The night, like a thick sheet of black velvet, completely enveloped Vireport, the main city of Prince Patton's Fiefdom.
A waning moon hid behind the clouds, leaking only a few pale wisps of light, barely outlining the city's majestic silhouette.
The greenish-black megalithic city walls stretched for dozens of miles like a giant beast lying in wait. The walls were covered in grooves left by time and war, and the battlements stood tall, resembling bone spurs raised on the back of the massive creature, radiating an icy chill.
Mist drifted in from the direction of the sea, carrying the salty, damp sea breeze, wrapping around the city walls and adding a layer of eeriness and obscurity to the Gothic-style city.
Inside the city, narrow alleys crisscrossed like a spiderweb, winding and twisting, confusing like a maze.
The wooden and stone houses on both sides mostly leaned precariously, looking as if they might collapse at any moment. The wooden beams were long since rotten, covered in moss and vines.
The windows of the houses were long, narrow, and dim, occasionally revealing faint dots of candlelight that were quickly swallowed by the mist.
Sewage flowed down the gutters on both sides of the alleys, emitting a strong sour odor that mixed with the saltiness carried by the sea breeze, creating a nauseating stench that lingered heavily in the narrow space.
Pedestrians were nowhere to be found on the streets; only the footsteps of the patrol guards echoed in the silence.
They wore shining iron armor, carried spears and shields, and had longswords hanging from their waists, their steps uniform and heavy.
The commanding officer had sharp eyes, vigilantly scanning every corner of the alley, occasionally uttering low shouts to remind his subordinates to remain alert.
The recent frequent harassment by the greenskins had plunged the entire Vireport into tension, making the night patrols stricter than ever before.
However, they did not notice that above their heads, within the shadows of the houses, black figures were moving like ghosts.
These figures were all cloaked in large black hoods, wrapping their entire bodies tightly, revealing only pairs of eyes that shone with a faint green light.
Their movements were extremely light; they made no sound stepping on the rotten beams, and they crossed the narrow alleys as easily as walking on level ground, seemingly blending into the night.
They sometimes crouched behind roof tiles, sometimes pressed close to the shadows of the walls, skillfully avoiding the patrol guards' sight, like a group of hunters lurking in the dark, searching for traces of prey.
One of the figures was exceptionally agile. His movements were more concealed than his companions', and his eyes were even colder and sharper.
He was Kress, the leader of the Vile Stalkers, the Blackrock Clan's top scout, and the only night hobgoblins who could directly interface with Chief Kurzadh.
He was fully in charge of this mission to infiltrate Vireport.
Kress raised his hand to signal, and the dozens of black figures behind him immediately stopped moving, silently gathering in a secluded alley.
This alley was extremely narrow, the houses on either side nearly touching, completely blocking out the moonlight. Only a few faint rays of light leaked through the gaps between the houses, barely illuminating the debris and sewage on the ground.
"Take off your hoods," Kress' voice was low and hoarse, like the sound of dry leaves rubbing together; only his companions nearby could hear clearly.
The black figures successively removed their hoods, revealing deep green faces
they were all night hobgoblins, the most elite Vile Stalkers of the Blackrock Clan.
Unlike ordinary night hobgoblins, their faces were not painted with fierce war paint; instead, they were remarkably clean, their eyes alone revealing a deep-seated cunning and cruelty.
Each of them wore custom-made, fine leather armor. The armor was tanned from tough wild boar hide and coated with a layer of black paint, which was both waterproof and provided concealment in the dark.
Each individual had a sharp scimitar hanging from his waist; the blade was narrow, the edge gleamed with a cold light, and the hilt was wrapped in non-slip animal hide. On their backs, they carried a small leather pouch containing various concealed weapons
poison-coated darts, sharp throwing stars, smoke bombs, and even fine wires for lock picking.
This gear was crafted from the Blackrock Clan's highest quality materials and meticulously processed by hobgoblin Tinkerers, making them perfect tools for assassination and infiltration.
Kress's gaze swept over every subordinate, his expression cold and serious: "Remember, our mission is to fully ascertain the details of Vireport, not to kill people. Without my command, no one is permitted to expose their presence. Understand?"
"Understood!" the night hobgoblins replied in unison, their voices extremely low, almost inaudible.
"Very well," Kress nodded, pulling a crude animal hide map from his waist pouch and spreading it on the ground.
Pointing at the map with his finger, he began to assign tasks: "You, you, and you, are responsible for drawing a detailed map of the entire city, especially the distribution of streets, alleys, warehouses, and residential areas. There must be no omissions."
The three night hobgoblins whose names were called immediately nodded, their eyes resolute.
They were the tribe's most skilled cartography scouts, capable of drawing accurate maps in the shortest time based on memory and observation.
"The four of you, infiltrate the central Lord's Castle," Kress's finger pointed to the castle icon in the center of the map. "Focus on investigating the castle's defensive layout, the guard shift changes, the location of the Lord's study and bedroom, and whether there are any secret passages. Remember, the castle is heavily guarded. If exposed, retreat immediately. Do not engage in prolonged fighting."
The eyes of the four night hobgoblins narrowed, and they nodded solemnly.
Infiltrating the Lord's Castle was the most dangerous part of this mission, but they showed no fear, for the Vile Stalkers, the more perilous the mission, the better it reflected their value.
"The rest of you will split into two groups. One group is responsible for surveying the city defenses, including the height and thickness of the walls, the location of the firing slits, the structure of the city gates, and the guard situation. The other group is responsible for gathering intelligence on the troop deployment within the city, especially the routes and numbers of the patrol teams," Kress' voice remained low.
"All information must be gathered and we will meet at the ruins outside the city before dawn tomorrow. If anyone fails to arrive on time, it means he has been exposed. No one is allowed to attempt a rescue; immediately take the intelligence back to Stonewatch. Understand?"
"Understood!" all the night hobgoblins replied in unison, without a trace of hesitation in their eyes.
They all knew that infiltration missions allowed no room for emotional decisions; once someone was exposed, a rescue attempt would only lead to more sacrifices and potentially cause the entire mission to fail.
Kress nodded with satisfaction, just as he was about to give the order to depart, when he suddenly heard a burst of messy footsteps and muffled shouting coming from the alley entrance.
"Drink! Drink more! I can still drink!"
"Stop drinking... we should go back... otherwise... otherwise the guards will get suspicious..."
"Suspicious of what? I'm a meritorious servant of Prince Patton's Fiefdom... what's wrong with having a few drinks?"
Several figures stumbled into the alley entrance. They were dressed in worn clothes, reeked strongly of alcohol, and were unsteady on their feet, swaying back and forth.
Clearly, these were drunken commoners who had accidentally wandered into this secluded alley.
Kress' eyes instantly turned cold. He raised his hand to signal his subordinates to stay put, silently pressed his body against the shadow of the wall, and simultaneously drew the scimitar from his waist, his fingertip resting lightly on the hilt, ready to strike at any moment.
The other night hobgoblins reacted immediately, quickly concealing themselves in the shadows on both sides of the alley or climbing onto the nearby low walls, revealing only their vigilant eyes fixed on the drunkards.
The drunkards stumbled into the alley, still babbling nonsense, completely unaware of the murderous intent lurking in the darkness.
One of the drunkards raised his head, vaguely scanned the alley, and muttered, "Huh? Why... why is no one here? Just now... I clearly saw shadows..."
Another drunkard shoved him, slurring, "You... you drank too much... you're seeing things... there are no shadows... hurry up... let's go home and sleep..."
The drunkards supported each other, staggering through the alley and heading toward the other end.
