Translator: CinderTL
Night had fallen.
A fierce wind swept through the Neron Corridor, whipping sand and gravel into the tent and slapping against the military map like a frantic hand. Paul Grayman pressed down the corners of the map to keep it from blowing away.
This narrow passage, wedged between the Rocky Mountains and the Southern Range, sliced like a sword deep into the heart of the continent. In the twilight, the towering snow-capped peaks on either side gleamed with a frigid, icy light.
"My lord, look here," Earl Hal Duke said, his finger jabbing heavily at a point on the map. Traces of black powder from the last battle still clung to the old knight's fingernails. "Abal must be fleeing toward Watchers Fortress—a place we swore to defend with our lives, a bastion of honor!"
Paul stared at the fortress symbol on the map. Strategically positioned at the narrowest eastern end of the Neron Corridor, it guarded the gateway to the vast continental interior—a true strategic chokepoint.
From the sand table, the stone fortress appeared impregnable. Its rear was protected by a sheer cliff, while its front faced a narrow pass barely wide enough for five horses to ride abreast—a natural chokepoint. Yet now, flying from its walls, was the White Wolf Banner of the Grassland Chieftain's Tent.
"Our scouts report," Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder said, pointing to the contour lines on the eastern end of the corridor, "Abal has demolished all the signal towers along the route and is forcing prisoners to build defensive fortifications."
Hal suddenly knelt before Paul, the clatter of his armor startling the birds outside the tent. "Marquis Grayman, permit the Watchers Legion to lead the assault to retake the fortress!" The Earl's voice was hoarse but resolute. "When we were forced to abandon it, every survivor carved a blood oath onto their shields."
The rhythmic tramp of marching soldiers echoed outside the tent—the Watchers Legion, now reinforced, was conducting night drills, fueling Hal Duke's surging confidence.
Paul's gaze flickered between the sand table and the old knight.
The Neron Corridor was not merely a strategic chokepoint; it was Aldor's lifeline to the heartland of the continent. Losing it would be like strangling a giant.
And that fortress... it was a festering scar on the kingdom's honor.
"I agree," Paul finally said.
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As Hal Duke's warhorse stepped past the first boundary marker of the Neron Corridor, the Earl's knuckles were already white from clenching the reins.
The weathered stone pillar, inscribed with the words "Land of the Watchers," stood defiantly in the morning light, its surface scarred by Orcish blades and axes.
"Look! Silverpine Town!" his adjutant suddenly shouted, pointing to distant plumes of smoke.
Hal squinted. Three years ago, during his last patrol, the town's mill windmill had been painted a vibrant red. Now, only a charred skeleton remained, leaning crookedly like a withered corpse.
As the column approached the town's edge, a limping old man burst from the ruins. Beneath his soiled burlap robes, the brand of a wolf's head—undeniable proof of Orcish brutality—was visible.
"Lord Duke!" the old man threw himself at the warhorse's hooves, his bony fingers clutching desperately at Hal's boot chains. "I knew... I knew you would return..."
Hal dismounted with a heavy clatter of armor.
He recognized the scars on the old man's face—it was Silverpine Town's blacksmith, the skilled artisan who had once crafted horseshoes for the Watchers Legion.
"Get up, old man. Where are the Orcs?" Earl Duke helped the man to his feet, his voice hoarser than he expected.
"They fled east three days ago," the old man spat, pointing to the gallows in the town square. "Before they left, they hanged twelve who refused to pay their 'taxes.'"
The townsfolk slowly emerged from their shelters. Seeing the familiar White Wolf Banner, a woman clutching her infant suddenly burst into tears.
"We're back!" Earl Duke announced, his voice thick with remorse. "We bear full responsibility for the suffering you've endured these past years."
The surviving veterans of the Watchers Legion, who had accompanied the Earl, cheered loudly and surged forward to greet the townspeople.
Several young boys squeezed to the front of the crowd, waving crudely crafted wooden swords with their grimy hands. "Take us with you! We know where the Orcs buried their traps!"
As the column continued eastward, Earl Duke glanced back. The townspeople stood silently on either side of the boundary marker, watching them depart. There were no cheers, only countless tear-filled eyes gleaming eerily in the morning light.
"Scouts report," the adjutant whispered, "Blackwater Village ahead has spontaneously raised our banner."
Hal merely nodded silently, his fingers absently tracing the inner lining of his breastplate. Sewn inside was a fragment of stone taken from Watchers Fortress—the long-yearned-for place was almost within reach.
As the last wisp of gunpowder smoke dissipated from the breach in the western wall of Watchers Fortress, Hal Duke stepped onto the familiar battlements, his boots crunching on shattered stones and broken arrows.
He ran his calloused hand over the mottled wall bricks, pausing at a particular crack—a sword mark he had personally carved three years prior.
"Duke Morton stood right here that day..."
The Earl's hoarse voice drifted on the morning breeze. Behind him, several veteran soldiers rushed to the right-hand embrasure, some kneeling to kiss the bloodstained stones, others trembling as they pried rusted arrowheads from the wall's crevices.
Soldiers were clearing the debris from the explosion. As the final slab of stone was pried loose, it revealed a collapsed tunnel at the fortress's rear. The western rear wall, less than a third the thickness of the front, had proven vulnerable. Enhanced Black Powder had turned this vulnerability into a nightmare for the Orc defenders, allowing the assault from the rear to devastate their ranks.
"Found it!" someone suddenly shouted.
Several soldiers carried a tattered banner from the armory. Though faded, the crossed sword and shield emblem of the Watchers Legion was still discernible on the blue background. Hal took the banner, but the fabric crumbled into pieces in his hands. He stubbornly pressed the fragments against his chest, cradling them like a fallen comrade.
Sporadic sounds of combat echoed from the eastern side of the fortress, where Abal's rearguard was making their last stand before being swiftly eliminated.
As a pristine Royal Banner of Aldor was hoisted atop the highest tower, an old veteran suddenly blew a bone whistle—the distinctive rallying call of the Watchers Legion. For the first time in three years, its mournful tone reverberated across the fortress.
Hal limped into the main gate plaza, his injured leg dragging behind him. The Orc-built altar had been overturned, revealing a mass grave of bleached bones beneath. Many soldiers silently cleared the barracks, painstakingly scraping away the Orcish totems painted on the walls.
"I have bad news, Lord Duke," Sir Colin said as he approached. Colin was another veteran of the Watchers Legion who had escaped with Hal Duke years ago.
"What is it?" Hal asked.
Sir Colin's face darkened. "I interrogated the Orc commanders here. They claim Abal never came to Watchers Fortress."
Hal Duke frowned. "Perhaps they were too low-ranking to know Abal's movements?"
Sir Colin shook his head. "Cross-referencing multiple testimonies, it's highly likely Abal truly never arrived here."
(End of the Chapter)
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