Chapter 31 - Skaven

If it were an ordinary skaven, discovering a troublesome opponent suddenly retreating would be cause for celebration. But Gnolandor, the Elder of Clan Mors, was not among them. Based on his understanding of the Angrund Clan, he knew that these stubborn bearded folk would definitely return.

If Belegar Ironhammer were allowed to gather more strength from elsewhere, his troubles would only increase. Therefore, when Clan Eshin excused themselves from taking the job, he organized his own scouts and finally found Belegar's whereabouts.

In the Skaven Empire, the leader of a clan is often not the strongest fighter. Gromril only learned after transmigrating and consulting 資料 that the legendary lords of the five skaven factions in the game were not members of the Council of Thirteen.

This is probably because the strength of skaven powerhouses is suppressed by the racial talent cap, making them less prominent compared to other races. At the same time, their numbers are simply too vast, so the ability to efficiently mobilize large armies is more important than individual martial prowess.

"This, this far?"

Queek read the map on the table by the dim candlelight, discovering that reaching Belegar's location would require crossing half of the Badlands. His sharpest claws, the mushroom-things, were not afraid of Clan Mors, but his claw-pack would suffer considerable losses.

"Yes, Yes, that stone, stone head, somehow got enlightened." Gnolandor curled up in his chair. He had somewhat anticipated Clan Eshin's unusual behavior, but in this situation, he had to completely eliminate the Angrund Clan before he could freely deal with the Evil Moon greenskins entrenched in the upper levels of the Mountain Stronghold.

"I need, need a lot of scions."

Queek twitched his claws. He liked violence, but he wasn't a pure brute. He had fought Belegar and knew how resilient that fellow and his group of iron cans were. When they formed a shield wall, even elites wielding long halberds found it difficult to strike.

"You, you only have your main body. But, but over at Crooked Peak, you can take, take my orders to consolidate them."

Gnolandor shook his head. Clan Mors was not short on manpower, but long-distance campaigns presented a huge problem for provisions. skaven metabolism was too fast; once they faced food shortages, they would quickly lose their combat effectiveness.

"They, they are, are just unweaned scions in front of Clan Mors!" Queek cursed. He didn't trust the combat power of those smaller clans, and he had absolute pride in his own clan.

"This, this is an order!" Gnolandor narrowed his skaven eyes, which were not clouded by age. Queek's tall body trembled as he recalled the cruel training and punishments he had once endured.

In Karak Drazh, Gromril completed the ritual. He looked at the healed wounded and the refreshed Mountain Stronghold, smiling as he accepted the cheers and prayers of his clansmen.

"Warriors, kinsmen, under the guidance of the Ancestor Gods, life will only get better and better! Now let us enjoy sweet wine and thank Their grace."

As he spoke, the guard delivered barrels of fine wine. Gromril stepped down from the platform, preparing to celebrate with his clansmen to relieve the fatigue of the long journey. He still had to stay here for several days; serious matters could wait until tomorrow.

"Respected Ancestor Chosen, my lady has some private matters she wishes to discuss with you. I wonder if you are available?" The first cup of wine was barely empty when a Clansman with a glint in his eye approached his ear under the guise of offering a toast.

Gromril was slightly stunned. He couldn't recall any lady in this place. As if sensing his hesitation, the man lifted his cloak, revealing the gleaming brass armor beneath.

"Karak Izor!"

Gromril remembered the group of Brass Guards he had fought alongside in Barren Fort. "Lead the way."

Karak Drazh, even at its peak, was only the size of an outpost. The currently repaired and usable section was not very large. After going up one floor and turning two corners, Gromril arrived at the door guarded by several Brass Guards.

"Thank you for gracing us with your presence. I am Belegar's wife; you may call me Anya." A young female dwarf bowed to him. As if to match the simple surroundings, her attire was relatively plain, with only a few ornaments to signify her status.