Their footsteps and shouting gradually faded away, finally disappearing into the night.
Only after the drunkards had completely left did Kress slowly loosen his grip on the scimitar hilt, his eyes still wary.
He listened intently for a moment, and after confirming there was no other movement, he made a gesture to his subordinates to depart.
The night hobgoblins on the rooftops immediately sprang into action. They put on their hoods, and their figures flashed, disappearing into the shadows of the houses.
Some moved quickly along the rooftops, heading toward various parts of the city; others slid down the walls like geckos, slipping into the narrow alleys; and still others crept toward the central Lord's Castle, their figures as swift as the wind.
Kress took one last look at the alley entrance, confirmed that no traces had been left behind, put on his hood, and leaped, scrambling onto the adjacent rooftop.
He crouched on the tiles, like a black statue, overlooking the sleeping city below.
His faint green gaze swept over the winding alleys, the patrolling guards, and the distant majestic castle, his eyes revealing cold killing intent and firm resolve.
"What a rotten city," Kress murmured to himself, then moved, vanishing into the vast night.
The night in Vireport remained silent, the mist still clung to the city walls, and the footsteps of the patrol guards continued to echo on the streets.
But no one knew that a group of deadly specters had already infiltrated the city. Like venomous snakes in the darkness, they were silently probing every weakness of their prey, waiting for the moment to strike the fatal blow.
On the outskirts of Prince Patton's Fiefdom, a continuous mountain range lay like a sleeping giant dragon, stretching between the Forest of Gloom and Vireport.
The mountains were composed of dark, greenish-black boulders, their surfaces covered in weathered ravines, and sparse shrubs stubbornly rooted in the crevices, outlining ferocious silhouettes in the night.
No one would have guessed that fifty meters beneath this mountain range, a wide passage was constantly extending, and in the darkness, a raging green tide was rapidly surging along the tunnel.
The passage had been excavated overnight by skaven, and the walls still bore fresh soil and gravel, with thick logs supporting the ceiling to prevent collapse.
Torches were planted every hundred meters along the sides of the passage, their dim red flames flickering erratically, illuminating the ferocious faces of the greenskins .
The air was filled with the earthy smell of soil, the sweat of the greenskins , and the musky odor of beast hides, combining into a unique scent that surged back and forth within the confined tunnel.
Kurzadh walked at the very front of the column, wearing heavy black iron armor inlaid with warpstone fragments, and carrying the blood-soaked great axe on his shoulder; every step he took was solid and powerful, leaving deep footprints on the ground.
His gaze was sharp as a knife as he scanned the passage ahead, a sneer curling at the corner of his mouth—this was the "Darkness under the lamp" tactic he had meticulously planned.
"That old bastard George must have sent plenty of scouts to watch the surface," Kurzadh muttered to himself, with Glen and Bone Tree quickly following behind. "He thinks we greenskins are stupid enough to march on the surface and wait to be spotted by his men? I'm going to do the opposite, burrowing through the ground to catch him completely off guard!"
Glen grinned, exposing his sharp tusks: "Boss is Gazlowe! Once we break out onto the surface, we'll charge straight into Vireport and chop those human scum to pieces!"
"What's the rush?" Kurzadh patted his shoulder. "First, we take the outer town, cut off Vireport's external support, and then we deal with them slowly!"
This greenskin army was massive, numbering a full two thousand, representing the elite forces the Blackrock Clan could currently mobilize.
The army was composed of various troop types, clearly structured yet imbued with the characteristic savagery of the greenskins :
At the very front were one hundred and fifty orc nob; they were burly and heavily muscled, wearing thick heavy armor, wielding door-sized great axes or spiked Warhammers, acting like a moving steel wall responsible for clearing the path and breaking through defenses.
Behind the orc nob were eight hundred Orc Boyz; they wore iron armor and wielded axes inlaid with warpstone, their eyes fierce and their breathing heavy, forming the main force for charges.
On the flanks were three hundred hobgoblin archers and three hundred hobgoblin spearmen; the archers carried quivers filled with poisoned arrows, and the spearmen held sharpened long spears, vigilantly watching the sides of the passage to prevent collapse or ambush in the tunnels dug by the skaven.
At the rear of the column were two hundred hobgoblin laborers and twenty hobgoblin Tinkerers; they pushed goblin carts loaded with weapons, ammunition, and small amounts of food , responsible for logistics and temporary repairs to the passage.
Although the entire marching column looked somewhat chaotic—the Orc Boyz occasionally shoved and wrestled with each other, the hobgoblins chattered noisily, and the goblins trembled in fear, daring not to make too much noise—overall, the marching order was relatively organized.
Under Kurzadh's stern reprimands and the supervision of Glen and Bone Tree, the column consistently maintained a tight formation, rapidly advancing toward the predetermined target.
"Hurry up, all of you! Are you dragging your feet waiting to drink human foot-washing water?" Kurzadh roared back, and the Orc Boyz immediately quickened their pace, while even the goblins pushed the carts with all their might, not daring to slack off in the slightest.
The footsteps of the greenskins , the clashing of weapons, and crude curses echoed in the passage, forming a dull roar, as if a giant beast was awakening beneath the earth.
The skaven had long been sent ahead to scout the route; they shuttled through the depths of the tunnel like ghosts, ensuring the path was clear and marking the locations of the exits leading to the surface.
Meanwhile, three hundred miles away from Vireport, in Ravenholt, the night was deep.
This small town sat at the junction of the mountains and the plains, serving as an important relay station on the outskirts of Prince Patton's Fiefdom, where passing caravans and travelers would rest.
The town was not large, possessing only a few main streets, and the houses were mostly wooden structures arranged haphazardly.
In the "Drunken Wolf Tavern" at the center of the town, the lights were bright and the place was bustling with noise.
Smoke filled the tavern, and the air was thick with the combined smell of alcohol, roasted meat, and sweat.
Rough wooden tables were filled with merchants, travelers, guards, and local commoners, who were laughing loudly, raising their glasses, and enjoying the nighttime commotion.
At a table in the corner, Allans was drinking alone.
He wore a set of fine steel armor, polished until it gleamed, and a sharp longsword hung at his waist, its scabbard inlaid with small gems, highlighting his status.
Allans was an experienced swordsman who spent years traveling the borders of Prince Patton's Fiefdom, earning a living by hunting monsters and escorting caravans, giving him some renown in Ravenholt.
"Hey, Allans, tell us again the story of how you slew the Ogre!" several guards at the next table shouted, their faces filled with admiration.
Allans put down his wine glass, a triumphant smile on his face, and reached back to pat a huge beast hide hanging behind him—it was the gray-brown skin of an Ogre, still bearing ferocious claw marks and dried bloodstains.
"That Ogre, let me tell you, was truly ferocious! He was a full three meters tall, and one swing of the spiked club he held could smash down a large tree!"
He boasted spiritedly, vividly describing how he maneuvered around the Ogre, how he used his superb swordsmanship to evade the Ogre's attacks, and finally pierced the Ogre's heart with a single thrust.
The people around him listened with rapt attention, occasionally gasping in amazement, and some raised their glasses to toast him.
"That's right! Lord Allans is the greatest swordsman in our Ravenholt!" a young guard said with a face full of admiration; moments ago he had been boasting to those beside him about his bravery on patrol, but now he was completely captivated by Allans' story.
Allans smiled smugly, just about to take another drink, when he suddenly felt a slight tremor coming from the ground beneath his feet.
"Hmm?" He frowned, thinking it was an illusion caused by too much drinking.
