Translator: CinderTL
In the darkest hour before dawn, Abal made his decision.
He stood outside the Chieftain's Tent, gazing across the lake at Rockfort Fortress, its silhouette barely visible in the night. The flickering firelight cast his stern face into sharp relief.
There was no need for further probing, no room for hesitation. The Aldorians had declared their control of the lake with their gunboats. The four fortresses had formed an impenetrable iron curtain. To break through, they had to strike with the force of Thunder, shattering a single point to tear open the defenses.
"We begin with Rockfort Fortress," the Orc Chieftain commanded, his voice like cold iron unsheathed.
At dawn, the Grassland's horns sounded, their deep, mournful notes echoing like the roar of an ancient beast. They shattered the silence along the shores of Blackwater Lake, signaling the start of the orc assault.
From camps scattered across the land, a flood of orcs began to converge. They weren't elite veterans, but fresh recruits from the Grassland's vassal tribes: young warriors eager for glory, hunters seeking honor, and herders fighting for their tribe's survival.
Their attire varied, their weapons a mix of crude and refined, but the same fire burned in their eyes: reverence for the Chieftain's Tent, a thirst for wealth, and a fanatical zeal to drive out the invaders.
Abal stood on the high platform, the War Banner snapping in the wind. He raised his battleaxe and pointed it toward Rockfort Fortress across the lake. His voice, like thunder rolling across the Grassland, boomed, "Kill! Seize that stone fortress! Wealth, women, glory—all belong to the warriors!"
"Kill!" Tens of thousands of orcs roared in unison, their battle cry shaking the sky and scattering birds from the lake.
The charge began.
Like a breached dam of black water, orc warriors charged toward the south wall of Rockfort Fortress, carrying crude siege ladders and massive hide shields made from whole animal hides. They trampled through dew-soaked grass, their footsteps heavy and frenzied, the shields forming a moving wall of hide.
But barely three hundred paces from their camp, a sudden flash of fire erupted from the fortress walls.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The heavy cannons deployed on the fortress unleashed their fury first. Their muzzles spewed flames and thick smoke as heavy iron balls whistled through the morning mist, slamming into the dense orc ranks.
Each cannonball erupted in a fountain of blood and earth, instantly tearing apart the charging orcs. Limbs and body parts were flung high into the air, shields and corpses tossed aside like rags.
But this couldn't stop the tide. More orcs trampled over their fallen comrades, letting out bestial howls as they surged forward.
When they closed within two hundred paces, the dense firing ports along the city walls erupted in a simultaneous blaze of fire.
"Crack! Crack! Crack!"
The Aldor soldiers' muskets formed a deadly crossfire, unleashing a hail of lead bullets that rained down like hail. They struck the hide shields with dull "thud" sounds, while many more pierced through gaps in the shields or found their mark on exposed flesh.
The charging formation began to crumble. Orcs fell wounded and dead in rapid succession, but the relentless flow of orcs behind them continued to push forward, paving a path to the city walls with corpses and the wounded.
One hundred paces! Fifty paces!
Finally, the siege ladders were raised high, like black thorns swaying against the walls. Orc warriors let out triumphant roars as they scrambled to climb them.
But waiting for them was an even more brutal blow. Grenades with burning fuses rained down like hail, instantly filling the air with screams of agony.
On the lake, the gunboats adjusted their cannons, aiming their broadside guns at the dense mass of orcs gathered beneath the walls. They unleashed a close-range grapeshot barrage, sending a storm of iron shot and shrapnel sweeping across the battlefield like the scythe of death, reaping swaths of lives.
Wave after wave of orc warriors charged like moths drawn to a flame, their corpses piling up layer upon layer beneath the south wall of Rockfort Fortress. Blood soaked the grass, forming dark red streams that flowed toward Blackwater Lake.
Siege ladders shattered, shield walls crumbled, but Abal's War Banner still flew high. Orc warriors continued to arrive in droves, their eyes burning with the same fanaticism, trampling over the remains of their fallen comrades to launch another assault.
Yet each charge was reduced to futile ashes within the deadly web woven by the muskets and cannons of the Aldor army.
Three days!
The air around Blackwater Lake was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder, blood, and burning tar, making it impossible to distinguish one from the other.
Outside the south wall of Rockfort Fortress, the grassy field had been transformed into a "corpse mound"—a towering heap of corpses, broken siege ladders, shattered shields, and blood-soaked mud. Crows circled in flocks, pecking at exposed limbs and emitting chilling screeches.
The fortress walls were riddled with bullet holes, and several battlements had collapsed, but the main structure remained standing firm. Aldor soldiers on the ramparts took turns standing guard, the roar of muskets and cannons now the constant backdrop of this land. Even their breaths tasted of gunpowder.
And Abal, standing on a high platform, no longer possessed the composure he had shown during the first battle.
His black iron armor was stained with dust and the blood of unknown soldiers. His eyes, bloodshot and strained, were fixed on the fortress that stood defiant amidst the smoke and flames. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug deep into his palms, yet he felt no pain.
Three days.
For three full days, he had leveraged the full weight of the Chieftain's Tent, summoning tens of thousands of fresh recruits from the depths of the Grassland. Like waves crashing against a rocky shore, they surged forward, one after another, against Rockfort Fortress. He cared nothing for casualties; he intended to crush their will with sheer numbers, to fill the trenches with blood.
But the stone fortress stood firm, like a giant boulder rooted deep in the earth, unmoved by the relentless assault.
Each charge was torn apart by musket fire and cannon blasts. Each attempt to approach the walls was repelled by rolling logs and exploding bombs. The Aldorians' firepower was far more intense and their organization far more disciplined than he had anticipated. What chilled him even further was the constant presence of the Lake Gunboat Fleet on his flank, ready to provide support at any moment, preventing him from truly encircling the fortress.
He was growing anxious because time was slipping away, supplies were dwindling, and morale was quietly eroding amidst the mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.
He was furious because this was no longer a setback on Aldor's own soil.
In Aldor, he could have explained their defeat to the tribal elders by citing the long supply lines, unfavorable terrain, and difficult logistics. After all, that was human territory, where they knew the mountains and rivers intimately and held a natural advantage.
But this is the Grassland!
This is the orcs' ancestral homeland! The land where their ancestors had roamed for a thousand years! The wind is their messenger, the grass their cover, and the earth their mother!
The humans are the true foreigners here, far from their homeland, deep in enemy territory. Their supply lines are long, every brick and cannon shell brought from the distant south. By rights, they should be the ones exhausted and worn down by this protracted campaign!
Yet now, these foreign invaders have built a fortress of iron and stone in the very heart of the Grassland, controlling the lake and shattering his Chieftain's Tent's authority time and again with storms of fire and iron at the fortress walls!
If he, Abal, couldn't defeat this human Expeditionary Force on his own land, with an overwhelming numerical advantage, what face would he have left to command the tribes of the Grassland?
What excuse could he offer after such a defeat?
"Could it be..." he murmured, standing on the high platform, gazing at the fortress silhouette barely visible through the smoke. His voice was low, almost a self-questioning whisper, yet it carried a hint of doubt he hadn't even realized he harbored. "...that we... have fallen behind the times?"
(End of the Chapter)
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