"Lady Anya, you wish to see me, what is the important matter?" A mug of beer was nothing to the King of the Southern Lands now; his active mind quickly made predictions. Gromril had heard of her; she was the second daughter of Lagos, Lord of Copper Mountain Hold.

"Firstly, I wish to express my gratitude to you. Without your guidance, there would be no thriving situation here. Belegar has a stubborn temper, and if there are any offensive remarks, I ask for your understanding." Lady Anya's personality was completely different from her assertive elder sister.

"You are too kind; I merely convey Their will." Gromril raised an eyebrow, replying indifferently.

"Is that so? If you say so, then it is." Anya smiled sweetly, clearly not believing him. dwarf noblewomen often spent more time on rituals and prayers than their husbands, and not receiving a response inevitably led to certain deductions.

"Hmm, and then there are matters concerning my mother's family. Although my father once had some rivalry with your father, he holds you in utmost respect and trust."

"I understand." Gromril nodded. This was the substance of the conversation; it seemed his achievements in all aspects had eliminated the last bit of discord in the Old World.

"There are three of us sisters. My eldest sister and I have both married far away. According to my father's wishes, he wants to find a son-in-law for my youngest sister so that Copper Mountain Hold will have an heir." Gromril was about to get up, but Anya had not finished speaking.

"But my youngest sister has always admired heroes like you, and none of the candidates have caught her eye. I wonder if you have any thoughts on Karak Izor?" Before the dwarf woman finished speaking, Gromril's expression had already darkened.

"Lady Anya, this is a bit too much…"

"Others would naturally be adopted into the family, but if it were you, you would only need to leave one son to inherit my mother's ancestral temple." Anya quickly added.

"Allow me to consider it."

Gromril took the teacup and drank it all. He did indeed feel that he should think about it; not to mention others, even Balin by his side was already engaged.

At Everpeak, Thorgrim had immediately rejected this princess of Copper Mountain Hold, but who knew her dowry would be so generous? The prosperity of Karak Izor was the confidence Lagos had to compete with Thorgrim.

This Mountain Stronghold monopolized the Vaults Mountains, had a large population, and a relatively safe surrounding environment, radiating influence to the Border Princes and the Tilean Federation. Even when attacking Skavenblight, she would be a crucial fulcrum.

Gromril stared at the lady opposite, trying to read something from her face. Perhaps what prompted her to do this was also the contact between his clan and Belegar's cousin.

"I still need to consider it; this isn't something that can be decided in a day or two." Gromril exchanged a few polite words and then left the room. As one of the main guests at the banquet, he shouldn't disappear for too long.

Lady Anya understood Gromril's situation. His sister had already decided to marry far away in Norsca. This marriage alliance was of great significance to the entire Mountains Kingdom and required a considerably long preparation period. Only after those matters were settled could Gromril's affairs be officially put on the agenda.

In the following days, Gromril and Prince Kazrik, accompanied by Belegar, surveyed Karak Drazh's defenses. Having endured the grinder of Eight Peaks Mountain, Belegar and his subordinates were still quite at ease at this stage.

"Is King Kazador's idea to start now, and in one go, completely open up Iron Peak Fortress and the Southlands?" In the conference room, the three parties were conducting their final negotiations.

"Is there a problem?" The Iron Peak Fortress heir was very impatient. Gromril felt that his elder brother was better than him when he was young.

"Even if we use this as a transit point and divide the entire journey into two sections, the intermediate distance is still very long. We need to build a small outpost in each section to ensure control over the passage."

It took Gromril ten days to reach Karak Drazh, and that was with a very fast marching speed. Although the path would be easier once the Geomantic Web was rectified in the future, it would also not be as urgent as this time.

"Of course, I'd be happy to be responsible for the northern one. Reclaiming and repairing places that once belonged to us, I think, would be the best offering to Father Grungni." Prince Kazrik seemed very optimistic about his mission.

"Here, Dringrakka, there's a ruin of an outpost. You know, with the craftsmanship of our ancestors, buildings don't completely collapse even after thousands of years." He pointed to a location between Karak Drazh and Iron Peak Fortress.