But the tremor grew stronger and stronger; wine glasses on the tables began to shake, spilling their contents; the torches on the walls flickered violently, casting chaotic shadows; and dust from the ceiling rained down onto people's heads and shoulders.
"What's going on? An earthquake?" The people in the tavern stopped what they were doing, expressions of panic on their faces. Some stood up trying to flee, while others gripped the tables tightly, attempting to steady themselves.
"This is bad! Something's happening outside!" A guard shouted, rushing out of the tavern first.
Allans ran out after him, and just as he stepped out the tavern door, he saw a cluster of houses in the distance suddenly shake violently, followed by a tremendous "Boom," and the entire row of buildings collapsed, sending up clouds of dust.
Amidst the spreading dust, a massive pit appeared where the houses had collapsed; the soil on the pit's edge continued to slide down, making a rustling sound.
"What is that?" someone shouted in terror.
Allans widened his eyes, staring blankly at the huge pit.
He had traveled all over the borders of Prince Patton's Fiefdom, but had never witnessed such a bizarre sight—the ground suddenly collapsing to form a massive hole, which clearly wasn't caused by an earthquake.
Just as everyone was terrified and debating the cause, a muffled roar suddenly came from the depths of the huge pit, immediately followed by countless green figures pouring out of the hole, spreading like a tide toward all parts of the town.
These figures were the greenskins of the Blackrock Clan! They wore gleaming armor, wielded sharp weapons, their eyes fierce, and cruel smiles on their faces.
"Waaagh!"
The orc nob took the lead, swinging their great axes and smashing the roadside wooden palisades to splinters; the Orc Boyz roared as they rushed into the streets, hacking at anyone they saw; meanwhile, the hobgoblin archers quickly climbed onto rooftops, drawing their bows and aiming at the panicked humans.
"Greenskins ! It's greenskins !" someone recognized the unwelcome guests and let out a scream of despair.
Allans' mind went blank; he couldn't fathom how the greenskins had suddenly emerged from underground. Weren't they supposed to be in the Forest of Gloom? How could they appear in Ravenholt?
In the chaos, a strong Orc Boyz charged toward the tavern, running right into the young guard who had just been chatting with Allans.
The guard's face turned pale with fear, and in his panic, he drew the longsword from his waist, intending to resist.
But his movements were as slow as a snail in the Orc Boyz's eyes; the Orc Boyz grinned, brought his axe down, instantly shattering the guard's longsword, and then followed through with another swing, cleaving the guard's head off.
Blood spurted out, splashing across the ground, and the headless corpse crashed down.
The surrounding people were scared out of their wits, turning and fleeing; the sounds of crying and screaming echoed throughout the entire town.
"Stop right there, all of you!" a hobgoblin climbed onto a nearby dirt mound, holding a small greenskin battle standard, and shouted in rough but clear Common Tongue, "Drop your weapons! Squat down and surrender! No killing!"
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly through the chaotic town.
Some of the slower humans heard this, hesitated, and then threw down their weapons, squatting on the ground with their hands clasped over their heads, their faces full of fear and despair.
Allans watched everything unfolding before him, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He knew resistance was futile—these greenskins were too numerous and individually too fierce; the town guards were no match for them.
But the pride in his bones prevented him from surrendering like the others; he tightened his grip on the longsword at his waist, his eyes filled with struggle and defiance.
Greenskins continued to pour out of the huge pit, and the town's defenses instantly collapsed.
Flames began to ignite across the town, houses were set alight by the greenskins , and thick smoke billowed, obscuring the sky.
The screams of humans, the roars of greenskins , the sharp clang of weapons, and the crackling of burning houses intertwined, forming a tragic symphony.
Kurzadh, riding Furball, slowly emerged from the huge pit, looking down at the chaotic town with a satisfied smile.
His "Darkness under the lamp" tactic had succeeded! The greenskin army had passed through the mountains without a trace, appearing in Ravenholt and catching the humans completely unprepared.
"Glen, take the Boyz and clear the town. Those who resist will be executed without mercy!" Kurzadh ordered.
"Yes, boss!" Glen brandished his great axe and roared as he charged toward the center of the town; the greenskins behind him quickly followed suit, and a bloody purge was about to begin.
Inside the study, George Patton, sitting behind a mahogany desk, violently slammed the dispatch he was holding onto the floor. His luxurious silk robe trembled violently with his anger, his face contorted into a hideous expression, and blazing rage burned in his eyes, as if he wanted to devour the generals standing before him.
"A bunch of trash! All of you are useless trash!" George's roar made the study windows rattle, and spittle flew everywhere. "The greenskins have reached our doorstep! Ravenholt has been occupied! And none of you noticed anything! What use is it for me to keep feeding a bunch of good-for-nothings like you?!"
More than a dozen generals stood in the study. They wore neat armor, kept their heads bowed, and dared not breathe loudly.
Some generals were pale-faced, clenching their fists tightly; others showed shame, their eyes darting away, afraid to meet George's gaze.
They were all elite generals of Prince Patton's Fiefdom, usually high-spirited, but now they resembled children who had made a mistake, enduring the Lord's wrath.
"Lord, your subordinate has already strengthened border patrols, but the greenskins appeared from who knows where and actually bypassed our defenses..." An elderly general couldn't help but offer an explanation. He was the commander in charge of border defense, and his face was full of helplessness.
"Bypassed the defenses?" George sneered, stepping forward and kicking a nearby chair, which crashed to the floor with a grating noise. "I think you simply didn't take the greenskins seriously! I warned you long ago that the greenskins are extremely cunning and you needed to heighten your vigilance! But what did you do? In one ear and out the other! Now look! Ravenholt is lost. Is Vireport next to be lost?!"
The elderly general was rendered speechless by the dressing-down. He could only lower his head, his face filled with humiliation.
Seeing this, the other generals swallowed the explanations they had intended to give—they knew that George was currently furious, and any explanation would be futile, only inviting more severe reprimands.
"And you!" George's gaze swept over the generals in charge of intelligence. "Did I hire so many spies and scouts just to feed them? The greenskins mobilized an army of two thousand and tunneled their way to Ravenholt, yet your intelligence network didn't catch a single whiff of it! I think you might as well go home and farm!"
The general responsible for intelligence was deathly pale, his body trembling slightly, and he repeatedly muttered, "Your subordinate failed his duty! Your subordinate failed his duty!"
George vented his anger for a long time, his chest heaving violently, and his breathing becoming heavy.
He knew this was not the time for temper tantrums. The immediate priority was to recapture Ravenholt and prevent the greenskins from expanding further.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The anger in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by icy killing intent and resolve.
"Kazrelbat!" George called out in a deep voice.
A tall, stern-faced general immediately stepped forward and knelt on one knee: "Your subordinate is present!"
Kazrelbat was George's most capable general and the commander of the cavalry unit in Prince Patton's Fiefdom.
He was skilled in martial arts, brave in battle, and possessed excellent command abilities, earning George's deep trust.
"I order you to lead eight hundred elite cavalry and depart immediately, ensuring the recapture of Ravenholt within three days!" George's voice was cold and firm. "The greenskins have just occupied the town and have not yet established a firm foothold—this is the best time for a counterattack! I don't care what methods you use, you must kill all those greenskins and take back Ravenholt!"
"Your subordinate obeys!" Kazrelbat responded in a deep voice, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. "Please rest assured, Lord, your subordinate will not fail in this task and will bring the heads of the greenskins back to Vireport!"
"Very good." George nodded. "Remember, the greenskins are cunning and ferocious. Do not underestimate them. If you encounter stubborn resistance, do not engage in prolonged fighting. Send someone back immediately to report, and I will dispatch reinforcements to support you."
