Translator: CinderTL
Night had fallen over Blackwater Lake. The lake's surface was as dark as ink, save for the fiery glow rising from the opposite shore.
Abal's camp resembled a mobile city, sprawling across the Grassland directly opposite Rockfort Fortress.
Thousands of animal-hide tents stretched as far as the eye could see, bonfires scattered like a fallen river of stars. The low growls of war beasts and the clang of the blacksmith's hammer mingled into a chilling atmosphere of war.
At the center stood the Chieftain's Tent, sewn from a single giant elephant hide and towering like a mountain. A War Banner bearing the wolf-head totem of the Grassland Chieftain's Tent stood atop it.
Inside, a brazier burned fiercely, casting flickering shadows on Abal's figure. He sat upright on his wolfskin throne, still clad in his armor, his face stern yet composed.
Four Orc elders from the West Lake Tribe knelt before him, trembling from head to toe. Their fur bristled with fear. They had been forced to surrender grain and horses to the Aldor army and, now captured and brought back, had expected certain death.
"Rise," Abal said in a low, resonant voice, carrying an undeniable authority. "I know you were forced to do what you did. The humans' cannons pressed upon you, and they controlled your water source. You had nowhere to retreat. But I have pardoned your betrayal. Fear no more."
The four elders raised their heads, their eyes wide with disbelief and confusion. They had assumed that submitting to the humans would be an unforgivable disgrace in Abal's eyes.
"Great Chieftain... we..." the eldest elder stammered, his voice trembling.
"No need to explain," Abal waved his hand. "I need your eyes and ears. Tell me—how did those humans erect four iron-and-stone fortresses by the lake in such a short time?"
The generals in the tent pricked up their ears. They had gazed at the four fortresses from afar: towering stone walls, neat crenellations, and menacing gun emplacements. They didn't look like temporary fortifications but rather meticulously planned and carefully constructed permanent defenses.
Such speed and skill were beyond anything the Orcs of the Grassland could achieve.
The elder trembled as he spoke. "They... they don't use wooden stakes or mud-and-stone walls... They use a... white liquid, like milk, but when it hardens, it becomes harder than iron."
Silence fell over the tent.
"White liquid?" a general frowned.
"Yes... yes, according to the young Orcs who worked for them..." the elder struggled to recall. "The humans poured the liquid from large carts into wooden molds. Overnight, it turned into stone! Flat and hard, impossible to chisel through! They call it... they call it 'cement.'"
"Cement?" Abal repeated softly, his eyes flickering.
"And..." another elder continued, his voice tinged with awe, "their iron beasts—machines that pull carts without horses, belching black smoke and possessing immense strength. They drag massive iron wheels along laid tracks, transporting piles of stone and timber to the construction site faster than a hundred oxen! We've even seen iron beasts that can lift entire boulders with a single claw!"
The generals in the tent couldn't help but murmur in astonishment.
"They use iron pipes to channel water from distant mountains to the construction site, letting it flow into pools on its own. They also use a ringing iron box, which, when pointed from a high vantage point, tells workers where to dig and where to pile materials... as if they're using divine incantations to command the earth!"
Abal slowly leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence.
Since invading Aldor, he had witnessed human firearms and gunpowder, but he had never seen such a systematic and efficient construction method. This wasn't mere brute force; it was a combination of "order" and "skill" he couldn't comprehend.
"They... aren't building a fortress," he murmured, as if speaking to himself. "They're... taming the land itself."
Silence fell over the tent. The crackling fire in the brazier cast flickering shadows on the faces of the assembled commanders, revealing expressions of shock, apprehension, and a hint of fear.
Inside the Chieftain's Tent, the brazier crackled and sent waves of heat rising into the air, yet it failed to dispel the sudden chill that had settled in Abal's brow.
At that moment, the tent curtain was flung open, and a gust of cold wind carrying the dampness of the lake rushed in. A guard entered to report that the cavalry sent out to scout earlier that afternoon had returned and requested an audience with the Orc Chieftain.
"They must have crucial intelligence. Bring them in!" Abal agreed.
Moments later, the cavalrymen, driven back by the enemy's artillery fire, stumbled into the tent. The Captain leading the group had his armor shattered, his face smeared with mud and blood. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the wolfskin carpet.
"Great Chieftain! There are... there are ships on the lake! Iron-clad ships!" His voice was hoarse and trembled with the aftershocks of survival. "They burst from the water, spewing fire and iron balls! Our men... were blown into the air, their flesh and blood mixing with the mud on the lakeshore!"
On the lake? A deathly silence fell over the tent. The commanders exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes wide with horror.
Abal slowly raised his hand, signaling for quiet. He stared intently at the captain, his voice low and grave. "You say... iron-clad ships? On the lake?"
"Yes! Three ships! Their hulls were black, like iron shells! The cannons were at the front, and when they fired, the ground cracked!" The captain gestured frantically. "We hadn't even nocked our arrows when the cannonballs landed! There was no time!"
Abal fell silent for a moment, a flicker of understanding crossing his eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper gravity.
He wasn't surprised.
The Aldorian army on their home soil was heavily equipped with weapons that spewed iron balls and flames—he'd already experienced their destructive power firsthand. If the Aldorians could use such weapons on their own territory, it made perfect sense that this Expeditionary Force, deep in the Grassland, would carry similar weapons, even mounting them on moving iron ships.
What truly weighed on his heart was the strategic significance of these "iron ships."
His gaze slowly swept across the crude map hanging in the tent—Blackwater Lake, a deep blue jewel, with four fortresses like nails hammered into its shores.
Until now, he'd believed these fortresses were isolated, separated by miles of lake water, with land routes requiring days to circumnavigate.
In the minds of the Plains Warriors, water was a natural barrier, a chasm that divided armies.
Even Abal had held this belief. His plan had been to use superior numbers to besiege each fortress individually, cutting off their supplies and preventing them from supporting each other, ultimately breaking them one by one.
But now... there were ships on the lake. What did that mean?
It meant that the four seemingly isolated fortresses were actually firmly connected by an invisible bond across the water!
A gunboat could quickly rush from the north shore to reinforce the south shore, cannons and soldiers could be swiftly deployed, and supplies could flow unimpeded along the waterway. They were no longer four isolated citadels, but an interconnected whole!
Abal's fingers unconsciously tapped against the armrest of his throne.
The warriors of the Grassland were born on horseback and raised in the wilderness. Their strength on the vast plains was unmatched.
But water? That was an alien realm, a mysterious and dangerous forbidden zone.
They didn't build ships, didn't understand hydrology, and couldn't imagine how to maneuver cannons on a moving surface.
Even he, Great Chieftain Abal of the Royal Tent, who had fought countless battles throughout his life, had never considered control of the lake a key factor in a land war. He had viewed Blackwater Lake as an obstacle, never realizing the Aldorians would turn it into an artery.
The Orc Chieftain's mind conjured an image of the four fortresses echoing each other across the lake's surface—gunboats like iron sharks patrolling the waters, their cannon fire reflecting in the shimmering light.
(End of the Chapter)
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