"Manpower…"

"Perhaps Master Ironbrow has conveyed it to you: since the time of my father, His Majesty Kazador, every axe of Iron Peak Fortress has been ready to serve in connecting the Southlands!"

The prince's booming voice echoed in the conference room. His resolute declaration earned him a round of applause and praise. Iron Peak Fortress had been shouting this slogan for three years, and now it was finally time for action.

Gromril frowned again. Experience told him that things wouldn't be that simple, but it was clear that at this juncture, Prince Kazrik and even the entire Iron Peak Fortress were impatient. He could only hope that the fortress, isolated for a thousand years, had enough strength.

"Good, I will drive out the Green Skins from the Misty Mountain and build a new outpost by the Poisonwater River." Gromril also circled a spot on the map. It was also near Acid Bay, and perhaps it would have other uses in the future.

"I will take this news back today. In Grimnir's name, all those who usurp the Mountains shall be judged! I will set out with Karak-Azul's book of grudges!" The prince slammed the table and stood up, walking directly out of the conference room.

"Oh, I also have something to discuss with you." Gromril called out to Belegar, who was about to leave.

"Hmm?"

"I mean, the order you entrusted me to send to Zhufbar, is it very urgent?" The King of the Southern Lands had a slight smirk on his face.

"It's… it's alright, why?" Belegar was momentarily stunned.

"It's like this: I've also established an Engineers Guild here. The president is Brockson, the youngest Engineering Master, so there's absolutely no problem with the technology. If you order from me, you can save on expensive sea freight. What do you think?"

After the railway was completed, Gromril's engineers became idle. When he first conquered the Southlands, Gromril bought a large number of weapons from the Old World to quickly form combat power. Now that his territory had little development potential, he turned his attention to Belegar to find a market.

"I think that's fine."

After a long period of struggle, the master of the Angrund Clan understood who could provide him with the most important support. He did not go against Gromril's wishes in this matter.

With new orders, Gromril set off on his return journey. This time, without the burden of women, children, and goods, the team's progress was faster. After a dusty journey back to Red Cloud Mountain, Gromril received two more pieces of good news.

"I, Vahhaf, have come by the command of my Imperial Father, The Undying Emperor."

Outside Red Cloud Mountain City, an army of Khemri Tomb Kings assembled. As a War Sphinx slowly knelt on its front paws, a very tall skeleton descended from the palanquin.

"Greetings to you and His Majesty Settra."

Gromril said politely. Nagash's terrifying magic had resurrected all the dead buried in Nehekhara, and leaders from different periods of various dynasties appeared simultaneously. Each commanded his own funerary legion.

Vahhaf, as Settra's heir, was a formidable desert general with few rivals. After his ascension, he campaigned extensively, repelling various enemy forces and defending the territory conquered by The Undying Emperor.

"The specific situation is clearly written in the letter. The defense line of Casket Canyon is entrusted to you."

Gromril was very confident in this Tomb King army. Khemri was at its peak when Vahhaf was interred, and his forces had everything from monsters and behemoths to Soul Caskets and chariots. Such a group of sleepless, eternal sentinels would be enough to keep the enemy out of the canyon.

"It shall be so. I shall crush the jackal's minions!"

Nagash was Settra's direct descendant, and therefore Vahhaf's. The kings of Khemri's various generations undoubtedly hated that unfilial descendant who would destroy even his own homeland.

"My master sent word; he has finally figured out how to create Rune Guardians."

Watching the last of the skeletons disappear from sight, Master Nathan stepped forward.

"He truly lives up to his name! It's a pity that the revered Thurni is ahead of him!" Gromril praised greatly. He had found thirty Rune Guardians from Highland Fortress, but to repay the aid of various factions, he gave one to this group, one to that, and truly had few left in his own hands.

The remaining ones were deployed to Demonbane Fortress when it was just completed and its defenses were weakest. This meant Gromril never had the chance to include these massive, animated stone statues in his own forces.

