The Forest of Gloom was still shrouded in mist in the early morning, but the open space outside Blackrock Spire's cave was already bustling with activity.
Nearly eight hundred greenskins were fully armed, forming a loose but murderous formation—the front row consisted of orc nob wielding giant axes and cleavers, their green muscles gleaming with an oily sheen in the morning light, and their heavy leather armor inlaid with sharp bone spikes; in the middle were hobgoblin archers with iron bows on their backs and short knives at their waists, their small eyes full of excitement; the back row held hobgoblin spearmen with long spears, their Spearheads glinting coldly, swaying rhythmically with the movement of the formation.
Behind the formation, a logistics team composed of thousands of goblin stretched like a long green dragon, extending deep into the forest.
Most of these goblin were pushing specially made "pump pump carts"—the frames were made of sturdy oak, the wheels wrapped in thick animal hides, piled high with bulging burlap sacks filled with rye biscuits, dried mushrooms, and enough black mushroom spirits for the entire army to drink for three days.
Most striking were several carts neatly stacked with soap, the pale green soap bars emitting a faint herbal scent, forming a stark contrast to the sweat and animal hide smell emanating from the greenskins .
"Bring all the soap! If anyone dares to be lazy and not bathe, I'll throw him to Furball as a snack!" The hobgoblin in charge of logistics shouted loudly at the goblin, his whip cracking in the air.
Ever since Kurzadh set the "Hygiene rules," the Blackrock Clan no longer had foul-smelling greenskins —they had to bathe after every training session, and armor had to be cleaned with soap every week; anyone who violated this would have their beer confiscated at best, or be chased and bitten by Furball at worst.
For greenskins , beer and face were more important than life itself, so over time, "Being hygienic" actually became a new trend in the tribe.
"Advance!" With a loud roar, the greenskin Army marched majestically towards Stonewatch.
The orcs' footsteps made the ground tremble slightly, the hobgoblins' laughter echoed through the forest, and the goblin pushed their pump pump carts, their short legs churning rapidly, filling the air with an excited atmosphere—for greenskins , war was the grandest carnival, and facing the Skaven hiding underground this time felt thrilling just thinking about it.
At the same time, a large number of greenskin Boyz poured out from the gates of Stonewatch.
Nearly five hundred orc cleaver Boyz and hobgoblin Stalkers quickly emerged, merging with the forces arriving from Blackrock Spire.
For a moment, the open space in front of Stonewatch was packed with greenskins ; the clanging of armor, the whooshing of weapons, and the shouts of the goblin intertwined, forming a wild battle song.
The logistics and supply unit quickly followed, in addition to the goblin's pump pump carts, there were also several large carts pulled by giant goblins, loaded with battering rams for sieges, wooden planks for repairing tunnels, and a large number of torches—these were all specially prepared by hobgoblin Sappers at Kurzadh's instruction, as who knew what traps the Skaven might have underground, so it was always good to be over-prepared.
In the very center of the formation, Kurzadh rode the Arachnari Giant Spider, Airachnid, steadily advancing.
This giant spider had now grown to five meters long and nearly two meters tall, its ink-black carapace gleaming with a metallic luster, its eight thick spider legs stepping on the ground, leaving deep footprints, and its back covered with a tanned animal hide cushion, making it as stable as the ground to ride on.
On his shoulder, the furry squig was lazily sprawled, while Furball had shrunk to the size of a cat, nestled in the squig's soft fur, occasionally poking his head out, curiously observing the surrounding greenskins .
This was the largest expedition since the Blackrock Clan was founded, and Kurzadh treated it with one hundred percent seriousness.
The Squeak Clan had tens of thousands of Skaven, with intricate underground tunnels, unknown traps, and weapons; a slight oversight could lead to a passive situation.
He not only brought most of the tribe's capable greenskins but also arranged sufficient logistics and backup supplies, even having Gazlowe personally oversee logistics coordination—after all, "provisions first, then the army," and logistics were the core of the entire force, absolutely no mistakes could be made.
"Boss! Don't worry! I've already divided the provisions, each day's portion is packed separately, and the goblin have also been trained on how to unload quickly, so there will be no delays!" Gazlowe quickly walked to Airachnid's side, holding a roll of animal hide ledger, his small eyes full of shrewdness.
