After yet another failed attack, the orc army retreated in disarray, these once proud grassland warriors now resembling stray dogs.
Abar, clad in armor stained with dried blood, marched at the rear of the column, surrounded by his personal guards. The Great Chieftain had personally led the rearguard during the retreat following the fierce battle.
"Father, let's rest in the town ahead!" His eldest son, Aguirre, galloped up on his horse.
"good!"
Orc soldiers guarded the town's entrances and exits. The chieftain and his generals entered the town, which was eerily quiet. The residents who could run away had already fled, and those who couldn't had found places to hide.
The chieftain of the royal tent was filled with bitterness. Just four months ago, his army had swept across northern Aldor like a tidal wave. Every time a town was captured, the local lord or official would run to him in fear, begging for his protection.
At that time, although they were afraid of themselves, what if the future ruler was Abar?
Now, the Northwest Legion's thunderous cannon fire relentlessly chased the orc army, and news of Abar's decline spread, indicating that he had lost any chance of ruling the Aldor.
The people in the places he passed through avoided him as if he were a plague, fearing that he would be mistaken for Abal's accomplice by the Aldor army that was attacking.
"Great Chieftain, the scouts from the east report that human cavalry are active on the road leading to Black Pine Forest!" A general rushed up to him, panting, to report.
As Abar rested by the railing, he dug his fingers deep into the wooden bars, which groaned under the weight.
He recalled the vow he made before the ancestral altar before setting out on the expedition—to conquer Aldor like a white wolf devouring a lamb.
But now, those human soldiers standing in neat rows, those steel monsters spewing deathly flames, and those human expeditionary forces encroaching on water sources deep in the grasslands... everything is out of his control.
The news the general just mentioned irritated the chieftain.
"Pass the order to all units." His voice sounded like it was being squeezed out from between his teeth.
"Load all the money, food, and ironware you can take along the way onto the carts. As for what you can't take—" He suddenly drew his scimitar and smashed the railing beside him, "burn it all to ashes!"
Under the high chieftain's orders, the orc army's first target was this town.
An old blacksmith, holding his grandson, hid in the wine cellar and saw through a crack that green-skinned orcs threw torches into the granary, which immediately burst into flames.
A shepherdess was dragged from her home and struggled to be forcibly put on a horse. The last thing she saw was the pile of goat carcasses in her sheepfold—the orcs had slaughtered them all because they couldn't take the livestock with them.
Some angry residents rushed out of their homes and fought back for half an hour with pitchforks and hunting bows, but they were powerless against the orcs' knives.
When the advance team of the Northwest Army Corps arrived at the town, they saw only corpses and words carved in blood on tree bark: "The grasslands will remember every drop of blood!"
Paul, mounted on his warhorse, silently gazed at the burning village before him.
The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning flesh and wood, and several corpses impaled on stakes by spears were still emitting wisps of smoke.
"Report, another village has been found to have been massacred ahead." A scout rode up, his voice low. "When the orcs retreated, they killed all the livestock they couldn't take with them, and even destroyed the plows used for tilling the fields."
Paul did not respond immediately. He dismounted, his boots crunching softly on the scorched earth.
He bent down and picked up half of the charred wooden sign, on which a few blurry words could be vaguely seen: "Third Tax District of Mill Town".
This is a trace left by Abar's reforms.
Prior to the second invasion, the intelligence department had compiled a detailed account of Abar's rule in the northeastern region of the kingdom.
He established administrative divisions, integrated the orc tribes and human villages that had migrated there, and appointed officials to manage taxation and security.
By employing human bureaucrats, many low-ranking officials who were frustrated under the Bradley family's rule even voluntarily defected to the orcs, serving as clerks, tax collectors, and judges.
By promoting settled agriculture, Abar tentatively forced some orc tribes to abandon nomadism and establish permanent villages on fertile land, and even tried to promote crop rotation.
The Great Chief once attempted to establish a true nation, not merely to maintain a tribal alliance.
But now all of that has turned to ashes.
Schroeder approached, his face grim: "My lord, increasing signs indicate that the orcs are selectively burning all resources they can't take with them, including granaries, wells, and even cutting down fruit trees in orchards."
Paul snorted coldly, "Abal once wanted to make the orcs a civilized race, but now that dream has been shattered, he has personally pushed his people back to the barbaric era."
In the distance, a troop of Arda cavalry escorted several prisoners. One of the orcs, his face covered in blood, still held his head high and roared in broken human language: "You have won, but the grasslands will never yield!"
Paul stared at him and said slowly, "Your chief once wanted you to be builders, not destroyers."
A hint of doubt flashed in the orc warrior's eyes. His simple mind didn't quite understand Paul's words, but his mind was quickly filled with hatred again: "Don't be arrogant, Chieftain Abar will lead us to revenge!"
Paul said nothing more, and waved for his men to take him away.
Fortunately, he personally interrupted the transformation of the orcs' social structure.
The people in the northeastern occupied territories of the kingdom have not yet fully awakened to nationalism. If the orcs' way of life and production were to become truly similar to that of humans, the locals might actually tolerate a group of foreign races riding on their heads.
Just thinking about it makes me feel terrible!
"Lord Gleman!" Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder pressed his finger heavily on the Narodan Corridor on the map.
"Now is not the time to be cautious." His voice was deep and firm, like a military knife slowly being drawn from its sheath. "The orcs are in complete disarray, and their scouts are no longer even covering their flanks—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"The traffic conditions on the southern route are better. The southern army should be allowed to advance at full speed to Shiya Pass and block their retreat."
Paul stared at the winding blue lines on the map—the advancing routes of the Northwestern Army, like a net that was gradually tightening.
He worriedly said, "If they become disconnected from us, wouldn't that give the income cavalry an opportunity to take advantage?"
Schroeder said confidently, "The orc army has lost its will to fight. You can tell from the casualty ratio in the recent battles. Just now, we killed and captured more than 3,000 people, while we only suffered about 20 casualties ourselves. With such a low morale, the orc army dares not take the initiative to attack us!"
Paul nodded: "Okay, don't let a single orc escape from Aldor!"