Translator: CinderTL
After another failed ambush, the Orc army retreated in disarray. These once proud Plains Warriors now looked like stray dogs.
Abal, clad in armor stained with dried blood, marched near the rear of the retreating column, surrounded by his personal guard. During the fierce fighting, the Orc Chieftain had personally led the rearguard.
"Father, let's rest in the town ahead!" his eldest son, Ajil, rode up.
"Very well!"
Orc soldiers secured the town's entrances. The Orc Chieftain and his generals entered the town, which was eerily silent. Those who could flee had already done so, while those who couldn't had found hiding places.
The Great Chieftain of the Royal Tent felt bitter. Four months ago, his vast army had swept across northern Aldor like a tidal wave. Whenever they captured a town, the local lords and officials would tremble before him, begging for his protection.
Back then, they feared him; what if Abal became the future ruler?
Now, the Northwest Legion's thunderous cannons relentlessly pursued the Orc army. News of Abal's decline had spread, and he had lost any chance of ruling Aldor.
Wherever he went, humans fled as if he were a plague, fearing the Aldor army would mistake them for Abal's allies.
"Great Chieftain, scouts to the east report human cavalry activity on the road to Black Pine Forest!" a general reported, panting as he rushed before him.
Abal, leaning against the railing to rest, dug his fingers deep into the wooden post, which groaned under the strain.
He recalled the oath he had sworn before the ancestral altar before setting out on campaign—to conquer the Aldor like a white wolf devouring a lamb.
But now, those orderly lines of human soldiers, those iron monsters spewing death flames, and those human Expeditionary Forces encroaching on water sources deep in the Grassland... everything had slipped from his control.
The general's report had stung the Orc Chieftain.
"Issue orders to all units," he growled, his voice strained. "Load all coins, grain, and iron that can be carried onto wagons. What can't be taken—" He suddenly drew his scimitar and cleaved the railing beside him in two, "burn it all to ash!"
Under the Orc Chieftain's command, the Orc army's first target was the town they were currently occupying.
An old blacksmith, clutching his grandson, hid in the wine cellar. Peering through a crack, he watched the Orcs toss torches into the granary, igniting a raging fire that consumed the grain and fodder.
A shepherdess was dragged from her home, struggling as Orcs forced her onto a horse. Her final sight was the pile of goat carcasses in her sheep pen—the Orcs, unable to carry the livestock, had slaughtered them all.
Furious townsfolk rushed from their homes, armed with pitchforks and hunting bows, and fought for half an hour. But they were no match for the Orcs' blades.
When the Northwest Legion's advance guard finally reached the town, they found only corpses upon corpses and a message carved in blood on tree bark: "The Grassland will remember every drop of blood!"
Paul sat silently atop his warhorse, gazing at the burning village before him.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh and wood. Several corpses impaled on stakes still smoldered.
"Report, sir," a scout rode up, his voice low. "Another slaughtered village has been discovered ahead. The Orcs killed all the livestock they couldn't carry and smashed even the plows in the fields as they retreated."
Paul didn't respond immediately. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the charred earth.
He bent down and picked up a half-burned wooden sign. Faintly visible on it were the blurred characters: "Mill Town, Third Tax District."
This was a relic of Abal's reforms.
Before the second invasion, the Intelligence Department had compiled a detailed report on Abal's rule in the kingdom's northeastern region.
He established administrative districts, integrating migrating Orc clans and human villages under appointed officials to manage taxation and maintain order.
He appointed human bureaucrats, many of whom had been frustrated under the Bradley Family's rule. Some even defected to the Orcs, serving as clerks, tax collectors, and judges.
He promoted settled agriculture, forcibly attempting to make some Orc clans abandon their nomadic ways and establish permanent villages on fertile land. He even experimented with crop rotation.
The Orc Chieftain had once sought to build a true nation, not just maintain a tribal alliance.
But now, it was all reduced to ashes.
Schroeder approached, his face grim. "My lord, more and more evidence suggests the Orcs are deliberately destroying all resources they can't carry away, including granaries, wells, and even orchards."
Paul snorted coldly. "Abal once dreamed of making the Orcs a civilized race, but now that dream lies shattered. He has personally driven his people back into the age of barbarism."
In the distance, a squad of Alden cavalry escorted several prisoners toward them. One Orc, his face smeared with blood, still held his head high and roared in broken human speech, "You may have won this battle, but the Grassland will never surrender!"
Paul stared at him and said slowly, "Your Chieftain once wanted you to be builders, not destroyers."
A flicker of confusion crossed the Orc Warrior's eyes. His simple mind struggled to grasp Paul's words, but soon his thoughts were consumed by hatred once more. "Don't celebrate too soon! Great Chieftain Abal will lead us to vengeance!"
Paul said no more, waving his hand for the Orc to be taken away.
At least I managed to disrupt the Orcs' societal transformation with my own hands.
The people of the fallen northeastern territories hadn't fully awakened to nationalism. If the Orcs' way of life and production had truly become similar to humans', the locals might have actually tolerated a foreign race ruling over them.
The thought was infuriating!
"Lord Grayman!" Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder's finger pressed heavily on the Neron Corridor on the map.
"This is not the time for caution," he said, his voice low and resolute, like a slowly unsheathed saber. "The Orcs are in disarray. Their scouts no longer even bother to screen their flanks—this is a once-in-a-millennium opportunity."
"The southern route has better traffic conditions. We should order the southern army to advance at full speed through Stone Fang Pass and cut off their retreat."
Paul stared at the winding blue lines on the map—the Northwest Legion's advance routes, tightening like a net.
He voiced his concern: "If they become separated from us, won't that leave our flanks vulnerable to the Orc cavalry?"
Schroeder replied confidently, "The Orc army has lost its fighting spirit. The casualty ratios from recent battles prove it. In the battle just now, we killed or captured over three thousand Orcs while suffering only twenty casualties ourselves. An Orc army with such low morale won't dare launch a proactive attack against us!"
Paul nodded. "Very well. Let not a single Orc escape Aldor!"
(End of the Chapter)
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