Ever since he was appointed Chief Logistics Manager, he had been spending every day in the warehouse, inventorying supplies, arranging transportation, and training goblin, busy non-stop, yet still full of energy.
Kurzadh nodded: "Well done. Also, tell the Stalkers to pay close attention to the surroundings to prevent the Skaven from ambushing us in advance."
"I've already arranged it! There are ten Vile Stalkers scouting ahead, and Spider Riders patrolling on both sides; any situation will be reported immediately!" Gazlowe quickly replied.
Just then, a fawning voice suddenly came: "Boss! How do you like my outfit? Doesn't it look especially sharp? When we defeat Clan Leader, I promise to manage the Squeak Clan well and make all the Skaven obey you!"
Kurzadh frowned and turned his head, only to see Yala, Blackrock Spire, wearing a brand new animal hide outfit, trotting obsequiously beside the team, his face full of flattering smiles.
Ever since this Yala agreed to lead the way, he had been constantly trying to prove his loyalty to Kurzadh, sometimes saying he wanted to help the greenskins dig tunnels, sometimes saying he knew where the Skaven's food was hidden, annoying Kurzadh to no end.
"Drag him away." Kurzadh waved his hand impatiently.
As soon as he spoke, two Vile Stalkers in black leather armor suddenly darted out from the nearby woods, grabbed Blackrock Spire's arms, and unceremoniously dragged him to the back of the formation.
Blackrock Spire tried to struggle, but was met with a cold glare from the Stalker, instantly falling silent, only able to obediently follow along, yet his heart was still full of longing—as long as he could defeat Clan Leader, he could become the Clan Leader of the Skaven clan, and then who would dare look down on him?
The greenskin Army continued to advance, heading towards the World's Edge Mountains.
The mist gradually dispersed, and sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, shining on the greenskins' armor, casting dazzling glints.
The orcs excitedly brandished their weapons, the hobgoblins quietly discussed how to catch Skaven later, and the goblin pushed their pump pump carts, humming out-of-tune little tunes.
Kurzadh sat on Airachnid's back, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.
He knew that this war with the Squeak Clan would not be easy; the underground environment, the Skaven's traps, and unknown troop strength were all huge challenges.
But he believed even more that as long as the tribe's greenskins united, as long as logistics ran smoothly, and as long as Blackrock Spire led the way honestly, they would definitely win this battle and completely eliminate the threat of the Skaven.
"Furball, don't run around when we get underground later." Kurzadh stroked Furball in his arms; the little fellow seemed to understand his words, rubbing against his palm and letting out a "woof woof" sound.
The footsteps of the team grew fainter and fainter, gradually disappearing into the depths of the Forest of Gloom.
Meanwhile, the greenskins were singing their green skin battle song, arms around each other's shoulders.
"Our boots will stomp the rat nests flat! Our fangs will bite through rat necks!
The greenskin war cry will overturn the underground shit beetles!
Rusty cleavers will split open rat bellies! Gooey guts will be smeared like paint!
Charge! Who cares about traps or poison mist!
Hack! Kick rat heads around for fun!
The squeals of the rat horde? That's our battle drum!
The sorcerer's broken magic? One axe blow will shatter it to dust!
No tunnel can block our way! No rat can survive this moment!
Our axes will drink enough rat blood! Our battle banners will be stained with rat brains!
Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!
Crush their eggs! Smash their nests!
Bash the rat King's bones into sticks to play with! Plunder all the rat horde's food to chew!
Until there's not a single rat left gasping underground!
Only then will we carry our spoils—stumbling back home, drunk!"
In the dark underground world, there was no alternation of day and night, only the faint green light emitted by the glowing moss on the rock walls, barely outlining the contours of the tunnels.
The winding tunnels were like a vast, inescapable net woven by an Arachnari Giant Spider, sometimes climbing upwards, sometimes plunging downwards, and sometimes splitting into several forks, crisscrossing vertically to form a massive labyrinth where even the most route-familiar skaven could easily lose their way if they weren't careful.
"Drip, drop," water droplets continuously fell from the top of the rock wall, hitting the sewage-filled ground with a monotonous sound that echoed back and forth in the confined space, making the entire tunnel seem even more desolate and silent.
Just in this deadly silence, a burst of chaotic footsteps approached from a distance. A skaven patrol squad slowly walked into view. The two clanrats leading the way walked shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces full of resentment, complaining with "Squeak, squeak, squeak" noises. Their sharp voices were infinitely amplified in the tunnel, mixing with the skaven's characteristic stench, creating a nauseating atmosphere.
