Night fell over Blackwater Lake, its surface as black as ink, with only flames shooting into the sky on the opposite shore.
Abar's camp, like a mobile city, spread out on the grassland directly opposite the Rock Fortress.
Thousands of animal-hide tents stretched out in a continuous line, campfires lit up the ground like a galaxy, and the low growls of Zhan Ao and the hammering of the blacksmith's shop intertwined to create a chilling atmosphere.
The central royal tent, made from a single elephant hide, towered like a mountain, with a battle flag atop it bearing the wolf head totem of the grassland royal tent.
Inside the tent, a brazier burned brightly, illuminating Abar's figure. He sat upright on a wolf-skin throne, his armor still on, his face dignified yet composed.
Four orc elders from the Lake West tribe knelt on the ground, trembling, their hair standing on end in fear. They had been forced to offer food and horses to the Aldor army and were now being captured and brought back, expecting to die.
"Get up." Abar's voice was deep and gentle, with an undeniable authority. "I know you were forced into this situation. Humanity's artillery fire was pressing in, and they controlled the water source. You had nowhere to retreat. Now I have pardoned your betrayal. You need not fear anymore."
The four men looked up, their eyes filled with astonishment and disbelief. They had thought that submitting to humanity was an unforgivable disgrace in Abar's eyes.
"Great Chief…we…" The eldest elder's voice trembled.
"No need for further words." Abar waved his hand. "I need your eyes and your ears. Tell me—how did those humans manage to erect four iron fortresses by this lake in such a short time?"
The generals inside the tent all pricked up their ears. They had looked at the four fortresses from afar: towering stone walls, neat crenellations, and imposing gun emplacements. They did not look like temporary fortifications, but rather like a permanent defense line that had been planned and carefully constructed long ago.
The speed and quality of their construction were far beyond what the orcs on the grasslands could match.
The elder spoke in a trembling voice: "They...they don't use wooden stakes, nor do they build walls with mud and stones...they use a kind of...white slurry, like milk, but when it solidifies, it is harder than iron."
The tent was completely silent.
"White slurry?" A general frowned.
"Yes…yes, according to the descriptions of the young men who worked for them…" the elder tried to recall, "the humans poured that slurry from the carts into hollowed-out channels made of wooden planks. Overnight, the slurry turned into stone! Flat and hard, impossible to chisel! They called it…they called it 'cement.'"
"Cement?" Abar repeated in a low voice, his eyes flickering slightly.
"And…" another elder chimed in, his voice filled with awe, "their iron beasts—those machines that can pull carts without horses, billowing black smoke, with immense strength. They drag huge iron wheels along laid tracks, transporting piles of stones and timber to the construction site faster than a hundred oxen! There is another kind of iron beast, which we have seen, that can lift an entire boulder with a single swipe of its claw!"
The generals inside the tent couldn't help but let out a low gasp of amazement.
"They used iron pipes to bring water from the distant mountains to the construction site, and the water would flow into the pool on its own. They also used a rattling iron box; by standing on a high place and pointing, they could tell people in the distance where to dig and where to pile things up... It was like they were using divine incantations to command the earth!"
Abar slowly leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming.
Since invading the Aldor, he had seen human guns and gunpowder, but he had never seen such a systematic and efficient way of construction. It was not a brute force, but a combination of some kind of "order" and "skill" that he could not understand.
"They…are not building fortresses," he murmured, as if to himself, "they are simply…taming the land."
Silence fell in the tent, the fire crackling and reflecting the complex expressions on the generals' faces—shock, apprehension, and a hint of fear.
The brazier inside the royal tent crackled and steamed, but it couldn't dispel the sudden chill that had settled between Abar's brows.
At that moment, the tent flap was suddenly flung open, and a cold wind carrying the dampness of the lake rushed in. The guards who came in reported that the cavalry that had gone to scout in the afternoon had returned and requested an audience with the chieftain.
"It must be important intelligence. Let them in!" Abar agreed.
Soon, the cavalrymen driven away by the artillery fire staggered in. The leading squad leader's armor was shattered, his face splattered with mud and blood, and his knees buckled, causing him to kneel heavily on the wolf-skin carpet.
"Great Chief! There are boats on the lake... boats made of iron!" His voice was hoarse, trembling with the shock of survival. "They burst out of the water, spewing fire and iron balls! Our men... were blown into the air, their blood and flesh mixed with mud scattered on the lakeshore!"
On the lake? A deathly silence fell over the tent. The generals exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes filled with horror.
Abar slowly raised his hand, signaling everyone to be quiet. He stared at the squad leader and said in a low voice, "You said... a tin boat? On the lake?"
"Yes! Three! The ships were pitch black, like iron shells! The cannons were at the bow, and with a loud bang, the ground cracked!" The squad leader gestured urgently. "We didn't even have time to fire our arrows before the cannonballs started raining down! There wasn't enough time!"
Abar remained silent for a moment, a hint of understanding flashing in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper solemnity.
He wasn't surprised.
He had already experienced firsthand the fact that the Aldor's homeland army was heavily equipped with weapons that could spit iron balls and flames. Since the Aldor people could use them on their own soil, it was reasonable for this expeditionary force deep in the grasslands to carry similar weapons, and even use them on their moving iron ships.
What truly weighed on his mind was the strategic significance represented by this "iron ship".
His gaze slowly swept over the rough map hanging inside the tent—Blackwater Lake was like a deep blue gem, and the four fortresses were like four nails, firmly embedded on the four sides of the lake shore.
He had always thought that the four fortresses were isolated, separated by several miles of lake, and that traveling by land would take a long time.
In the minds of the grassland warriors, water was a natural barrier, an insurmountable chasm that separated their armies.
Even Abar held this view. His original plan was to use superior forces to besiege them one by one, cut off their supplies, prevent the fortresses from supporting each other, and eventually defeat them one by one.
But now... there are boats on the lake. What does that mean?
This means that the four seemingly isolated fortresses are actually firmly connected by an invisible link across the water!
A gunboat can quickly rush from the north bank to reinforce the south bank, artillery and soldiers can be mobilized rapidly, and supplies can be supplied unimpeded along the waterways. They are no longer four isolated cities, but an interconnected whole!
Abar's fingers tapped unconsciously on the armrest of the throne.
Warriors of the great grasslands are born on horseback and grow up in the wilderness; their strength is unmatched on the vast land.
Water? That's unfamiliar territory, a mysterious and dangerous forbidden land.
They couldn't build ships, didn't understand hydrology, and couldn't imagine how to operate artillery on moving water.
Even he, the chieftain of the royal tent, Abar, who had fought countless battles throughout his life, never regarded "control of the lake" as the key to a land war. He saw the Blackwater Lake as an obstacle, but he never expected that the Ordos would turn it into an artery.
The image of the four fortresses echoing each other in the lake's shimmering light had already appeared in the Great Chief's mind—gunboats patrolling like iron sharks, their firelight reflecting off the water.