Translator: CinderTL
Abal stood on high ground, gazing at the orderly ranks on the training ground. His single eye narrowed slightly.
The wind whipped sand and dust across the camp, causing a few lone tribal banners to flutter weakly in the wind, appearing particularly stark.
—The Graymane, Red Fang, and Blackstone Tribes, who were supposed to have sent their new recruits, had yet to arrive.
In the past, he might not have given it a second thought. The tribes of the Grassland were notoriously unruly, and delays in assembling were common. But now, things were different.
The crushing defeat at Stonebridge Town had left a crack in his heart, silently spreading and eroding the formidable confidence he had built over nearly two decades of warfare.
Abal's fingers unconsciously stroked the battleaxe at his waist—the weapon he had used twenty years ago to slay his rival.
He understood the laws of the Grassland better than anyone: the alpha wolf's position was always built on unshakeable strength. Once weakness was revealed, challengers lurking in the shadows would bare their fangs.
He returned to his tent with a grim expression.
"Orc Chieftain," the Guard Captain approached cautiously. "Should we send someone to urge the tribes to send their recruits?"
A War Chief stepped forward, shouting fiercely, "I request to lead three hundred riders to 'remind' them of the authority of the Chieftain's Tent!"
Abal narrowed his single eye, his bronze knuckles turning white as he clenched his fist. In the past, such defiance would have been met with swift punishment—the heads of the rebellious tribal elders hung from the gate, leaving the remaining clansmen to submit without question.
"Orc Chieftain!" A guard's frantic shout pierced the silence from outside the tent. "Urgent news from the Grassland!"
Rebellion? The word flashed through Abal's mind as he sprang to his feet.
The tent flap was thrown open, and an Orc stumbled inside, nearly collapsing.
"Orc Chieftain..." The messenger was clearly exhausted, having ridden day and night. He pulled out a bloodstained piece of animal hide from his chest. "Humans... human armies have entered the Grassland!"
Abal frowned, a sense of unease creeping into his heart. "What? Calm down and explain clearly!"
Ten minutes later, Abal and his assembled commanders stood in silence, studying the animal hide map spread across the table. Its crude lines sketched the outline of a lake, with crosses marking the locations of human fortresses.
Seven bloody handprints dotted the shoreline like festering wounds, each accompanied by a tribal totem.
Abal recognized the central palm print—the distinctive missing finger of Hurtan, the Graymane Tribe's shaman.
"They're building a fortress by the lake!" The messenger coughed violently, having caught a sickness on his journey. "They're preventing the herders from approaching their livestock, and children are falling like flies."
Abal's whip clattered to the ground. He stared at the dried bloodstains on the animal hide, suddenly understanding what had befallen the "rebellious" Tribes.
Rage surged through him. He slammed the golden goblet on the table, sending wine and shattered gold fragments flying.
The Orc Chieftain grabbed the messenger by the collar, his eyes blazing with fury. "You useless fool! You couldn't even wipe out those rats hiding in the forest?!"
He knew humans had been spotted in the forests west of the Grassland, but he'd dismissed them as merchants and adventurers.
Having grown up on the Grassland, Abal had no concept of the Northwest Bay's maritime capabilities. He couldn't imagine humans could transport an entire army across the sea and deploy it on the Grassland.
The messenger's face turned blue from the choking grip, yet he struggled to defend himself. "Orc Chieftain, it's not just a small force... a full thirty thousand soldiers." His fingers twitched as he gestured. "And... countless Forest Orc traitors. Together, they number over forty or fifty thousand."
"Bullshit!" Abal slammed the messenger to the ground and planted his boot on the man's injured right leg. "Twenty years ago, I could have wiped out this entire forest with just three hundred riders! How could that godforsaken wasteland possibly support an army of forty to fifty thousand soldiers?"
The messenger let out a piercing wail, but still insisted, "But their army did appear. And they were equipped with fire-breathing weapons." His trembling hand fumbled in his tunic and produced a deformed lead bullet. "Our warriors fell like wheat before they even reached them."
The generals in the tent stirred uneasily. That damned fire weapon again.
Abal snatched the lead bullet. The sharp, deformed edge cut his fingertip, drawing blood. His fury suddenly froze. It was standard Aldor army ammunition.
Grayman had been fighting him head-on while simultaneously sending another army on a long detour to attack the Grassland.
"Forty to fifty thousand?" The Orc Chieftain's mind cleared, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Are you sure?"
The messenger struggled to sit up, stripping off his tunic to reveal a gash across his abdomen, scraped by shrapnel. "I crawled out of a pile of corpses to bring this message. The shore of Blackwater Lake is now piled high with the bodies of warriors from various tribes."
Abal waved his hand. "You've had a long journey. Go rest now!"
The messenger urgently asked, "Orc Chieftain, what about the reinforcements...?"
"Go rest now!" Abal repeated, his tone sharper.
The messenger silently withdrew from the tent, a sense of pessimism weighing on him. He had traveled through the Yellow Earth, gathering news along the way. The war seemed far less successful than the chieftain's tent envoys had claimed.
Abal pondered all night. In the end, he decided to secure victory in Aldor through a decisive battle before returning to the Grassland. Returning empty-handed would be impossible to face his people.
The next day, he issued his orders: the orc cavalry would leverage their superior speed to wage mobile warfare. If one direction was blocked, they would immediately seek breakthroughs elsewhere, forcing the human army to chase them in vain.
However, the situation once again disappointed the Grassland ruler.
Two months later, Abal stood atop a sand dune, the battle reports burning like hot iron in his palm.
"Northern front stalled."
"Central front unable to break through after prolonged assault."
"Southern front facing heavy artillery fire."
Each battle report struck like a hammer, shattering Abal's strategy to pieces. In just half a month, the Orcs' vaunted tactics had met repeated failure. Whenever their cavalry attempted flanking maneuvers, they ran headfirst into well-prepared human formations. The blue-uniformed soldiers seemed to have sprung from the earth overnight, erecting death lines in every valley and mountain pass.
"This is impossible!" Abal roared, tearing the report to shreds. He didn't even notice the paper shards slicing his palm. "A month ago, they were still scrambling back and forth between Stonebridge Town. Where did they suddenly find hundreds of thousands of troops?!"
An officer silently handed him a captured human newspaper. The headline blared: "General Mobilization Order—Marquis Grayman Calls on All Eligible Men in Northwest Bay to Enlist." A photograph showed a recruitment center overflowing with new recruits.
Old Shaman Otasi suddenly jabbed his Bone Staff at the fine print in the corner of the paper. "Look at this: 'Steam trains transporting 8,000 soldiers daily.'" Fear flickered in his cloudy eyes. "I had someone verify it. Those iron serpents that belch white smoke aren't just human lies—they're real. They're ferrying countless men and supplies from Grayman's stronghold to the battlefield."
"That's impossible!" Abal refused to believe it.
If Grayman conscripted so many soldiers, who would tend the human farmlands? And where did he even get so many weapons to arm them?
(End of the Chapter)
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