It was gratifying that when fighting the low-tier undead pouring out of the Corpse Pit, these fellows were almost impervious to the decaying weapons of the undead, and their own powerful, heavy attacks could directly smash skeletons to dust, achieving considerable kills.

"Master created a new one, but you know his temperament; he immediately went back to researching the Colossus after finishing this."

Brother Nathan handed a design drawing to Gromril. Master Krag refused to do repetitive work, but he still sent over his research results.

"It doesn't look too difficult to manufacture, or rather, the entire Rune Guardian is actually divided into three parts." Gromril rushed to his workshop with the design blueprints.

"The stone body, the inscribed runes, and the weapon in its hand—each part can be produced independently. My apprentices have work again! How can this be called exploitation? It's called giving them valuable practical opportunities. To be able to participate in such an important project right after starting out, they should be grateful!"

The Rune Master, who had barely done any hands-on work since passing the assessment, muttered as he studied. Rune Guardians were more common in ancient times, and the current Southlands is fully capable of producing them.

"Gather all the skilled craftsmen in my territory! Stonemasons, blacksmiths, and Rune users! I want two of these guardians at every gate of the four fortresses!"

"They will become the Southlands' flagship product! Every Karak will need these guys; they can free up valuable manpower." Gromril pondered the use cases for Rune Guardians. They were good in every way, except for their slow movement speed, making them mostly suitable for defense.

"Perhaps we can adjust them during production, try adding some speed runes. But that's not urgent; future product updates and upgrades will be another source of income!" Gromril quickly put that aside; he had more important things to do.

"How many people have been freed up from the eastern front?" A few days later, Gromril summoned Andumgar, who had returned from rotating shifts.

"About five hundred of our kin, and over a thousand from other races," the Western Depot Supervisor gave a somewhat vague number, which was understandable. Previously, Red Cloud Mountain's forces were stretched thin, and all combat-capable Bretonnians, Imperials, and Pygmies had been mobilized.

"Good, good. Since King Vahhaf has taken over the defensive line, you don't need to stay there anymore. Go back and help me keep an eye on the Rune Guardian production line. For now, it's best that this technology doesn't leak out!"

After assigning new tasks, Gromril began reorganizing the troops. Since he had promised to deliver even with difficulties, a multi-racial mixed force set off north from Red Cloud Mountain a few days later.

The Greenskins in the Misty Mountain had not yet spawned a new Warboss. Warbands consisting of a hundred to over a thousand orks had little power to resist Gromril's army. But defeating them was easy; completely eliminating them was very difficult.

"Yes, just like that!"

"young'un, how much strength can you put into that hammer swing?"

"Waaagh!"

"Hahaha, that's the eighth one!"

In a valley, the dwarves had cornered a group of Greenskins who weren't quick enough to retreat, and were now fighting fiercely. Gromril stood on the mountaintop, observing the battle. The sweep had been going on for over ten days, and this was perhaps the last stubbornly resisting warband south of the Poisonwater River.

"No green mushrooms have come from the north to reinforce them." Altman jumped out of a helicopter. As the Dragons fell into slumber, the skies above the World's Edge Mountains were now dominated by beasts called Wyverns.

These Wyverns are winged reptiles that feed on carrion, making their bodies poisonous. Although their name contains 'dragon,' they bear only the most insignificant resemblance to true Dragons.

Wyverns are much smaller than Dragons, only slightly larger than Griffons, and lack forelimbs, possessing only two hind legs. Wyverns are cruel and violent by nature, but some powerful ork Warbosses still attempt to tame them.

Gromril had acquired another squadron of helicopters, and these relatively easier-to-deal-with creatures were the perfect practice targets for rookie pilots. Altman commanded his subordinates to successfully gain air superiority.

"The plan isn't working; training ends here! Tell the artillery to open fire! Let's finish this quickly so we can move on."

