Translator: CinderTL
"The Lucky Forest?" The emissary frowned. The name had never been marked on the Chieftain's Tent's war maps.
"Years ago, human ships first appeared at the mouth of the Black Water Valley," Grum said, his voice laced with deep concern. "At first, they were just a few trading posts, but their camps spread through the forest like mushrooms. Our scouts have been there. They say the humans wear strange clothing and fly two flags, both with crimson backgrounds. One bears a five-pointed star wrapped in gears, the other a black dragon emblem. Worse, they've subdued or coerced our distant kin in the forest, either through force or bribery. These humans wield formidable power."
The emissary suddenly remembered something. "Alden? Grayman?"
Having personally fought against the Northwest Legion, he was familiar with the two flags the Old Chieftain described. The first belonged to the so-called Northwest Customs Union, while the second was the Northwest Legion's battle standard, derived from the Grayman Family's clan emblem.
Grum nodded heavily. "The name you mentioned is often spoken among the Forest Orcs. These humans haven't just occupied the forest; they've also recruited warriors from local Orc Clans. Even the edges of the Grassland are no longer safe."
The Old Chieftain pointed at the approaching fireline. "This is the third such raid since the Great Chieftain declared war on the humans. They strike without warning, never engaging our warriors directly. They always attack when we least expect it."
A young Orc Warrior interjected, "These humans who crawl out of the forest may not dare to face us head-on, but they possess incredible patience and tenacity. They'll lie in wait for three days and three nights just to find an opportunity to burn down a single ranch!"
The envoy's fists clenched involuntarily. He suddenly realized that Great Chieftain Abal wasn't just facing a southern campaign; he was also dealing with constant harassment from behind.
In the dawn mist of Black Worm's Nest, the rhythmic thud of marching feet startled the fledgling port city from its slumber.
Orc fisherman Batulu pushed open his creaking wooden window, his pupils dilating in shock. Dozens of massive warships filled the harbor, and a tide of black-clad soldiers was pouring onto the docks.
These weren't the familiar human merchant caravans or their guards. This was an army, a true army.
"By the Ancestral Spirits," he breathed, his pipe clattering to the muddy ground.
On the streets, Orc women frantically scooped up their children and huddled inside stone houses. Peeking through the cracks in their doors, they watched column after column of human soldiers march past in perfect unison, their leather boots drumming on the cobblestone streets like war drums.
The brass buttons on their deep blue uniforms gleamed coldly in the morning light, and the forest of bayonets swayed slightly with each step.
Even more terrifying were the iron monsters being dragged ashore by mules and horses. The mysterious machines, covered in oilcloth, revealed glimpses of their menacing forms as they bumped along: gaping black muzzles and ammunition boxes bearing the Alden Military Factory emblem.
There was no doubt—these were cannons. Many Forest Orcs had seen the cannons used by armed human merchant companies, but the ones passing before them now were larger, thicker, and far more terrifying.
Stanford sat behind his desk, his fingertips lightly tapping against a newly arrived battle report. Outside, the winter wind of the Lucky Forest howled, but the fire in the hearth kept the room warm and cozy.
"So, the Grassland Orcs have begun their counterattack?" he asked, looking up at the dust-covered Scout Captain standing before him.
"Yes, Lord Governor," the Scout Captain replied.
He unfolded a hand-drawn map marked with several red circles. "The Iron Jaw, Bloodhoof, and Graymane Tribes have united, forming a cavalry force of approximately eight hundred riders. Two days ago, they attempted to cross the Black Pine Forest Trail and directly assault our border outpost."
A slight smile played on Stanford's lips. "And then?"
The Scout Captain grinned. "Then they crashed headfirst into the Iron Thorns fortress. The Forest Orcs' poisoned arrows and our cannons drove them back before they even reached the walls."
Stanford rose and walked to the window, gazing north through the glass. Three years ago, this land had been a wilderness; now, a solid defensive line stood in its place.
"Casualties?"
"We suffered no fatalities, only two soldiers grazed by stray arrows. The native soldiers lost five hunters," the Scout Captain paused. "As for the Orc cavalry... we counted one hundred and twenty-seven corpses, and we estimate twice that number of wounded were dragged away."
"Your Excellency, news has arrived from Black Worm's Nest!"
His secretary burst into the room, pushing open the door. "A fleet has arrived at the harbor, carrying fifteen thousand troops—our own army!"
Stanford's hand trembled, causing the hot tea in his cup to slosh. He slowly set the cup down, his brow furrowed. "Are you certain they're troops, not immigrants or something else?"
"Absolutely certain, Your Excellency," the secretary replied. "The army is commanded by Baron Andrew, and at least twenty transport ships are unloading cannons and warhorses as we speak."
The officials in the office exchanged glances. Stanford rose to his feet, a puzzled murmur escaping his lips.
"Has Lord Grayman gone mad? Shouldn't we be concentrating our forces against Abal's main army? Why would he split our forces and send them here?"
The secretary handed him a sealed letter. "This was delivered by the messenger. Perhaps it contains the answer."
Stanford immediately broke the seal. The clear Grayman family crest on the wax seal made his expression turn serious.
He opened the letter, and Old Ford, the familiar handwriting of the Council of Administration's chief administrator, filled the page:
To His Excellency, Governor Stanford of the Northern Three Lands:
Lord Marquis is aware of your confusion regarding the landing operation at Black Worm's Nest. We hereby clarify the strategic deployment:
First, following a full mobilization, Northwest Bay has newly conscripted 36,000 reserve soldiers, 70% of whom are veteran soldiers with prior military service. The Alden Military Factory is working day and night, capable of arming eight newly formed regiments simultaneously.
Second, though the Orcs suffered a setback at Stonebridge Town, their homeland in the Grassland continues to produce fresh cavalry units. Passive defense will only prolong the war. Therefore, Lord Marquis has decided to launch a two-pronged offensive to completely crush Abal's war potential.
Third, General Andrew's Expeditionary Force will execute the Grassland Campaign. We urge the Northern Three Lands to provide full support, especially in securing the supply route from Lucky Forest to Black Worm's Nest."
Stanford's fingers trembled slightly as the strategic map on the letter ignited his blood. He envisioned countless human soldiers surging like a tide deep into the Grassland, with Abal's Chieftain's Tent collapsing under a pincer attack from north and south.
"So that's it..." he murmured, passing the letter to the officials beside him for review.
"Lord Grayman isn't dividing the army; he's simply doubled its size."
(End of the Chapter)
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