"Damn it! We can't live like this anymore!" The clanrat on the left viciously kicked a piece of gravel beside him. the stone rolled into the sewage, splashing up blackish-brown water. "Before, we could at least eat half a wheat cake every meal. Now, we're lucky to get a small handful of moldy rye once a day, and it's not even enough to fill the gaps between our teeth!"
This clanrat was named Sharpclaw. He was nearly a circle sturdier than his comrades behind him. He wore pieced-together leather armor, a polished short sword hung at his waist, and he gripped a wooden shield with worn edges —in the patrol squad, such equipment was considered excellent.
He had been in the tribe for ten years. Two years ago, he followed the team to the surface to raid human caravans, eating meat every meal and even saving up half a bag of wheat cakes. But since the famine hit the tribe half a year ago, the good times had completely ended.
"You're still lucky!" Broken Tail on the right quickly chimed in. His tail had been severed by a falling rock while digging tunnels previously, making his walk unsteady. "My three brats only chewed on some bark yesterday. Meanwhile, the Clan Leader eats meat every day, and Lord Iuka even gets to drink dwarf beer. Why do we have to starve?"
Broken Tail's tone was full of resentment. His claws unconsciously rubbed the short knife at his waist —he had traded half a bag of wheat cakes for it from another clanrat, originally intending to keep it as a coming-of-age gift for his eldest son. Now, he clutched it daily; it was both a weapon and his final comfort.
The two complained back and forth, while the twelve slave rats behind them followed silently, like soulless puppets.
These slave rats were skin and bones, lacking even decent rags to cover themselves. The weapons they held were even more pathetic —some gripped rusty blades with edges curled like sawteeth; some carried broken spears with cracked shafts; and others held wooden shields woven from branches and vines that would crumble if squeezed.
Their eyes were dull, their expressions numb, and their tails drooped listlessly. They mechanically took weak, unsteady steps, each one seeming to drain all their strength.
The smallest slave rat suddenly stumbled as he walked, nearly falling. Sharpclaw glared back and cursed, "Trash! If you dare slack off again, I'll slaughter you for meat!"
The slave rat trembled in fear, quickly steadied himself, and gritted his teeth to speed up, though there was no ripple of emotion in his eyes —in the Squeak Clan, the lives of slave rats were cheaper than grass. Starvation, being beaten to death, or being used as "emergency rations" were all commonplace; they had long since become numb.
Sharpclaw and Broken Tail both knew that when the famine began, the slave rats were the first whose rations were cut.
At that time, slave rats received a small handful of rye per day, barely enough to fill their stomachs. To save food , the tribe directly cut their rations by a third, prioritizing the savings for the clanrats. Meanwhile, Clan Leader Ila, Young Clan Leader Iuka, and the elite Stormvermin rats remained completely unaffected, still enjoying meat and wheat cakes every meal, and even drinking beer stolen from dwarf caravans.
But everyone understood the principle that relying solely on existing resources leads to depletion.
The tribe's stored food was already scarce, and they had lost the Ogre tribe as an important source. Even by desperately cutting the rations of the lower ranks, they couldn't hold out for long.
Half a month ago, Ila finally gave the order to halve the clanrats' rations as well.
As soon as the order was issued, internal conflict erupted within the tribe.
Hundreds of clanrats gathered before the Bone Throne, demanding that Ila distribute the food fairly. Some even shouted slogans like "Overthrow Ila."
But they forgot that Ila secured his position as Clan Leader not through kindness, but through iron-fisted methods.
That afternoon, Ila led two hundred Stormvermin rats out, slaughtering hundreds of the most disruptive clanrats. Blood stained the square in front of the palace, and the corpses were dragged away to feed the patrol skaven.
The bloody suppression temporarily extinguished the flames of the riot, but everyone knew this was merely a temporary fix.
To find new food sources, Ila dispatched over a dozen small squads. Some went deeper underground to dig for wild vegetables and search for ore to trade for food , while others went to the surface to scout for traces of other greenskin tribes. The results, however, left everyone despairing —the squads either returned empty-handed or completely disappeared. According to the old skaven, those missing squads had likely starved and collapsed in the tunnels, eventually becoming food for other beasts or being eaten by other skaven.