Seeing through his telescope that the Greenskins had nowhere left to retreat and were beginning a desperate last stand, Gromril shook his head and gave the order. It seemed that the previous series of battles had made the Greenskins in this area realize the disparity in combat power, and his idea of surrounding a point to draw in reinforcements had fallen through.

Just as Gromril was methodically using the Greenskins in the Misty Mountain to train his army in multi-racial and air-ground coordinated tactics, in a wilderness north of Everpeak and east of Karak Kadrin, a Green Prophet ork Shaman riding a giant War Boar sneezed.

"The cunning and brutal Mork told me that the lads in the south are in trouble!"

Urzag - Green Prophet rubbed his nose under his mask. He and the Savage Orcs who followed him had been trekking through this wasteland for a long time, guided by the two great gods in his mind, but he hadn't seen anything interesting apart from huge skeletons.

"But the brutal and cunning Gork told me again that I'm almost there! The most, most, most Waaagh guy is waiting for me, and he needs my guidance!"

Urzag swayed painfully from side to side. The Big 'Uns around him instinctively kept their distance from the prophet. Gork and Mork liked to fight, and if there was no fight to be had, they would fight each other.

Right now, the two great gods were fighting in Urzag's mind, and large amounts of Waaagh energy were uncontrollably spilling out. It was common for Greenskins with weaker endurance to have their heads explode from the impact.

"Waaagh!"

Urzag's roaring outburst even drowned out the howling north wind on the Bone Plateau.

"Phew, lads, keep moving forward! To the south is that strange dwarf, and he's a tough nut to crack now!"

Once the Green Prophet calmed down, the Greenskin army continued its march, heading towards the terrifying city veiled in smoke and spewing lava, as Gork had revealed in the Big Waaagh.

"This is the place!"

After crushing a few more small warbands, Gromril led his army downriver to the estuary. Standing on the mountaintop, the Dwarf King overlooked the vast, endless bay.

"To the east of Jieshi, to behold the boundless sea!"

He took out his telescope to observe further, while reciting the poem etched in his mind. "Wei Wu, no, it should be, Gromril cracked his whip, leaving a legacy at Jieshi in the east, the bleak autumn wind is here again, a changed world."

"You even study Cathay literature! Karaz-A-Karak truly lives up to its name as the starting point of the Long Tooth Road!"

Erik, standing behind him, flattered him. As a noble, he had received a better education, while the other commoner generals couldn't understand Cathayan at all and didn't know where to begin to agree.

"From now on, this mountain will be called Jieshi Mountain!"

Gromril tightened his cloak. The more he grew and trained, the more he realized his shortcomings. Managing the Southlands already felt complex, and now further expansion brought new challenges.

"Leave some brothers to build a stronghold, and the others rest up before continuing! King Belegar will cooperate with us in the latter half."

No new Dwarf Holds had been built since the Dark Ages, but fortunately, many clansmen who came to the Southlands to make a living had previously worked in human society and possessed extensive construction experience.

Gromril requested that a port location be reserved, even if the Lizardmen on the eastern coast of the Southern World's Edge Mountains would not easily break the agreement, it was still good to have an extra preparation.

"These greenskins have been scared out of their wits, warriors of the Angrund Clan! Chase them down, cut off their filthy heads, and consider it a small interest payment on ancient grudges!"

After a short rest, Gromril waited for Belegar's reinforcing troops. When planning, perhaps to demonstrate his strength and gain more say in future cooperation after the passage was opened, Belegar insisted on sending troops to assist the Southlands and Iron Peak Fortress.

Seeing his firm attitude and eagerness for battle, and considering that Karak Drazh was relatively stable at the time, Gromril and Kazrik agreed to his request.

King Ruan Ironhammer insisted on taking charge of Gromril's side. The last master of Eight Peaks Mountain fortress stood in the center of the battlefield, wildly swinging his similarly ethereal warhammer, attacking the surrounding enemies.

When they found that their hacks and smashes passed directly through the spirits, causing almost no damage, and their comrades fell one after another, even the Waagh-ing ork Big 'Uns were scared out of their wits.

