Translator: CinderTL
Abal closed his eyes in agony, his battleaxe slowly lowering.
He cast one last glance at the light cavalry still fighting in the distance. Those loyal warriors now resembled gazelles surrounded by wolves, with no escape route.
"All troops, retreat!" His voice was hoarse and terrifying. "Sound the horns!"
Woo—woo—
The mournful, desolate horn call echoed across the battlefield—the Orcs' highest-level retreat signal. The light cavalry, still locked in combat, froze in disbelief. Their Orc Chieftain had abandoned them.
The Northwest Legion's cavalry swiftly sensed the Orc main force's movement, but they had to focus on the battle at hand. Earl Hal Duke raised his bloodstained longsword and roared, "Don't be distracted! Finish off the enemies before us!"
The sentinel in the Observation Balloon quickly signaled with flags: "Enemy main force retreating north."
Paul saw the signal and finally breathed a sigh of relief. "Concentrate our forces and cut off the remaining enemies' retreat. We must annihilate this cavalry unit."
As the human main force closed in, the surviving Orc light cavalry were compressed into an ever-shrinking encirclement.
Some warriors let out desperate roars, tearing open their armor to bare their chests and launching suicide charges. They would rather die in battle than become human prisoners.
"For the glory of the Grassland Chieftain's Tent!" an Orc officer roared, leading the last few dozen light cavalry in a desperate charge toward the artillery line. They fell in a hail of bullets and cannon fire.
Most of the Orc cavalry who died in battle were from the Zarg Tribe, Abal's direct lineage.
The remaining Orcs threw down their weapons, dismounted, and knelt in the mud. Their faces were ashen, their eyes hollow. They couldn't believe they had been abandoned by the Chieftain's Tent.
Abal had promised to lead them to glory and wealth in the human world. Now, the Orc Chieftain's promises were just empty words.
As the last wisps of gunpowder smoke cleared, the battlefield outside Stonebridge Town was littered with corpses and broken weapons.
Soldiers from the Northwest Legion began clearing the battlefield, while medics moved among the fallen, searching for survivors.
Paul stood on high ground, watching the dust clouds rising in the distance as the main Orc force retreated. He knew this victory had come at a heavy price.
"Count the casualties and take the prisoners," he instructed his Staff Officer, his voice weary but relieved. "The Battle of Stonebridge Town—we've won."
As the sun set, its crimson rays painted the battlefield in blood red. A tattered White Wolf Banner lay trampled in the mud, crushed under countless hooves.
On the desolate Northern Border Highway, the New Royal Army's marching column stretched for miles, trailing a plume of dust.
Harrison Abbot reined in his warhorse, his iron gauntlet squeezing the reins with a creaking sound. The stern-faced general checked his pocket watch for the third time—the hands were off by another fifteen degrees, yet the column had advanced less than five miles.
"Orderly!" he barked, his voice tight with frustration. "Go ask the Protectorate Knights if their gilded saddles need repolishing!"
Nearby, a silk tent adorned with family crests stood by the roadside. Yuriko Rodney leaned back against a plush cushion, letting a servant pour aged wine into his crystal goblet.
He idly flicked at his gold-embroidered cuff. "Tell General Abbot that forced marches will damage the Knights' precious armor."
A soft chuckle echoed from the tent's shadows.
Emerson Wilde toyed with a jeweled dagger, its tip tracing the words "Yellow Earth" on the marching map.
"Let those country bumpkin soldiers go first," he drawled, narrowing his gray eyes. "I hear Grayman's troops are stationed in this godforsaken wasteland and have already clashed with the Orcs! Heh, didn't your brother place the utmost trust in that 'genius military strategist'?"
The tent was filled with the rich aroma of wine. Yuriko Rodney swirled his crystal goblet, a mocking curve playing on his lips.
"Hmph, that Alden bumpkin, now he's the kingdom's savior?" He scoffed. "Just got lucky, stumbled upon a few novelties, and now he thinks he's some kind of genius."
Emerson Wilde leaned languidly against a plush cushion, his fingertips tapping lightly against the rim of his glass, a cold glint in his eyes.
"Your Highness is right," he drawled. "Grayman is nothing more than an opportunistic charlatan. Who knows if those so-called inventions weren't stolen from some wandering scholar? After all, how could a country nobleman who's barely spent a few years in Crystal Glare suddenly know so much?"
Yuriko burst into laughter, nearly spilling wine on his ornate embroidered jacket.
"Exactly! My brother treats him like a treasure, calling him the 'Miracle of the Northwest.' It's laughable." He curled his lip. "In my opinion, those steam engines and firearms are just flashy gimmicks. When it comes to real combat, we'll still have to rely on us, the true knights!"
Yuriko still resented his brother for refusing him to serve in the New Royal Army.
He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, a look of exaggerated pity spreading across his face.
"Poor Catherine," he sighed, shaking his head. "My proud cousin, once the brightest rose of Crystal Glare, now forced to marry a backwater lord whose coat of arms reeks of fish."
Emerson offered a timely expression of sympathy, refilling Yuriko's wineglass.
"Indeed, it's heartbreaking," he murmured in agreement. "The Grayman family has been stuck in that barbaric Northwest for generations. They probably don't even know basic court etiquette."
Yuriko slammed his fist on the table, splashing wine from his glass.
"Do you know what's truly ridiculous?" he slurred, his voice rising with drunken indignation. "My cousin once turned down even the Duke Family's eldest son! And now? For my brother's political marriage, she has to endure a freak who spends all day tinkering with gears and steam engines!"
He clutched his chest dramatically, as if performing a poorly acted tragedy.
"Just imagine, Catherine now has to live in that... that greasy, oil-stained town," Yuriko said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "No opera, no balls, just the stench of coal smoke and the roar of machinery all day long. It's torture for a beautiful princess!"
A glint of calculation flashed in Emerson's eyes as he added softly, "And I hear Grayman has a rather... ambiguous relationship with that female scholar from Horns Bay. It's all very unclear."
Yuriko immediately feigned exaggerated shock.
"What? That green-haired woman?" He gasped, drawing in a sharp breath. "By the gods, Catherine has to endure such humiliation? My own brother would sacrifice his own cousin for a moment of political gain!"
His voice grew louder, drawing curious glances from the attendants outside the tent.
"In my opinion, the royal bloodline has been tainted!"
Yuriko waved his arms indignantly.
"Just you wait. After this war is over, I'll lodge a formal protest with the king. Catherine deserves a better fate... perhaps with a truly noble family."
(End of the Chapter)
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