were still trembling.
"If anyone dares to shake the army's morale again, I will skin them and feed them to the wolves!"
The Orc prince pointed his blood-stained longsword to the sky, "The Spirit of the Steppe will protect the true warriors!"
Behind the battle line, the Shamans beat war drums, chanting ancient requiems, the drumbeats mixed with the shrill sound of bone flutes, gradually drowning out the soldiers' whispers.
Many warriors in the battle formation suddenly rolled their eyes white and began to dance a frenzied War Dance—this "Divine Descent" performance quickly diverted everyone's fear.
Abal seized the opportunity to leap onto his warhorse, his eyes gleaming with ferocity in the sunlight, and roared, "Tonight, I will drink from Grayman's skull!"
The Orc warriors reflexively raised their weapons, and the war cries once again became a unified roar.
Abal ordered the army to move north again. The two massive armies met on the wilderness outside Stonebridge Town, the dry northern wind stirring up yellow sand, shrouding the battlefield in a solemn and murderous atmosphere.
Abal urged his mount to a higher ground, squinting as he surveyed the opposing army formation.
The Northwest Legion's formation gleamed with a metallic coldness under the sunlight, as precise as if measured with a ruler. At the forefront were several orderly infantry squares, soldiers clad in dark blue uniforms with white cross-belts that outlined sharp lines across their chests. They were deployed in three rows, their bayonets forming a daunting forest of steel.
Interspersed between the infantry squares were artillery positions, the metal barrels slightly elevated on their mounts. Gunners stood solemnly beside them, with wooden crates neatly stacked with spherical cannonballs and powder bags. To the rear, cavalry units were arranged in echelons, with light cavalry and cuirassiers distinctly separated. The horses pawed restlessly, but the riders maintained perfect spacing.
Most striking was the fluttering banner at the center of the formation—a crimson field embroidered with a golden dragon. Orcs had keen eyesight, and Abal vaguely saw a young human surrounded like the moon by stars, raising a cylindrical object to peer in their direction.
"An interesting formation," the Orc Chieftain mused, stroking his mount's mane. He noticed that the human army had not positioned their cavalry on the flanks as usual but had placed them further back.
Even stranger, in his view, the cannons, which should have been deployed to the rear, were now positioned like a sharp blade at the front.
Shaman Otasi approached, leaning on his bone staff, his cloudy gaze sweeping over the opposing army. "They've abandoned the traditional deep deployment, choosing to concentrate all their firepower on the front. This is either arrogance or..."
"Or they have a new tactic we're unaware of," Abal interjected, his rough fingers unconsciously brushing the edge of the battle axe at his waist.
Calem rode over, "Orc Chieftain, shall we proceed with the original plan?"
Abal did not answer immediately. He stared at the tightly knit human formation, the entire legion resembling a precise machine.
Calem waited quietly for the chieftain's response.
The memory of their crushing defeat at Blackstone Plains was still fresh. The roaring cannons and relentless volleys of gunfire still echoed in Calem's nightmares.
But he firmly believed that under the personal command of Orc Chieftain Abal, the orc army would surely wash away the humiliation of that defeat.
Abal took a deep breath, "Send the Raiders to probe their right flank first."
At the chieftain's command, the orc raiders surged forward like a violent sandstorm.
They rode muscular steppe horses, with thick necks, shaggy manes, and nostrils flaring with steam, displaying remarkable endurance and explosive power in their gallop. The riders wore light leather armor, their heads wrapped in colorful cloth strips that fluttered in the wind.
Their tactics were swift, cunning, and unpredictable. About five hundred raiders split into several groups, resembling wolves dispersing and regrouping on the steppe.
The front riders began shifting their formation three hundred paces from the human army, sometimes fanning out, sometimes converging into a wedge. They did not charge directly but circled the enemy formation like vultures waiting for their prey to show weakness.
The first wave of cavalry suddenly accelerated, unleashing a volley of arrows at a distance of two hundred and fifty paces. The specially crafted Whistling Arrows emitted sharp, piercing shrieks in the air, a psychological tactic designed to disrupt the enemy's formation.
Most of the arrows landed fifty paces in front of the human phalanx. In the past, such a display would have caused unrest and unease among the less disciplined human soldiers.
However, this time, the Orc light cavalry's arrow rain did not achieve the intended effect.
(End of the Chapter)
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