"Causing fear and terror to the enemy, my Stone Form should have the same effect."

The Ancestor Gods were in their element against physical-attack-focused greenskins, so Gromril had no chance to strike, only stroked his beard and watched the battle calmly. In the game, these two effects often appeared simultaneously, manifesting as a leadership penalty for all enemy units and causing their melee targets to rout within a short period.

"Your Majesty, your anvil of doom is glowing!"

Just as he was pondering where to go next, the new captain of the Anvil Guard cried out.

"Where's the message from? Red Cloud Mountain? Everpeak or Sea Gate?"

Gromril's heart tightened. He was currently campaigning, and no one would contact him via communication runes unless it was extremely urgent. Getting a call in the middle of a game was annoying enough, let alone having his anvil struck in the middle of a battle.

"Karak Drazh, requesting aid, rats!" The message was very brief.

"Stop chasing, fall back! Get me the map!" Gromril roared. He quickly replied that he had received it, then spread out the map to assess the situation. "Still a hundred kilometers to go, with greenskins along the way, and possibly skaven ambushes."

"Who's on the northern line?"

"Ancestor Dramar Hammerfist, his troops are the same as ours here!" The King of the Southern Lands' question was answered.

"So that's two Ancestor Gods plus a thousand men. Belegar only has a few hundred able-bodied soldiers besides his artillery crews." Gromril licked his lips. Although the order came suddenly, his troops quickly regrouped.

"A forced march will take at least two days. The human children and the little black ones need rest; they are far less resilient than the Sons of the Mountains!"

Gotrek Gurnisson's voice was a little hoarse from continuous powerful battle cries. He wiped his great axe while loading his organ gun one cartridge at a time. Having traveled this route more than twenty times, his experience was reliable.

"But without assistance from other races, our breakthrough speed will also be limited." Erik was relatively more conservative. "But what about Iron Peak Fortress? They might be very close to Karak Drazh already."

"They are even further away than us." Gromril shook his head; he had been in contact with Thorek Ironbrow. "By that calculation, Belegar will likely struggle to hold out until reinforcements arrive."

"Altman, refuel the helicopters. We have to use that contingency plan."

"This, this is too risky, Your Majesty! The deployment capability…" No matter how enterprising, the engineer from Sea Gate was still a dwarf, and a completely unprecedented approach made him unable to help but advise against it.

"Do you have a better plan? If not, then do as I say!"

The news of Karak Drazh being attacked spread throughout the army along with the order. Everyone realized the seriousness of the problem, and soon eight helicopters and members of the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood gathered together.

"Get in the baskets, the last bloodline of the Angrund Clan is waiting for us!"

Gromril pointed to the passenger platforms attached beneath the helicopters. The Longbeard Elders looked at each other in dismay. Crossing the ocean was already a challenge for the Sons of the Mountains; flying into the sky was far beyond their acceptance.

"May the Ancestor Gods and His Majesty Gromril bless us!"

"By Grungni's beard, this thing better not crash."

"Before, we had nothing, but at least we had solid ground beneath our feet…"

These elite veterans, despite their complaints and grumbling, meticulously carried out the seemingly unconventional order. After them, Gotrek Gurnisson and King Ruan also squeezed into the baskets.

"I'm entrusting the main force to you. Get to Karak Drazh as quickly as possible, but also be careful of possible ambushes along the way!"

After giving a final two instructions to the generals from different races, Gromril also squeezed in. To reduce weight, he did not choose Anvil Guard equipped with meteorite iron armor, nor did he carry his own anvil of doom.

"Depart!"

"Buzz buzz buzz!"

The rotors spun rapidly, and eight helicopters simultaneously lifted off. Due to the increased load, they adjusted in the air for a while before flying north.

"How, how is the battle going?"

In the shade of the fortress's outer wall, Queek Headtaker meticulously sharpened his warpstone warblades.