"Your subordinate understands!"
"The rest of you, heed my command!" George's gaze swept over the remaining generals. "Immediately issue orders to reinforce the defenses of all villages and towns within the fiefdom, increase patrol teams, and closely monitor the movements of the greenskins! Especially the vital routes leading to Vireport, which must be heavily guarded. We absolutely cannot allow the greenskins to spread to other areas, do you understand?"
"Your subordinates understand!" The generals responded in unison, their voices loud, as if trying to vent all the humiliation they had just suffered.
"You may all leave! Execute the orders immediately!" George waved his hand, a look of exhaustion appearing on his face.
The generals bowed and retreated one after another, and silence finally returned to the study.
George walked to the window, looking at the distant sky, his gaze profound.
He knew that this war against the greenskins was now inevitable.
The loss of Ravenholt was only the beginning; what followed would be a bloody battle.
"Kurzadh... Blackrock Clan..." George muttered to himself, his tone filled with icy killing intent. "I will make you pay the price for your actions!"
At the same time, Ravenholt had completely fallen under the control of the Blackrock Clan.
On the streets of the small town, the greenskins were methodically securing the area.
orc nob stood at the street intersections like iron towers, their eyes fiercely scanning the surroundings; Orc Boyz were divided into small teams, moving through the various alleys, checking for any resistors; hobgoblin archers occupied the high ground of the town, vigilantly watching the distance to prevent the sudden arrival of reinforcements from Prince Patton's Fiefdom.
Unlike the usual burning, killing, and looting that followed a greenskin occupation of a town, this time, under Kurzadh's strict orders, the greenskins did not indiscriminately slaughter the innocent.
Except for a few stubborn guards who were immediately cut down, most townspeople obediently stayed inside their houses and made no rash moves.
Kurzadh stood in the town center square, surrounded by Glen, Bone Tree, and Kress.
He wore heavy black iron armor, carried a massive axe on his shoulder, and looked at the town before him with icy eyes.
"Boss, these humans are all behaving themselves inside their houses. Should we capture them all and turn them into slaves?" Glen licked his lips, a greedy glint flashing in his eyes.
In his view, these humans were potential slaves who could create considerable value for the tribe.
"No rush." Kurzadh shook his head. "Capturing slaves now will only cause panic, which is detrimental to our control of the town. Tell the brothers not to harass the townspeople, not to steal their belongings, and to let them stay quietly in their houses."
"Then what do we eat? What do we drink?" A single orc Boy asked, confused.
"Take a small amount of grain from the town's granary and distribute it to the townspeople," Kurzadh said. "Tell them that as long as they obey and do not resist, they will have food . If they dare to resist, execute them on the spot!"
This was Kurzadh's strategy—the carrot and the stick.
First, use force to suppress resistors, then use a small amount of food to pacify the populace, making them both fearful and grateful, thus ensuring their obedience.
In any case, these humans were not very useful to him, and taking them as slaves posed a potential risk. It was better to stabilize them first, gain some benefit, and then leave this place.
Soon, the greenskins began to act.
They opened the town's granary, took out a portion of the grain, and distributed it door-to-door.
Every family received a small bag of flour and a few pieces of hard, dry bread. Although the quantity was small, it was enough for them to barely sustain themselves for a few days.
"Take this! This is the food the boss gave you!" A hobgoblin handed the food to an old woman, speaking in stiff Common. "Stay honestly inside your house, do not go out, do not resist, or we will kill you!"
The old woman took the food , trembling with fear. She quickly nodded, turned, and rushed into her house, tightly locking the door.
The other townspeople were the same. They accepted the food , their faces filled with complex expressions—fear, gratitude, and a hint of bewilderment.
They had not expected that these greenskins , rumored to be monstrously cruel, had not killed them but instead distributed food .
Meanwhile, the corpses of the guards and townspeople who had resisted the greenskins were hung up by the greenskins at various intersections and rooftops throughout the town.
The bodies were twisted and deformed, and blood dripped down, pooling on the ground into black and red stains, emitting a strong smell of gore.
A young townsman wanted to sneak out of his house, but as soon as he reached the alley entrance, he saw the corpse hanging on the rooftop.
He was so terrified that his face turned white and his legs went weak. He quickly ran back into his house, never daring to come out again.
This sight was seen by other townspeople, deepening the fear in their hearts.
They knew that although the greenskins had given them food , they were certainly not benevolent. Any resistance would only lead to a gruesome death.
Under the dual effect of fear and pacification, the entire Ravenholt quickly became compliant.
The townspeople obediently stayed in their houses, daring not to move around freely or, even less, to resist.
On the streets, only the patrolling figures of the greenskins could be seen, and occasionally a few greenskin roars could be heard. Other than that, there was silence.
Kurzadh stood in the square, looking at the compliant small town before him, a satisfied smile appearing on his lips.
He knew his strategy had succeeded.
Controlling Ravenholt not only secured a stable stronghold but also cut off the link between Vireport and the surrounding villages, laying a solid foundation for the subsequent attack on Vireport.
"Kress." Kurzadh called out.
"Boss, your subordinate is present." Kress immediately stepped forward.
"Take a few Vile Stalkers and head immediately toward Vireport to investigate the movements of Kazrelbat's cavalry unit." Kurzadh's eyes sharpened. "Report back immediately once you find their traces!"
"Your subordinate understands!" Kress bowed in response, then turned and disappeared into the depths of the alley.
"Glen, Bone Tree."
"Present!" The two responded in unison.
"Immediately reinforce the town's defenses. Set up roadblocks at the entrance, dig trenches, and prepare to meet the human counterattack." Kurzadh ordered. "I estimate George will send reinforcements very soon. We must be prepared to give them a surprise!"
"Understood! boss!" Glen and Bone Tree responded excitedly, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
They had been itching for a fight and were waiting for the human reinforcements to arrive so they could fight a satisfying battle.
The greenskins immediately got to work. They tore down roadside houses and used thick logs and stones to build roadblocks; they dug deep trenches at the town entrance, filling them with sharp spikes; and the hobgoblin archers occupied the high ground of the town, nocking arrows and standing ready for battle.
The atmosphere in Ravenholt gradually became heavy.
A new bloody battle was silently brewing.
Kurzadh stood on the high platform in the town center, gazing down at the busy greenskins and the silent houses below, his eyes profound.
Allans huddled in an abandoned woodshed outside the town, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat dripping down his forehead, soaking the front of his shirt.
He had been hiding there for a full hour. From the moment the greenskins broke through the town, he knew that staying in town meant certain death.
As a swordsman who prided himself on his honor, he could not kneel and surrender like other townsfolk, but facing the surging tide of greenskins , his resistance seemed so pale and powerless.
In the end, he could only choose to lie low temporarily, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
At this moment, the crude curses of a greenskin patrol could be heard from the direction of the town entrance, mixed with the crisp clang of weapons.
Allans held his breath, carefully observing the movements outside through the cracks in the dilapidated wooden boards of the woodshed.
Under the moonlight, several Orc Boyz were brandishing their battle axes, pacing back and forth at the town entrance, their eyes fiercely scanning the surroundings, like a group of wary beasts.
"I must leave here as soon as possible and deliver the message to the Lord!" Allans muttered to himself.
He knew that the fall of Ravenholt was just the beginning; the greenskins' target was far more than just this small town. If Vireport could not be notified in time to prepare, the consequences would be unimaginable.
He took a deep breath, gripped the longsword at his waist, and his eyes became resolute.