As food became scarcer, the starving slave rats began to cannibalize each other.
First, a few of the smallest slave rats were gnawed down to the bone by their comrades. When the news spread, instead of causing panic, it served as a reminder to the clanrats.
Soon, "rat meat" became the tribe's official "emergency ration." If a slave rat was caught slacking off or trying to escape, it would be instantly executed, and its body distributed among the other skaven to eat.
In just ten days, the number of slave rats in the tribe decreased by thirty percent. The remaining ones were all sickly thin, ready to collapse at any moment.
Panic spread through the tribe like a plague. Even clanrats like Sharpclaw and Broken Tail muttered privately, "If this continues, the slave rats will eventually be eaten up. Who will be next then? We can't possibly eat the Stormvermin rats, can we? Instead of sitting here waiting to die, we should fight the greenskins on the surface, seize their food , and find a way to survive!"
Such thoughts grew in the hearts of the skaven, but no one dared to speak them openly. That was until three days ago, when a scout skaven monitoring the greenskins returned with exciting news: the main force of the Blackrock Clan's greenskins had left the city, apparently heading out on an expedition. Most of those left behind in Stonewatch were hobgoblins and goblin with little fighting ability, and even the wall guards were halved compared to usual!
The news spread through the Squeak Clan like a warpstone rocket. The previously lifeless tribe instantly erupted into a frenzy.
All the skaven gripped their weapons, shouting the slogan "Blessings of the great horned rat," and surrounded the palace where the Bone Throne was located, begging Ila to give the order: to slaughter their way to the surface, loot all the greenskin food , eat all the greenskin livestock, and claim everything in Stonewatch for themselves!
How could Ila pass up such an opportunity? The Squeak Clan had been lurking beneath the "Fringe Mountains" for hundreds of years. Every Clan Leader dreamed of flattening the greenskin and human fortresses on the surface and bringing the Wild spear Trail trade route under their control, but they either encountered a strong greenskin period or were plagued by internal strife, never finding the right moment.
Now that the main greenskin force was absent, although the tribe's combat strength had declined due to the famine, the odds of success against a group of remaining hobgoblins and goblin were still very high —as long as the surprise attack succeeded, the food , iron, and weapons in the greenskin warehouses would all fall into the hands of the Squeak Clan. At that point, not only would the famine be solved, but unifying the surrounding skaven tribes wouldn't be impossible!
That same evening, Ila convened an emergency meeting and ordered the mobilization of most of the tribe's fighting force —fifteen hundred clanrats, two thousand slave rats, plus five hundred elite Stormvermin rats. Led personally by Young Clan Leader Iuka, they swarmed out from the tunnel closest to Stonewatch, heading toward the surface.
To ensure the success of the raid, he virtually emptied the tribe's reserve forces, leaving only two hundred old, weak, and sick skaven to guard the empty lair and the last remaining bit of food .
And the patrol squad that Sharpclaw and Broken Tail belonged to were the "unlucky ones" left behind.
According to Ila's orders, they were responsible for patrolling the tunnels surrounding the tribe to prevent other forces from exploiting the vacuum. But in their view, this was a thankless task —they not only missed the chance to raid for food on the surface but had to wander the labyrinthine tunnels hungry every day, risking getting lost and eventually starving to death in some corner.
"This is truly damned bad luck! Why does Lord Iuka get to go to the surface and steal food while we have to wander aimlessly in this wretched tunnel?" Sharpclaw cursed again, spitting fiercely. The spittle landed in the sewage and quickly merged with the blackish-brown water.
Broken Tail sighed, unhooked his waterskin from his waist, twisted open the cap, and took a small sip —the waterskin contained underground spring water with a faint taste of rust, but it was the best thing they could find to quench their thirst.
"Stop complaining. It's good enough just to be alive. Did you forget the last patrol team? They got lost for three days, and when they were finally found, only a pile of bones remained. We heard they were eaten by the blind worms underground."
Sharpclaw curled his lip but said nothing more, only quickening his pace, his heart filled with frustration.
The two were so preoccupied with complaining that they failed to notice several dark figures silently following them in the tunnel behind. Their movements were as light as a cat's, their breathing barely audible, only their eyes glowing faintly red in the gloom.
These dark figures were the Vile Stalkers sent by Kurzadh.
According to the plan, the greenskin Army would wait at the tunnel entrance while the Vile Stalkers infiltrated first, clearing the patrol skaven along the way to pave the path for the main army.
