Translator: CinderTL
The smoke from Blackwater Lake had barely cleared when Great Chieftain Abal issued the order to retreat.
The chieftain's tent guards silently relayed the command under the cover of night, and the massive orc army began its slow eastward withdrawal.
The battlefield was littered with corpses. Supply wagons rumbled past, crushing the fallen. Orc soldiers dragged away shattered siege engines, while wounded men groaned on stretchers.
When they first arrived, their surging morale had been like a black tide. Now, only silent exhaustion and the gloom of defeat remained.
Abal, mounted on his towering warhorse, cast one last look back at the Aldorian fortresses.
The four fortresses stood silent in the morning light, like iron nails driven into the Grassland. On the tranquil lake surface, the silhouettes of gunboats were clearly visible.
The Orc Chieftain knew that the loss of Blackwater Lake was inevitable. The Aldorians had not only seized their water source but also wrested strategic initiative in the western Grassland.
All he could do now was withdraw the chieftain's tent forces to the heart of the Grassland, establish a new defensive line, and prevent the humans' iron hooves from penetrating further into the depths of the Grassland.
"Issue the order!" His voice was hoarse but still commanding. "All tribes around Blackwater Lake must relocate eastward with the chieftain's tent. This land has been defiled and is no longer fit for orc habitation."
However, when the order was issued, the response was lukewarm.
When messengers from the Chieftain's Tent reached the various tribal camps, the reactions varied.
Some traditional tribes, like the Wolf Fang Tribe and the Iron Hoof Tribe, immediately began packing their tents, herding their livestock, and preparing to follow the Chieftain's Tent eastward. They still regarded Abal as the overlord of the Grassland, and their loyalty remained unwavering despite the Chieftain's Tent's humiliating defeat.
But other tribes, especially those on the fringes who had been forced to pay tribute to the Aldorian army, chose a different path.
Instead of moving east, they quietly shifted southwest under the cover of night, entering the borderlands controlled by the Aldorians.
They pitched their tents in a designated area outside Rockfort Fortress and submitted documents of surrender to the Aldorian sentry post.
These tribes weren't driven by hatred for the Chieftain's Tent. They had personally experienced the Aldorian order. The humans demanded little tribute, and their doctors even treated the sick among the tribesmen. There were no senseless wars, no tribal conflicts. Life might not be prosperous, but it was far more stable than enduring the harsh conscription and endless warfare under the Chieftain's Tent.
When news of this reached the Chieftain's Tent main camp, the generals erupted in fury.
"Cowards!" Ajil, clad in heavy armor, slammed his fist on the table, causing the oil lamp to sway. "For a few sacks of flour and scraps of iron, they betray the blood of the Grassland! Have they forgotten the glory of our ancestors?"
"Shameful!" Arroya's voice was grim. "These fools have been blinded by the humans' sweet coating, willingly becoming slaves to a foreign race, gnawing on the scraps they deign to offer!"
The fire crackled in the brazier within the Chieftain's Tent, casting flickering shadows on faces contorted with rage. While they could tolerate their distant forest kin, they could not accept that Grassland Orcs would choose to submit to humans.
Abal sat on his wolfskin throne, silent for a long moment. Unlike the other chieftains, he did not roar in fury. Yet the Orc Chieftain's silence was more chilling than any shout.
When all the tribal chiefs had gathered in the Chieftain's Tent—both those who had already migrated east and those still watching—Abal slowly rose to his feet. His eagle-like gaze swept across the room, finally settling on the empty seats reserved for the chiefs of the tribes who had surrendered to Aldor.
"They have chosen comfort," he said, his voice low but clear, carrying to every ear. "They believe it is more dignified to kneel for a crust of bread than to stand and wield a battle axe."
The Orc Chieftain paused, a flicker of cold resolve flashing in his eyes.
"But the Grassland's memory will not forget, and the noble souls of the orcs will not be defiled."
He raised his right hand, his battleaxe gleaming coldly in the firelight, a testament to his oath.
"I, Bloodhand Abal, hereby swear that when the Chieftain's Tent is restored, when the Grassland is once again united, those tribes who have betrayed their bloodline and willingly become slaves..."
The Orc Chieftain's voice suddenly turned icy, like the biting wind of the frozen plains:
"...will be uprooted entirely, their names erased forever from the Grassland's epic poems."
In the command chamber of Rockfort Fortress, flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. A map covered the entire oak long table, red lines and blue crosses marking the movements of friend and foe.
Sir Andrew, commander of the Imperial army, stood before the table, his brow furrowed. His fingertips tapped unconsciously against the edge of the table, his gaze still fixed on the trail of dust left by Abal's retreating army.
The door creaked open, and Scholar Alvey entered. He wore a long, dark gray robe, ink stains still clinging to his sleeves. He carried a rolled-up animal hide map and several recently compiled intelligence briefs.
He set down his things, his gaze sweeping across the map. His voice was low and clear:
"Abal has retreated, but it's not a rout. It's a strategic withdrawal."
Andrew looked up. "I know. That wolf won't give up so easily. He's retreated into the heart of the Grassland to regroup."
Alvey slowly sat down, his finger tapping lightly on the vast area east of Blackwater Lake on the map. "Therefore, we can't let them rest and recover. Abal is likely to strike south again. The Marquis is preparing his forces south of the Rocky Mountains, and we need to buy him time."
A sharp glint flashed in his eyes. "We should stick to Abal like a leech, denying him any chance to regroup."
Andrew paused, slightly startled.
Alvey continued, "Fight orcs with tactics orcs understand."
He unfolded the animal hide map, pointing to the tribal camps that had pledged allegiance to Aldor. "These tribes have suffered under the Chieftain's Tent. Some were forced to conscript soldiers, others had their livestock plundered. Their resentment toward Abal runs far deeper than we realize, but it has long been suppressed by the Chieftain's Tent's overwhelming power and prestige."
"But now we're here, offering them a second option—to overthrow Abal! We can recruit warriors from among them—not by force, but by promising freedom and sanctuary to those willing to fight against the Orc Chieftain."
"They know every gully, every water source, every hollow where they can hide on the Grassland."
Alvey's voice grew louder.
"Let them form light cavalry units, retaining their skill with bows and equipping them with some light firearms. When Abal's army retreats, this force will cling to their heels, harassing supply lines, sniping stragglers, and sowing chaos."
"When Abal retaliates in fury, attempting to encircle them, they'll scatter immediately, breaking into small groups and vanishing into the depths of the Grassland like the wind. Once the enemy army is exhausted and retreats, they'll quietly regroup and close in again."
"If Abal's army pursues them relentlessly, they'll retreat into the protective range of our artillery!"
"This is precisely the kind of harassment warfare the orc cavalry excels at," Andrew murmured, his eyes beginning to gleam. "That's right! We can turn it against them!"
(End of the Chapter)
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