Taking advantage of a moment when an Orc Boyz turned around, he slipped out of the woodshed silently like a nimble civet cat, moving quickly towards the forest outside the town, hugging the shadows of the wall.
Along the way, he dared not relax for a moment, every step taken with extreme caution.
When he encountered a greenskin patrol, he immediately lay on the ground, held his breath, and cleverly avoided their sight with the cover of dense grass and the night.
Several times, the sound of greenskin footsteps echoed in his ears, and their heavy breathing seemed to be right above his head, making him stiffen all over, his heart almost leaping out of his chest.
Once, two Orc Boyz were patrolling along an alley, passing right by the patch of grass where he was hiding.
Allans tightly gripped his longsword, his fingertips white from the effort, ready to fight to the death if discovered.
Fortunately, the Orc Boyz did not search carefully, merely walked past grumbling, discussing the day's killing and looting, completely unaware of the human lurking in the grass.
After much effort, Allans passed through the outer defenses of the town and plunged into the forest outside the town without stopping.
The forest was pitch black, with branches intertwined, reaching towards the sky like ghostly claws.
He stumbled through the forest, his body scratched with bloody marks by branches, yet he was oblivious.
At this moment, he had only one thought—to reach Vireport as soon as possible.
The night gradually faded, and a hint of dawn appeared in the east.
After a night of desperate flight, Allans was utterly exhausted.
His lips were cracked, his throat felt like it was on fire, his legs were as heavy as lead, and every step was accompanied by intense pain.
He leaned against a large tree, panting heavily, took out his waterskin, and carefully took a sip of water to moisten his parched throat.
After a short rest, he got up again and continued towards Vireport.
The sun gradually rose, and golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled light and shadow on the ground.
Birdsong came from the forest, but Allans was in no mood to appreciate it; he knew that the greenskins could catch up at any time, and he had to hurry.
Thus, he walked for an entire morning.
At noon, the sun hung high in the sky, its scorching rays making the ground hot.
Allans' stamina was severely overdrawn, hallucinations began to appear before his eyes, and his steps became unsteady. Just as he was about to give up, a sudden rush of hooves came from afar.
"Hooves? It's human cavalry!" Allans' heart leaped with joy, and he instantly perked up.
He struggled to climb a small hill, looking towards the direction of the hoofbeats.
In the distance, on the main road, a cavalry troop was rapidly approaching.
The cavalrymen wore shining iron armor, carried long spears and shields, with longswords hanging at their waists, and their warhorses were tall and magnificent, moving at great speed.
The formation was uniform and magnificent, like a steel torrent, galloping towards Ravenholt.
"It's the cavalry of Prince Patton's Fiefdom! This is great!" Allans was so excited that tears welled up in his eyes. He struggled to slide down the hill and ran towards the cavalry troop, shouting as he ran, "Stop! Please wait!"
The cavalry troop quickly noticed him.
The leading general raised his hand, and the troop immediately halted.
Allans ran to the front of the cavalry troop, then could no longer support himself, his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground.
The leading general was Kazrelbat.
He rode a tall black warhorse, clad in heavy black armor with exquisite patterns carved on it, a huge longsword hanging at his waist, his face resolute, and his eyes sharp as blades.
He looked down at Allans, who was sprawled on the ground, his brows slightly furrowed, and asked in a cold tone, "Who are you? Why are you in such a sorry state here?"
Allans struggled to get up, saluted Kazrelbat, and said in a hoarse voice, "General, I am Allans, a swordsman from Ravenholt. Ravenholt... Ravenholt has been overrun by greenskins !"
"What?" Kazrelbat's eyes narrowed, and the cavalrymen behind him also showed surprised expressions.
"General, this is what happened..." Allans composed himself and recounted everything he had seen and heard in Ravenholt.
He began with the greenskins suddenly emerging from underground, then described how the greenskins broke through the town, how they slaughtered the resisting guards, how they used "carrots and sticks" to appease the townsfolk, and detailed the distribution of greenskins within the town—orc nob guarding the town center square and main intersections, Orc Boyz divided into small teams patrolling the streets, hobgoblin archers occupying the high ground of the town, and a small number of hobgoblin spearmen responsible for vigilance.
He also told Kazrelbat what he knew about the Blackrock Clan—the leader of this greenskin tribe was named Kurzadh, cunning and cruel, with fierce generals like Glen and Bone Tree under him, as well as a stealth unit composed of night hobgoblins, with a complete range of troop types and strong combat power. The greenskins attacking Ravenholt numbered as many as two thousand.
As Allans narrated, he observed Kazrelbat's expression.
He hoped his intelligence would be helpful to the cavalry troop, and he also hoped to use it to wash away the shame of his desertion.
Kazrelbat listened intently, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter.
Allans' account gave him a clearer understanding of this greenskin tribe.
He had not expected these greenskins to be so cunning, able to bypass the border defenses from underground and strike directly at Ravenholt; nor had he expected them to understand how to control the townsfolk through appeasement, rather than simply burning, killing, and looting.
When Allans finished speaking, Kazrelbat was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded: "I understand. Your intelligence is very useful."
Allans' heart leaped with joy, and he was about to open his mouth to request to join the cavalry troop and retake Ravenholt with them, but then he heard Kazrelbat's tone suddenly turn cold and disappointed: "But, Allans, as a swordsman, you bear honor and should have bravely fought the enemy on the battlefield to protect the townsfolk. But what about you? When the greenskins attacked the city, not only did you not fight to the death, but you fled in the face of battle. This is simply a disgrace to a swordsman!"
Kazrelbat's words were like a sharp dagger, piercing deeply into Allans' heart.
His face instantly turned pale, his lips trembled, wanting to explain something, but he couldn't utter a single word.
He knew Kazrelbat was right; fleeing in the face of battle was indeed a lifelong disgrace for him.
"A person like you is not worthy of holding a sword, much less being called a swordsman." Kazrelbat's eyes were full of disdain, "Now, get back to Vireport! Don't ever appear before me again!"
Allans' body trembled violently, and a mixture of shame, anger, and unwillingness intertwined, almost causing him to collapse.
He looked at Kazrelbat's cold eyes, at the scornful expressions on the cavalrymen's faces, unable to say a word, only clenching his fists tightly, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, drawing blood.
"Still not gone!" Kazrelbat snapped.
Allans suddenly looked up, gave Kazrelbat a deep look, then turned and walked towards Vireport.
His steps were unsteady, and his figure in the sunlight appeared particularly lonely and desolate.
He knew that this flight would become an indelible stain on his life.
Kazrelbat watched Allans' receding figure, his eyes cold, without a hint of sympathy.
He waved his hand and said to the cavalrymen behind him, "Brothers, speed up! Target Ravenholt! We must arrive before dark and give those greenskins a surprise!"
"Yes, General!" The cavalrymen responded in unison, their voices loud and full of fighting spirit.
Kazrelbat squeezed his horse's flanks, and the black warhorse neighed, leading the charge towards Ravenholt.
The cavalrymen followed closely behind, and the sound of hooves echoed again, like thunder across the land.
A steel torrent, rushing rapidly towards Ravenholt, which had just been occupied by the greenskins .
On the streets of Ravenholt, the roars of the hobgoblins, the sounds of wood being chopped, and earth and Kurzadh being moved intertwined, forming a fervent and chaotic battle song.
Glen, wielding a giant axe like a door, patrolled the town like a moving iron tower, his rough voice making the surrounding houses tremble slightly: "Hurry up, all of you! The human cavalry will be here soon! If anyone hasn't set up their defenses, I'll chop him in half with my axe!"