"The dwarf is, is piled up in the, in the alleys, tough, tough to crack!" A strong Stormvermin with many scars on his body reported to his superior.

"Normal, this, this is his, his expected value." Queek nodded. He had fought Belegar several times at Eight Peaks Mountain before, and he knew the power of the Holy Hammer and the difficulty of the Ancestor Gods.

"We blocked, blocked three, three waves of messengers requesting aid. Those short, short legs can't, can't escape!"

The Stormvermin continued, this was a key to victory that skaven had concluded thousands of years ago: as long as contact with the outside world was cut off, the fall of even the strongest fortress was only a matter of time.

"Yes, Yes!" Queek clapped his two warblades together in front of his chest, then made a cross-slash in the air. Listening to the pleasant whooshing sound, the strongest rat of Clan Mors stretched his neck twice.

"Let, let those inferiors charge, charge first! But, but warn them, Belegar's, Belegar's head belongs only to Queek!"

Listening to the dense gunfire, weapon clashes, and the loud voices of the dwarves inside the walls, Queek knew it wasn't his time to strike yet.

The skaven currently rushing towards the fortress are poorly equipped and adorned with chaotic markings. The small clans living in Crooked Peak have submitted to Mors, the most powerful Warlord clan, providing cannon fodder for Queek's operations.

skaven tactics are very traditional, but have proven extremely effective over thousands of years of bloody warfare. They use a large number of cannon fodder to exhaust the dwarves' ammunition and stamina, and then, once the shield wall is fatigued, they use elite troops as a hammer to break them.

Of course, the premise of this tactic is to ensure that the besieged dwarves are isolated and without aid. Under the careful guidance of the old Gnolandor, Queek has mastered the techniques of tunnel warfare. No messenger could break out of Karak Drazh before, nor will any after.

"Move! Move!"

A small Warlord drove his subordinates. Gnolandor understood the art of combining both carrot and stick; in addition to coercion and threats, he also offered rewards—war beasts, weapons, female skaven, and even secret elixirs for extending life—but all of this had to be exchanged for skaven lives.

"Stupid, stupid bearded things will at least… at least three days to realize the problem. With their… their small steps to rush back, we have… we have five days!" Queek observed the battle from afar, calculating in his mind.

He left Pillar City and traveled south. After infiltrating and scouting, he found that Belegar's forces were even larger than before. Just as Headtaker was frantically pacing, unsure whether to seek reinforcements, a scout reported that the dwarves had actually split a thousand men into two groups and sent them out.

Headtaker decisively seized this opportunity. The skaven easily dealt with a small number of sentinels and breached the outermost city wall. The absolute numerical disadvantage forced Belegar to abandon the idea of driving the skaven out and instead contract his defensive line.

Soon after, that small clan retreated, with the Warlord dragging his weapon and leading the charge, scuttling away with his head in his hands.

"Tail-Breaker, you… you guys go!"

Queek indifferently pointed out another wave of rats. He was brave but not reckless.

"Are the blocking… blocking troops in position?" He immediately asked his adjutant.

"Yes, yes!"

Queek calculated in his mind: as long as the war's progress was controlled, when the two dwarf detachments, exhausted from harassment, rushed back, they would be met by the heads of their fallen comrades piled into a Jingguan and the sharpened weapons of the skaven.

If everything went according to plan, the Angrund Clan, their adversary that had plagued them for thousands of years, would be utterly annihilated. Waiting in place always angered the skaven. Queek paced back and forth, his tail stirring up dust on the ground.

The scent of blood and the call of victory made his mind race. He thought about how he would torment his old adversary, how he would reach the pinnacle of his skaven life, and even thought of the legendary era of the skaven.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" Suddenly, a strange, unprecedented sound appeared.

Minutes earlier, the dwarves in the air saw a large group of rats on the hillside. Gromril pulled out his telescope, his gaze drawn to a large mass of red. After quickly adjusting the focus, he clearly saw a group of Stormvermin clad in scarlet armor.