The Stalkers wore specialized black leather armor that allowed them to blend into the dark environment. They gripped poisoned short daggers and had smoke bombs hanging at their waists. Every step they took was placed in the tunnel's blind spots, perfectly avoiding the patrol skaven's line of sight.
The patrol squad reached a fork in the path. Sharpclaw and Broken Tail stopped, bending down to inspect the markings on the ground —simple symbols carved by skaven claws used to differentiate routes.
The slave rats behind them also stopped, standing numbly in place. Some were biting their nails, others stared blankly at the moss on the rock wall, their minds focused only on the word "Hungry." Even if they vaguely heard faint sounds of cloth rubbing behind them, they were too lazy to turn around —turning around wasted energy, and they preferred to save their strength for walking.
Sharpclaw confirmed the route, straightened up, and dusted off his hands. He said to Broken Tail, "Let's go this way. After patrolling two more forks, we'll head back to the temporary outpost to rest. I secretly hid half a handful of wheat cakes; I'll share some with you then."
Broken Tail's eyes lit up, and he quickly nodded. "Good! Good! Hurry up, my belly is practically flat from hunger!"
As they spoke, the two turned and continued forward, the slave rats following mechanically behind.
After turning three more corners, they arrived at a more complex intersection. Five tunnels branched out here, and the markings at the entrance of each tunnel were extremely similar, making it easy to take the wrong path if one wasn't careful.
Sharpclaw and Broken Tail dared not be careless. They stopped again, squatting down to carefully distinguish the markings.
Sharpclaw spent a long time examining them but was still unsure. He said to Broken Tail, "Help me look. Is it the third one on the left? Old Scar said last time that this route leads directly to the temporary outpost."
Broken Tail leaned over, squinting at the markings for a while. Just as he was about to answer, Sharpclaw suddenly remembered the slave rats behind them. Fearing they might slack off and fall behind, he subconsciously turned his head, intending to urge them: "Hurry up, we're almost at the old lair's temporary outpost, only..."
Halfway through his sentence, Sharpclaw's voice suddenly caught in his throat. The resentment on his face was instantly replaced by terror.
In his line of sight, there were no familiar, numbly standing slave rats, only four dark figures clad entirely in black armor, lunging at him with cruel smiles —these shadows had the pale greenskin characteristic of greenskins , their eyes glowed crimson, and the short daggers in their hands gleamed with a deadly cold light under the faint moss illumination.
"Enemies... enemies!" Sharpclaw trembled all over, instinctively reaching for the short knife at his waist, but his movement was too slow.
One Stalker rushed in first, its short dagger accurately stabbing toward his throat. The sharp blade easily sliced through his skin, and blackish-brown blood gushed out, splattering the Stalker's leather armor.
Sharpclaw didn't even have time to let out a cry of agony before his body slumped softly to the ground, his eyes still holding intense fear and unwillingness.
Broken Tail, seeing this scene, was terrified out of his mind and turned to flee. But just as he took a step, another Stalker kicked him in the knee. With a "Crack," his kneecap shattered. He screamed and fell to the ground. Before he could even try to get up, a short dagger had already pierced his chest.
The remaining Stalkers did not hesitate, swiftly pouncing on the numb slave rats.
These slave rats had already been scared witless. Some tried to run but stumbled and fell due to their weak bodies, while others simply collapsed on the ground, lacking even the strength to resist.
The Stalkers' short daggers flashed continuously. Soon, all twelve slave rats lay dead in pools of blood. The entire process was clean and efficient, without a single unnecessary scream.
After dealing with the patrol squad, the leading Stalker raised a hand, signaling his companions to check the scene. After confirming there were no survivors, he took a specialized torch from his waist —the torch fuel was mixed with fluorescent powder, emitting a faint yet noticeable light in the dark underground. This was the signal for the advancing greenskin Army.
He stuck the torch into a crevice in the rock at the intersection. The light instantly illuminated the surrounding area, as well as the skaven corpses on the ground.
"Let's go, to the next patrol point," the leading Stalker said in a low voice, his eyes devoid of any emotion.
For them, clearing these patrol skaven was merely the first step of the expedition. Next, they had to find the Squeak Clan's lair and open an unimpeded route for Kurzadh's main force.
In the dark tunnel, the torchlight burned silently.