"WAAAAAGH!!!"
An Orc Big 'Un riding a war boar brushed past a charging knight; in a flash of lightning, the victor was decided.
The lance pierced the Greenskin's crude chest armor; the tough hide and metaphysical WAAAAAGH! energy could not resist such damage.
The lance tip transfixed the Big 'Un's body, knocking it off the war boar, and it was instantly trampled by many hooves.
However, the rider who had claimed a kill did not enjoy long-lasting martial luck.
After skewering several Greenskins with his lance, his mount collided violently with a boar rushing forward, throwing the rider off.
Tossed and disoriented, he hadn't even regained his footing before an axe cleaved through the junction between his helmet and armor.
Blood splattered everywhere. The excited Greenskin pulled out its battle-axe and hacked rapidly as if mincing meat.
The rider's body only gave a reflexive convulsion before he completely lost consciousness.
On this modest plain, countless such battles were occurring simultaneously.
Two torrents, one green and one white, collided here—cheering, slaughtering, shouting.
A hero who lunged out first one moment might be struck down by an undodged attack the next.
A Big 'Un rampaging with brute strength might suddenly be slain by a stray arrow.
The commanding brain of this Northern Legion chose to place its headquarters on a medium-sized hill.
They raised brightly colored banners that fluttered in the wind, looking exceptionally conspicuous under the glaring sunlight.
Naturally, the Greenskins directed their main offensive there.
But they soon discovered that this flamboyant temporary camp, which seemed so desperate to draw attention, was a trap.
As they nearly reached the base of the slope, soldiers pre-arranged to hide behind the hill in vertical columns crossed the ridge at top speed.
They pushed down pre-prepared spikes and cheval de frise, then filed down to form ranks along the slope.
The so-called command camp was merely an empty shell with no actual substance behind its appearance.
The Greenskins were ambushed.
The Northerners used a respectable-looking fake headquarters to draw the Greenskin main attack,
then utilized the terrain advantage to stand high and defend against the Greenskin vanguard, whose momentum was fading after breaking the front lines.
Gunners pulled their triggers—no matter what the weapon was, long or short, reliable or faulty.
Everything that could fire a projectile was used, unleashing a frantic barrage into the Greenskins' heads.
Hired by the Northern Council, several sturdy Bestigors pushed carts to deliver light artillery to the heights.
From their high vantage point, the pitch-black muzzles were aimed directly over the Greenskins.
Fire!
The final hammer-stroke that decisively settled the battle was a charge by three hundred knights who suddenly emerged from the hills to the northeast, riding like the wind.
They swept through everything in their path, crushing the Greenskin left wing, which was relatively weak because the main attack had focused on the center.
Dull armor, neighing horses, silent and lethal—these knights moved like machines that knew no fatigue, fear, or hesitation.
They were one with their mounts, guiding their steeds as if they were extensions of their own limbs.
Swiftly and efficiently, they demolished the Greenskin battle line and morale, soon reaching the flank of the main Greenskin host in the center.
The commander of this Northern Legion took off the red, curled-brim felt hat from his head, clenching it in his hand as he looked down at the battle:
Forming ranks on high ground, the well-trained pikemen and halberdiers had proven they were fully capable of resisting a frontal Greenskin charge, holding an absolute advantage in the exchange ratio.
The tactic of using long and short muskets, along with bows and crossbows, behind the pike square for mid-to-short range fire was also highly effective.
For a race like Greenskins that focused on close-quarters melee, fighting them up close was better than shooting from afar and having arrows or bullets deflected to nowhere by that strange WAAAAAGH! energy, wasting stamina and ammunition for nothing.
Galen Kirshis observed the battle; he had already made a decision, both for this current war and for the future.
He pressed the felt hat back down and said in a heavy voice:
"Have the boys fire their ammunition into the Greenskins' heads as fast as possible! I want to see the bullets flip over these beasts' skulls!"
"Then, prepare to advance!"
The staff officers faithfully and competently executed the general's orders—who was also a high-born noble (wealthy merchant) from a genuine Bilbali family.
He was an upper-class gentleman born in the equivalent of Rome's city center (more like downtown Shanghai).
It was claimed that if his family wealth were poured entirely into a fleet, they could build another Invincible Armada:
Galen Kirshis.
He appeared as a middle-aged man, neither handsome nor ugly, merely average-looking or slightly above.
His eyebrows always seemed to be turned upward; he frowned, giving an impression of being difficult to get along with, serious, and rigid.
Worth mentioning were his eyes—not large, but bright and piercing, forever flashing with a sharp light that made his face look exceptionally solemn and keen.
His subordinates obeyed his command with absolute resolve.
Firstly, Galen Kirshis was one of the few Estalian "famous generals" who had a record of frontal victory against the Greenskins.
Yes, currently, any general who could win against Greenskins, even in small-to-mid-scale team fights—at best, probably just jungle skirmishes—could already enjoy this title once reserved for those favored by the Goddess Myrmidia.
Secondly, Galen knew how to lead.
On his first day in the barracks, he had ruthlessly punished dozens of veterans who had snuck out for fun while the unit was stationed outside the city for rest without a dismissal notice.
In front of over three thousand men, he had these fellows stripped and beaten on stools; yet afterward, he paid out of his own pocket to help his soldiers update and add weapons and armor.
He proactively visited and offered condolences to the families of the warriors. He was strict with officers but kind to the soldiers below, even willing to use his own money to help them.
He was the type of general who could buy people's hearts, combined with his ability and financial backing.
Of course, the absolute main reason was that he could win battles; this alone filtered out most commanders who had performed poorly since the war broke out.
After all, following a commander who could win made it easier to stay alive.
Although Galen Kirshis had been given a new, completely unfamiliar unit for this southern march, they had received sufficient training and coordination during their integration period in Bilbali.
The only thing they lacked was actual war experience, and after today's battle, that flaw could almost be erased.
Under Galen's organization, the Northern Legion, despite being outnumbered by nearly two-to-one, managed to hard-tank the enemy's frontal impact on mostly level plain terrain and stabilize their lines.
Even if the knights hadn't come, Galen was confident he could slowly mince the enemy center and then steamroll through.