As one of the Blackrock Clan's most valiant orc nob, Glen had the nickname "Watchdog" – this was not derogatory, but rather the ultimate recognition of his defensive capabilities.
In all of the Blackrock Clan's battles, as long as he defended a line, no human or ratman could easily break through.
At this moment, he was leading two thousand hobgoblins, with the core strategy of "utilizing existing facilities, rapid construction, and layered interception," frantically reinforcing Ravenholt's defenses, aiming to turn it into a death trap from which human cavalry would never return.
"The boss said we're using this broken town as bait to lure all the human scum here!" Glen kicked away a piece of rubble blocking his path and roared at the Orc Boyz who were digging trenches, "Put some effort into it! Dig deeper! Make sure if the human warhorses fall in, they won't be able to climb out!"
Although hobgoblins were naturally undisciplined, under Glen's high-pressure supervision and their fervent anticipation of battle, each one was full of vigor.
They followed Kurzadh's strategy, prioritizing the use of Ravenholt's original crude walls and gates, and then, combining with the terrain, quickly constructed a three-layered, tight defensive system using easily accessible, low-cost materials like wood and earth.
Never think that hobgoblins are just a bunch of brainless fools who only charge; as long as they can win, hobgoblins will be much more eager to learn than you imagine.
Within one to three li outside the town, hobgoblins were busy building watchtowers and signal pyres.
The watchtowers were constructed from thick logs, over ten meters high, with simple platforms at the top, where several hobgoblin archers were perched, vigilantly watching the direction of Vireport.
Every li, there was a signal pyre, piled high with dry kindling and sulfur. Once enemy troops were spotted, the pyre would be lit immediately to warn the hobgoblins inside the town.
"Build the watchtowers higher! Let those little hobgoblins see further!" Glen pointed at a watchtower being built and roared at the responsible Orc Boyz.
The Orc Boyz quickly responded, carrying thicker logs to climb up and securing the tower body more firmly with vines and rubble.
Between the watchtowers and signal pyres, hobgoblins dug deep anti-cavalry ditches.
The ditches were three meters wide and two meters deep, their bottoms filled with sharpened logs and rubble, with sharp wooden spikes pointing upwards, gleaming with a chilling light.
Both sides of the anti-cavalry ditches were also covered with deer antler palisades – these antlers were taken from beasts hunted by hobgoblins in the forest, sharp and hard, densely arranged, like dormant beasts waiting to pierce the hooves of human warhorses.
"Arrange the antlers more densely! Don't let the human cavalry easily bypass them!" Glen squatted by the anti-cavalry ditch, pointing with his giant axe at the gaps in the palisade, "Here, and here, fill them all in!"
The Orc Boyz immediately sprang into action, sticking antlers into the ground and securing them with rubble.
The sunlight spilled onto the sharp antlers, reflecting a cold gleam that sent shivers down one's spine.
After completing the early warning and impeding facilities outside the town, the hobgoblins shifted their focus to reinforcing the town gates and walls.
Ravenholt's original walls were only a little over two meters high, built from earth and wood, with weak defensive capabilities.
Glen ordered the demolition of abandoned houses within the town, using the salvaged bricks and logs to thicken the walls, raising their height to four meters, and plastering the outer surface of the walls with a mixture of mud and rubble to make them sturdier.
At the town gates, hobgoblins installed heavy wooden doors, inlaid with large iron plates to prevent them from being easily rammed open by cavalry.
Outside the town gates, a simple drawbridge was constructed, normally kept raised and only lowered when hobgoblin patrol teams entered or exited.
On top of the walls, rolling stone chutes were dug every five meters, filled with huge stones and burning fireballs. Once enemy troops approached the walls, the rolling stones and fireballs would be pushed down, inflicting heavy damage on the enemy.
"Pile the rolling stones high! Keep the fireballs ready at all times!" Glen stood on top of the wall, looking down at the busy hobgoblins, and nodded with satisfaction.
He wielded his giant axe, smashing a loose brick, "Anyone who dares to slack off, I'll let him taste being flattened by a rolling stone!"
Inside the walls, hobgoblins constructed barricades from logs and bricks.
The barricades were two meters high, with firing holes, allowing hobgoblin archers and spearmen to hide behind them and shoot at enemy troops who breached the gates.
Narrow passages were left between the barricades, just wide enough for a single hobgoblin to pass, which both facilitated hobgoblin movement and effectively blocked human cavalry charges.
"Don't leave the passages between the barricades too wide! Prevent human cavalry from charging in!" Glen shouted at the hobgoblins building the barricades, "Dig the firing holes wider! So the archers can see clearly!"
The hobgoblins quickly responded, using tools to widen the firing holes and simultaneously reinforcing the barricades more firmly.
On the barricades hung the bodies of human guards who had previously resisted the hobgoblins. The bodies swayed in the wind, emitting a strong smell of blood, serving as both a deterrent to humans and an encouragement to hobgoblins.
After completing the defenses of the town gates and walls, the hobgoblins began constructing the core stronghold within the town.
Glen chose a tall stone building in the town center – originally Ravenholt's Town Hall, and also the most robust building in the small town.
The hobgoblins demolished all the houses around the Town Hall, clearing an open space, and used the salvaged bricks and logs to build a circular defensive wall around the Town Hall, which was covered with firing holes and lookout points.
Inside the Town Hall, hobgoblins stockpiled large quantities of supplies – grain and drinking water plundered from the townspeople's granaries, as well as weapons, ammunition, and Molotov cocktails crafted by hobgoblin Tinkerers.
The basement was converted into a temporary medical station, and although it only had some crude bandages and herbs, for hobgoblins, it was enough to deal with battle casualties.
"The core stronghold must be held firm! This is our last line of defense!" Glen walked into the Town Hall, looking at the mountains of supplies, and said to the orc nob responsible for guarding, "Anyone who lets the humans break through here, I'll throw him to the squig as food !"
The orc nob responded in unison, their eyes fierce, gripping their weapons tightly.
They knew that the core stronghold was the key to the entire defensive system; once it was breached, all their efforts would be in vain.
After a full day of busy work, Ravenholt's three-layered defensive system was finally completed.
The watchtowers and signal pyres outside the town stood like loyal sentinels, vigilantly watching the distance; the anti-cavalry ditches and deer antler palisades were like an insurmountable barrier, waiting to intercept enemy troops; the reinforcement of the town gates and walls made the town's outer defensive line impregnable.
The barricades and core stronghold within the town formed a progressively layered defensive network, ready to meet the enemy's assault at any time. The entire defensive system combined speed with practicality, perfectly embodying Kurzadh's tactical vision.
At this moment, Kurzadh stood on the roof of the Town Hall, overlooking the transformed Ravenholt below, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
He wore black iron heavy armor inlaid with warpstone fragments, carried a giant axe on his shoulder, and his eyes were deep, as if he could see through everything.
"Boss, the defenses are all set up! We're just waiting for the human scum to deliver themselves!" Glen climbed onto the roof, saying excitedly, "I guarantee, if they dare to come, they won't leave alive!"
"Very good." Kurzadh nodded, his gaze directed towards Vireport, "George will definitely send cavalry to retake Ravenholt, and they will come very quickly."
"Cavalry? Isn't that just suicide?" Glen grinned, revealing his sharp fangs, "Their warhorses are useless against the anti-cavalry ditches and deer antler palisades! Even if they break through the town gates and enter the town, street fighting will be their nightmare!"
"Exactly." A sharp glint flashed in Kurzadh's eyes, "Cavalry excels at open field charges; in narrow streets and complex urban warfare, their advantage will vanish. At that time, they will only be able to passively take hits, becoming our live targets."
