Translator: CinderTL
The retreating orc cavalry was horrified to discover that their escape route had been completely cut off.
Like wraiths, the light cavalry of the Alden army materialized from behind. They formed three horizontal ranks, carbines leveled, with the lead cavalry officer holding aloft a blood-stained saber. His voice pierced the thin mist:
"Lay down your weapons! Surrender and live!"
The surviving orc cavalry exchanged glances. Their warhorses panted wearily, and the riders' battered bodies slumped in their saddles. The fire of battle had long been extinguished by the previous night's bloody slaughter.
Suddenly, a young Orc Warrior tossed aside his curved saber, dismounted, and knelt on the ground. He was followed by a second, then a third...
"Cowards! Get up, all of you!" Urgok roared, a mad flame burning in his single eye. He spurred his warhorse forward, raising his battleaxe and charging toward the human lines. "For the glory of the Orcs—"
Bang!
The sharp crack of a gunshot cut short his final battle cry. Urgok's body lurched violently, and he slowly lowered his gaze to his chest, where a bloody hole had appeared in his leather armor. He opened his mouth to speak, but only coughed up a mouthful of blood before collapsing heavily from his horse.
Markalov set down his smoking musket and stared impassively at the Orc chieftain's corpse. The Orc prisoners around him let out suppressed whimpers, and several young soldiers began to tremble—they had never imagined that a warrior like Urgok could die so plainly. No epic duel, no tragic last stand, just a distant gunshot that ended the old warrior's life.
"Clear the battlefield," Markalov ordered his soldiers, his voice eerily calm. "We'll deal with the bodies tomorrow. Take the prisoners to the main camp."
Dawn broke, casting its light over the chaotic battlefield. Soldiers of the Allied Army, their bodies weary, packed their gear, many with dark circles under their eyes and curses on their lips.
"Those damn beasts kept me up all night!" a young soldier kicked an Orc arrow on the ground, yawning widely.
"Shut up, rookie," his squad leader rubbed his aching shoulders. "At least we're still alive—look at those guys." He gestured toward the Orc corpses tangled in barbed wire nearby, his expression complex.
Company Commander Markalov leaned on his rifle, standing before a twisted mass of barbed wire. The veteran, a man who had returned to service, showed no sign of fatigue, only the cold severity of a soldier.
"Hurry up!" Markalov shouted at his soldiers. "Every yard of barbed wire must be recovered, and any damaged barbs should be set aside separately!"
The soldiers carefully rolled up the bloodstained wire with special hooks. Due to limited transport capacity, the Alden army's barbed wire brought to the Grassland had to be salvaged. They couldn't leave it behind to benefit the metal-starved Orc Clans.
Markalov knelt on the ground, his rough fingers tracing a roll of freshly recovered wire. The barbs glinted coldly in the morning light.
"So much wire," he muttered, shaking his head. "How many blacksmith shops would it take to draw this out?"
"Ha! Company Commander, you're truly out of touch," Jos snorted, grinning. This old comrade from Markalov's first tour of duty had been reassigned to his company.
Jos bared a mouthful of yellowed teeth. After retiring, he'd been assigned to the metal products factory in Alden Town, and his expression now was that of an industrial expert.
"Who still draws wire by hand these days?" Jos pulled a lump of black, charred coal from his pocket and began sketching on the ground. "Listen, iron ore is first smelted into pig iron ingots in a blast furnace. Then it's sent to the Steel Rolling Mill—those massive factories billowing red smoke."
Jos's charcoal pencil sketched a few simple diagrams: "First, the red-hot iron ingot passes through a steam rolling mill, flattened into a rough iron bar like dough rolled with a rolling pin. Next comes the wire-drawing machine—" Jos drew a device with gears. "A steam engine turns the turntable, and the iron bar is drawn through a diamond die, like dough squeezed through a colander, becoming uniform iron wire."
Markalov was astonished. "Diamond? That must be incredibly expensive!"
"Artificial! Grayman's chemical plant makes it from coal tar." Jos proudly pointed to the barbs on the wire. "See these little hooks? The wire passes through a final rolling die, which etches a spiral pattern onto its surface. Then a mechanical shear cuts it into barbs."
Jos narrowed his eyes. "The batch we're using now came from the Alden Town Third Factory just last month. I heard they can produce twenty miles of wire a day—that's like five hundred blacksmiths working for half a year."
Markalov silently rolled a length of wire between his fingers. He suddenly remembered a decade ago, when he was a soldier, a comrade had boasted about his "Fine Steel Dagger," which had cost half a month's pay.
Now, these far more complex killing tools, crafted with such intricate processes, were being casually recycled like yarn.
"Times have changed," Markalov sighed softly.
Jos patted his shoulder and pointed at the cannons gleaming in the morning sun. "That's why we're re-enlisting, old friend. We need to see how wars are fought these days with our own eyes."
The Aldor army continued marching for several more days.
During this time, the Grassland Orcs launched two more attacks, but both were easily repelled. What truly plagued the Aldor army was their dwindling water supply.
Perhaps the map was inaccurate, or perhaps the Aldor army lacked experience in grassland warfare. Whatever the reason, they failed to reach their designated water source within the expected timeframe. The soldiers' lips cracked and bled, their voices raspy with a grating friction.
"Conserve your water!" Markalov barked at a new recruit caught sneaking a lick from his canteen, though his own Adam's apple involuntarily bobbed. His canteen had been empty since dawn, and now he could only imitate the older soldiers, chewing on the bitter stems of newly sprouted grass to moisten his throat with their sour sap.
At noon, a troop of cavalry scouts suddenly galloped back in a frenzy. The lead rider had lost his hat but waved his arms wildly, screaming, "Water! There's a lake ahead!"
The shout was like thunder, instantly electrifying the exhausted troops. It was only thanks to the discipline passed down since the Alden Army that they didn't rush forward in a chaotic mob.
Soldiers instinctively quickened their pace, doubling their usual marching speed.
When a sapphire-blue lake finally came into view, Baron Andrew, ever considerate of his men, assigned a guard unit and ordered the rest to take a break.
The first soldier to reach the shore plunged directly into the shallows, burying his face in the water and drinking deeply. More knelt at the edge, using their helmets to scoop water and pour it over their heads, letting out blissful groans.
A few overly excited young soldiers began splashing and shoving each other in the shallows. One slipped and tumbled into the deep end. Unable to swim, he flailed wildly as he sank, but thankfully his comrades grabbed his belt and hauled him back to the surface.
"You trying to get yourself killed?!" the old sergeant roared, slapping the drenched soldier's back. But he couldn't resist filling his own helmet with water and pouring it over his head. "Cough... damn, that's sweet..."
"What a mess..." Watching the chaotic scene at the lake, the baron rubbed his temples, but he didn't truly lose his temper.
This water source would be theirs from now on!
(End of the Chapter)
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