Translator: CinderTL
As the sun rose in the east, the vast grassland awoke in the wind. Green waves of grass rolled to the horizon, meeting the leaden gray clouds.
The distant horizon undulated slightly, like the sleeping spine of a giant beast. Amidst this desolate expanse, a massive army slowly advanced—
The 30,000-strong Alden Expeditionary Force snaked through the golden sea of grass like an iron serpent. Leading the vanguard was Baron Andrew himself, at the head of the light cavalry. The red banner of the Northwest Legion snapped in the wind. The cavalry scanned their surroundings warily, their carbines swaying gently in their saddle holsters with each stride.
Close behind came the main infantry column. Soldiers marched with steady steps, the metal forest of bayonets glinting coldly in the sunlight. The wooden wheels of the supply wagons crunched through the soft earth, leaving deep ruts in their wake.
The Forest Orc Auxiliary Force weaved between the ranks. They wore uniforms similar to those of the human soldiers, but several sizes larger. They carried bows and broadswords, their amber eyes constantly scanning the distant waves of grass.
Even more striking was the artillery train, pulled by mules and horses. Over thirty cannons of various calibers were covered in waterproof oilcloth, their heavy barrels clanging dully with each bump in the terrain.
On both flanks of the army, reconnaissance teams of militiamen from the Northern Three Lands spread out like tendrils. Riding short, sturdy ponies, they would disappear into the sea of grass only to reappear unexpectedly, signaling safety with flags.
The wind swept across the grassland, occasionally revealing bones hidden in the grass—perhaps the prey of wild wolves, or the remains of soldiers who had fallen long ago. High above, several steppe eagles circled, their sharp eyes watching the flood that had broken the grassland's tranquility.
As the army marched into the afternoon, Baron Andrew reined in his horse atop a low hill, his telescope scanning the endless sea of grass.
At that moment, a reconnaissance cavalryman galloped toward him, his horse's hooves kicking up a spray of grass clippings. "Report! Orc cavalry spotted five miles northeast, approximately two thousand riders, approaching in battle formation!"
Baron Andrew narrowed his eyes and adjusted his telescope. On the distant horizon, a faint, moving black line was visible—the dust raised by the Orc cavalry.
He showed no surprise, simply raising his hand calmly. "Halt the advance. Deploy into the prearranged defensive formation."
Before the Expeditionary Force had even set out, envoys from the Northern Three Lands had delivered an ultimatum to the Orc clans in this region: submit to Aldor or leave voluntarily.
But clearly, these Plains Warriors had chosen a third, unspoken option: to meet the human threat with curved sabers and bows.
"Looks like they want to test our mettle," Andrew sneered, turning to his adjutant. "Have the artillery company set up their positions immediately. Infantry squares will form a defensive line centered on the artillery, with cavalry screening the flanks."
As the bugle blared, the Expeditionary Force moved with mechanical precision. Infantrymen quickly dropped their packs and drew their bayonets, forming tight squares under the officers' commands.
Artillerymen peeled back the tarpaulins, and the heavy gun carriages were swiftly secured to the ground, their dark muzzles pointed toward the northeastern sky.
Andrew raised his telescope, and the Grassland Orc Cavalry was now clearly visible. They wore mismatched leather armor, brandishing curved sabers and howling ferociously as they charged. The leading riders waved banners emblazoned with a snarling wolf's head.
It was clear that these Grassland Orcs were poorly equipped, far inferior to Abal's forces. This was no surprise, as the Grassland was naturally resource-poor and technologically backward. Abal had seized and taken away most of the superior military equipment when he invaded Aldor.
Andrew turned to the messenger and ordered, "Tell the Artillery to hold fire until they're within four hundred yards."
The Orc cavalry charged like a tidal wave, their iron hooves crushing the dry grass. Their curved blades flashed blindingly in the sunlight as they unleashed deafening war cries, as if determined to crush the invading human army completely—
Until the first cannon blast tore through the sky.
"Fire!"
At the officers' command, the human formation erupted in a deadly volley of fire. Twenty-four cannons roared simultaneously, their shells arcing perfectly through the air before detonating amidst the densest ranks of the Orc cavalry.
The exploding shrapnel flipped horses and reaped lives like scythes, turning the grassland into a scene of carnage.
Before the Orc cavalry could recover from the shock of the explosions, the thunderous roar of a volley of muskets followed. Three infantry squares took turns firing, the white smoke from their flintlock muskets quickly forming a wall of fog before the lines.
Lead bullets rained down like a storm, piercing leather armor, shattering bones, and halting the charge just a hundred yards from the human lines.
The most valiant Orc Centurion led dozens of cavalry through the withering hail of fire, only to be met with the final death trap just thirty yards away: artillery grapeshot. Hundreds of lead pellets sprayed out in a fan shape, instantly turning the charging riders and their mounts into sieves.
In a mere ten minutes, the first wave of the Orc assault had been utterly annihilated. The surviving Orc cavalry scattered in terror, like a wounded wolf pack circling the human battle line. Their warhorses, panicked by the stench of blood, dared not approach the iron jungle that spewed death.
Andrew lowered his spyglass, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Send the order: no pursuit. Let them take today's lesson back to their Orc Clan."
After a second futile attempt, the Orc cavalry chose to retreat, carrying their wounded comrades with them. Many glanced back at the human battle line, their eyes no longer filled with contempt but with profound fear.
The Forest Orcs, held in reserve, stared wide-eyed, their rough fingers instinctively loosening their grip on their bowstrings. They had never witnessed such a massive display of firearms—no clashing steel, no flesh-on-flesh combat, only the rhythmic roar of volley fire and the deadly tongues of flame belched forth by the cannons.
"Mother Earth..." a Forest Orc murmured, watching the Plains Orc Cavalry fall in droves in the distance. Those Plains Warriors who once struck fear into the hearts of the Forest Orcs were now as vulnerable as harvested wheat. The explosions hurled soil mixed with limbs and severed arms into the sky, which then rained down like blood.
"Thank goodness..." his voice trembled slightly. "We're on the side with the cannons."
His companions nodded silently, their rough faces etched with awe and lingering fear.
By the time they finished clearing the battlefield, evening was approaching. Andrew ordered them to set up camp.
As he spread out a map inside his newly erected tent, heavy footsteps approached. It was Gromta, the burly Forest Orc now serving as the militia captain appointed by the Northern Three Territory Governor's Office. His rugged face wore an unusually grave expression.
"Baron Andrew," Gromta's voice was low and raspy, with the distinctive guttural tones of the Forest Orcs. "I believe it's my duty to warn you." He raised a hand, pointing into the pitch-black depths of the Grassland. "Orcs' eyes are sharp even in the dark."
"You're worried they might launch a night attack?" Andrew asked, but immediately smiled. "But we've prepared a secret weapon as well."
(End of the Chapter)
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