He had long concluded that the enemy troops capable of reaching Ravenholt quickly would undoubtedly be cavalry.
Prince Patton's Fiefdom's infantry units were dispersed among various villages and small towns, unable to gather quickly, while cavalry, being fast and highly mobile, was the best choice for reinforcing Ravenholt.
But Kurzadh deliberately intended to exploit this weakness of the cavalry, luring them into Ravenholt's street fighting trap, and gradually depleting their effective strength.
"Boss, so we just wait for them to come now?" Glen asked, his eyes glinting with bloodlust.
"Not just waiting." Kurzadh shook his head, a cunning smile appearing on his lips, "I've already sent a large number of Orc Boyz to hide in the forest outside the town."
He paused, then continued: "When the human cavalry arrives, they will certainly immediately surround Ravenholt, trying to trap us here.
At that time, our brothers inside the town will hold the defenses, tying up their main force, and the Orc Boyz in the forest outside the town will launch an attack, catching them off guard from behind."
"Pincer attack!" Glen shouted excitedly, "Boss, you're too smart! This way, the human cavalry won't be able to escape!"
"Exactly." Kurzadh's eyes became cold and firm, "I want this cavalry unit to be the first sacrifice on the Blackrock Clan's path of expansion! As long as we devour them, Prince Patton's Fiefdom's strength will be greatly diminished. At that time, if we seize the opportunity to attack Vireport, we'll achieve twice the result with half the effort!"
He raised his hand and patted Glen's shoulder, his tone full of confidence: "Hold Ravenholt, tie up the enemy, and wait for our brothers outside the town to launch their attack. We must win this battle! And we must win beautifully!"
"Yes, boss!" Glen nodded vigorously, then turned and rushed off the roof to begin assigning defensive tasks.
At this moment, in the forest outside Ravenholt, hundreds of Orc Boyz were lurking in the dense undergrowth.
They wore armor, gripped warpstone-inlaid battle axes, their eyes fierce, breathing evenly, quietly awaiting Kurzadh's command.
They were like a pack of hungry wolves, lurking in the darkness, waiting for their prey to appear.
Inside the town, the hobgoblins were also ready for battle. Orc Boyz guarded behind the barricades, hobgoblin archers climbed onto rooftops and walls, and orc nob gathered around the core stronghold, ready to support various defensive lines at any moment.
The air was filled with tension, and the hobgoblins' eyes glinted with bloodlust, anticipating the arrival of the human cavalry.
The last hint of orange-red in the sky was swallowed by deep blue, with only a few sparse stars faintly visible behind the clouds, barely casting a faint light upon the earth.
The outline of Ravenholt became even more sinister in the night. The watchtowers outside the city stood like ghosts, and the cheval de frise and antler palisades gleamed with a chilling light in the dimness. The layers of defensive works resembled a gaping maw, waiting for prey to fall into its trap.
A sudden rush of hooves broke the twilight's silence.
Kazrelbat, leading eight hundred elite cavalry, galloped to an open area three li outside Ravenholt and abruptly reined in his horse.
The tall black warhorse let out a long neigh, its front hooves rearing, kicking up clouds of dust.
The cavalrymen stopped one after another, their uniform movements showcasing the excellence of this unit—they wore gleaming black heavy armor, the rivets on their armor sparkling in the night, their long spears pointed diagonally at the ground, and the golden lion emblem on their shields, though blurred by the dusk, still exuded the majesty of Prince Patton's Fiefdom.
Kazrelbat dismounted and strode to a high slope, his sharp gaze sweeping over Ravenholt's defensive system.
When he saw the scattered watchtowers and beacon piles one li outside the city, as well as the bottomless cheval de frise and dense antler palisades, his brows furrowed tightly, and he marveled to himself, "These greenskins actually possess such formidable defensive awareness and execution!"
He had campaigned for many years and seen countless defensive works of humans, orcs, and even dwarves, but he had never imagined that a group of greenskins, considered barbaric and foolish, could construct such a tight defensive system in such a short time.
The early warning facilities outside the city were layered progressively, the obstructing works interlocked, and the traces of reinforcement on the city gates and walls were clearly visible. One could even vaguely discern the outlines of barricades erected on the streets inside the city.
This was not a temporary defense by a disorganized mob, but clearly a meticulously planned military deployment, both practical and targeted!
"General, these greenskins' defenses are too solid. If we charge in recklessly, I'm afraid we'll suffer heavy losses!" a cavalry captain said to Kazrelbat, his tone grave.
He had followed Kazrelbat on campaigns for many years and knew well the cavalry's disadvantage against complex defensive works—the warhorses' mobility couldn't be fully utilized, the momentum of the charge would be consumed layer by layer, and they would ultimately become live targets for the enemy.
Kazrelbat slowly nodded, his mind already calculating.
His original plan was to set up camp and rest after reaching Ravenholt, send out scouts to thoroughly investigate the greenskins' defensive deployment and troop distribution, and then, at dawn, utilize the cavalry's speed advantage to find weak points in the defense for a breakthrough.
However, the sight before him forced him to re-evaluate this battle—the greenskins' defenses were airtight, especially the cheval de frise and antler palisades outside the city, which were the bane of cavalry. To attack rashly now would undoubtedly be courting death.
"Pass on my order: the entire army will set up camp on the spot. Send out ten scouts in four directions to investigate the details of the greenskins' defenses. Be sure to ascertain their troop deployment and weak points!" Kazrelbat ordered in a deep voice, his tone carrying an unquestionable authority.
"Yes, sir!" the cavalry captains responded in unison, just as they were about to turn to execute the order, a sharp, sarcastic voice came from behind them: "General Kazrelbat, why have you stopped? Have you seen the greenskins' defenses and become too scared to attack?"
Kazrelbat's face darkened, and he turned to look.
He saw a middle-aged man in a magnificent robe slowly approaching, surrounded by several guards.
His complexion was fair, and a hint of arrogance played at the corner of his mouth. This was Ram, the administrative officer sent by Lord George.
Ram was George's most trusted confidant. Relying on his flattery, he wielded immense power within Prince Patton's Fiefdom, often disregarding many generals in his daily life.
This time, he had volunteered to accompany the cavalry unit, ostensibly to "Supervise the battle," but in reality, he wanted to claim credit for retaking Ravenholt.
"Lord Ram," Kazrelbat suppressed his displeasure and said calmly, "The greenskins' defenses are exceptionally tight. It's late now, and a rash attack would be disadvantageous to our army. I plan to set up camp and rest first, investigate the enemy's situation thoroughly, and then formulate a detailed attack plan."
"Investigate? Rest?" Ram sneered, hands clasped behind his back, and paced in front of Kazrelbat. "General Kazrelbat, don't forget, Lord gave you the order to retake Ravenholt within three days! One day has already passed, and not only do you not attack immediately, but you want to rest? I think you're scared of those greenskins!"
"Lord Ram, battlefield situations change rapidly. How can one act rashly based solely on Lord's orders?" Kazrelbat's face grew increasingly grim. "The greenskins have constructed three layers of defense: outside the city, there are cheval de frise and antler palisades; inside the city, there are barricades and core strongholds. Cavalry cannot utilize their advantage in such terrain. If we force an attack, it will only lead to our soldiers' futile sacrifice!"
"Sacrifice? A soldier's duty is to obey orders!" Ram's voice suddenly rose, his eyes full of disdain. "Lord doesn't keep you cavalry to cower here! Ravenholt is just a small town, and the greenskins are just a bunch of barbaric riff-raff. With our eight hundred elite cavalry, can't we take it? I think you're just hesitant in your command, afraid of battle!"
Kazrelbat clenched his fists tightly, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.
He knew in his heart that Ram understood nothing about military affairs and only sought to claim credit.
To attack now would undoubtedly push the soldiers into the abyss of death, but Ram was Lord's confidant, and a single word from him could directly affect his future and fate.
"Lord Ram, please reconsider." Kazrelbat suppressed the anger in his heart and patiently explained, "It's dark now, and we know nothing about the greenskins' troop deployment. A blind attack will only lead us into their trap. It would be better to wait until dawn, ascertain the enemy's situation, then concentrate our forces to attack their weak points. This would both reduce casualties and allow us to retake the town smoothly. This is the prudent course of action."
"Prudent course of action? I think you're making excuses!" Ram was unmoved, the arrogance on his face growing more pronounced. "Kazrelbat, I'm telling you, you must attack immediately today!
Otherwise, I will immediately write to Lord to impeach you for hesitant command, fear of battle, and delaying a military opportunity! By then, your position as cavalry commander will likely be forfeit!"
These words were like a sharp knife, piercing Kazrelbat's weak spot.
He knew George's character: suspicious and volatile. Once Ram sowed discord in front of him, he would surely face severe punishment, perhaps even lose his life.
Over the years, he had climbed to his current position through illustrious military achievements, and he absolutely could not let it all go to waste because of Ram's obstruction.
"You're going too far!" a young cavalryman couldn't help but roar. "General is thinking about the safety of the entire army. What right do you, a civilian official who knows nothing about military affairs, have to point fingers here?"
"Exactly! Why should we die for your glory?" Other cavalrymen also chimed in, their eyes filled with anger. Many even clutched the longswords at their waists, ready to act if a disagreement arose. They respected Kazrelbat's character and military talent and had long been fed up with Ram's arrogance, which stemmed from borrowing Lord's prestige.
"Stop all of you!" Kazrelbat sharply commanded, stopping the enraged cavalrymen.
He knew that once they acted, things would be irreversible.
Ram was Lord's confidant; harming him would be tantamount to openly defying Lord's authority, and not only would he suffer, but the entire cavalry unit might be implicated.
The cavalrymen reluctantly lowered their hands, glaring fiercely at Ram, their eyes full of fury.
Ram, meanwhile, smirked triumphantly. He knew that Kazrelbat dared not defy his orders.
Kazrelbat took a deep breath, trying to calm the anger and helplessness in his heart.
He looked at the layered defensive works before him, then at Ram's arrogant face, his heart filled with frustration and unwillingness.
He knew he had no choice.
"Lord Ram, do you truly want me to attack now?" Kazrelbat's voice was low and hoarse, carrying a trace of imperceptible weariness.
"Of course!" Ram said without hesitation. "Order your men to attack immediately! I want to personally watch you break through Ravenholt and kill all those green-skin riff-raff!"
Kazrelbat was silent for a moment, his gaze complex as he swept over the cavalrymen behind him.
These were his brothers who had faced life and death with him; loyalty and courage were etched on every face.
But today, he was to push them into a battle with no chance of victory, all because of an absurd order.
He slowly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the hesitation and unwillingness in them had been replaced by determination.
He knew he had to obey the order, even if it was a path to death.
"Pass on my order!" Kazrelbat's voice echoed in the dusk, carrying a hint of solemnity. "All troops assemble, prepare to attack! Target: Ravenholt!"
Although the cavalrymen were filled with reluctance, military orders were absolute, and they could only respond in unison: "Yes, General!"
The sound of hooves rose again, and eight hundred elite cavalry formed a charging formation, slowly moving towards Ravenholt.
In the night, their armor gleamed with a cold light, like a procession heading to the execution ground.
Kazrelbat mounted his warhorse, his gaze complex as he looked at Ravenholt ahead.
He seemed to already see the scene of the cavalry falling into the greenskins' trap, fighting desperately but in vain, and his heart was filled with ominous premonitions.
Meanwhile, atop the walls of Ravenholt, Glen was peering through a loophole, watching the approaching cavalry force, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
He turned and shouted to the greenskins behind him: "The human riff-raff are here! All of you, perk up! Get the rolling stones and fireballs ready, and let them taste our might!"
The roars of the greenskins reverberated through the night sky, sounding particularly sinister in the silent twilight.
The night was like ink, spilled across every corner of Ravenholt.
Above the city walls, dozens of torches burned fiercely, their flickering light staining the dark blue stone walls crimson and illuminating the hideous faces of the greenskins, Kurzadh stood with his hands behind his back on the highest point of the wall; the black iron heavy armor he wore gleamed with a cold luster in the firelight, and the cape behind him flapped loudly in the night wind.
He narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing the darkness to land on the hesitant cavalry troop in the distance, a playful smile curling his lips.
"Boss, these human cavalrymen are dragging their feet. Are they too scared to come over?" Glen, shouldering his massive axe, strode up to Kurzadh and said gruffly.
The greenskins on the wall also poked their heads out, pointing and gesticulating at the distant cavalry, their eyes filled with disdain—in the eyes of the greenskins , an enemy afraid to charge was the most pathetic scum.
Kurzadh shook his head slightly, his fingers gently tapping the bricks of the city wall, his voice low and certain: "They dare not launch a night attack. Cavalry excels at charging across plains in daylight. In the darkness, visibility is poor, and our defensive works are layered. They can't gauge the situation, and rushing over rashly would be suicide."
Having fought for many years, he knew the tactics and habits of the human army like the back of his hand.
Kazrelbat, being able to become the cavalry commander, was certainly not a fool; he must be aware of the risks of a night raid.
The fact that the enemy was hesitating right now meant he was either weighing the pros and cons or waiting for some order.
"So what do we do now?" Glen scratched his head. "We can't just stand here watching them forever, can we? My axe is about to rust!"
"No rush." Kurzadh turned around and patted Glen on the shoulder. "If they don't dare to come, there's no need for us to stay here. Pass down the order: everyone except the sentries on duty should go back and rest. Get enough sleep so we can have a good time playing with them tomorrow morning."
"Got it!" Glen shouted excitedly in response, then turned and roared at the greenskins on the wall, "Boss' orders! Except for those on duty, everyone else scram back to sleep! Tomorrow morning, we'll chop up all these human scumbags!"
The greenskins roared their assent, dropped their weapons, and laughingly descended the wall, leaving only a small number of hobgoblin archers and orc sentries who lay behind the loopholes and battlements, vigilantly watching the distant cavalry troop.
Kurzadh took one last look at the cavalry still lingering in place, his smile deepening, and then turned to walk toward the Town Hall inside the town—he needed a good rest to conserve his strength for tomorrow's "Hunt."
But just as he stepped off the wall and was about to enter the gates of the Town Hall, a sentry suddenly shouted from the wall: "Boss! Bad news! The human cavalry is moving! They are charging toward the town!"
Kurzadh stopped dead, spun around abruptly, and rushed back toward the wall.
Under the torchlight, the distant cavalry troop was suddenly moving, rushing toward Ravenholt like a black torrent.
The sound of hooves shook the ground, piercing the silent night, and the shouts of the human soldiers could even be faintly heard.
"Hey, what's gotten into them?" Kurzadh watched the charging cavalry and couldn't help but laugh aloud, his eyes full of mockery. "Has this cavalry leader had his brain squeezed by a door? Daring to charge head-on in this darkness and on this terrain?"
Glen also widened his eyes, then burst into maniacal laughter: "Haha! Are these human scumbags in a hurry to die? Perfect! I'll go down right now and split their leader in half with one swing of my axe!"