"It is indeed Clan Mors, then…"

The Transmigrator searched for that 'haunting' figure. The excellent Zhufbar telescope did not disappoint him. Seeing the highly recognizable trophy rack within the rat horde, Gromril was so excited that he left imprints on the metal scope.

That set of equipment, from afar, might have resembled a Chaos Champion under the Lord of Skulls. But whether Khorne would favor cowardly skaven, and whether the skaven were worthy of giving their faith to a god other than The Great Horned Rat, is for another time. In this moment, he represented only one fellow—

"Queek Headtaker!"

Gromril snapped his telescope shut with a 'clack!' He uttered the name that would, in the future, earn the respect of orks, the fear of Goblins, and make dwarves grit their teeth in hatred.

"Your Majesty, what do we do next?" Altman poked his head out of the cockpit. The helicopters hovered in mid-air, awaiting their Lord's command.

"Like so!" Gromril's eyes were filled with murderous intent.

"Everyone, Venerated God Grimnir tells me that among the rats invading the fortress is a Great Enemy of the Mountains. Do you dare to follow me and slay him!" He roared at the elites in the gondolas. As for which specific one, the distinctive equipment made it clear at a glance.

"Great Enemy of the Mountains? Do mere skaven even qualify!"

"Is he even as thick as one toe of Nurgle's First Greater Daemon?"

"Back in Kislev, I didn't retreat an inch facing the Chosen Guard of Asavar Kul!"

The Daemon Slayer Brotherhood grumbled with disdain. These veterans had seen grand spectacles. What if they were skaven elites? It was merely a difference of whether one axe blow felled three or two.

Queek and his subordinates squinted their rat eyes, searching for the source of the sound. The skaven, having long operated in dim tunnels, found their vision greatly impaired by the dazzling sunlight on the surface.

When the helicopter formation was less than five hundred meters from Queek, the Stormvermin finally locked onto the aerial targets. They formed a dense formation around their Warlord, trying to overcome their unease, and raised their long halberds diagonally, pointing them at the approaching enemy.

"What… what is that?"

"Bearded things?"

"Helicopters, the… the dwarves further south have… have these things!"

Queek's short skaven life had never taken him to the Old World. His perception only encompassed the vast numbers of Greenskins and the persistently troublesome dwarves around Eight Peaks Mountain. Because fuel could not be replenished along the way, neither Belegar nor Domga had been equipped with helicopters before.

"Shut! Shut!"

Although he hadn't seen them before, Headtaker certainly knew the newcomers weren't bringing him food. He reacted most directly. What came from behind him was not gunfire, but a flurry of fumbling reloading sounds.

Slingshots couldn't reach that far, and warpstone weapons required preparation. The instability of skaven technology was best understood by its users; when not in combat, those unlucky shooters would try to keep their weapons as far away from themselves as possible.

"Da da da!"

The machine guns mounted on the helicopters fired first, a dense hail of bullets pouring down from above. Some Stormvermin raised their shields for a brief defense; they were heavily armored and had some protective capabilities. However, this was enough for the dwarves in the gondolas. The crew suppressed the skaven while lowering their altitude.

"In the name of the Ancestor Gods, the hatred of Clan Mors shall be settled today!"

After empowering himself and his subordinates with the Grimnir ritual, Gromril stepped out of the gondola and led the leap down.

"Duang!"

"Zzzzzzt!"

Gromril activated Avatar of the Gods, transforming into a stone golem. The moment he landed, he stomped down with a Thunder Strike. The immense impact, combined with the skill's effect, cleared a ten-meter radius around him.

"Queek, I need your head!"

The giant roared to the sky, throwing the warhammer in his hand.

Queek, fleeing in a panic, couldn't help but glance back when he heard his name. Upon spotting the helicopter and the suspended basket below, his combat instincts prompted him to shift slightly to the periphery, a move that saved his rat life from the initial impact when Gromril landed.

However, that wasn't enough. The powerful tremor from Thunder Strike made his steps unsteady, and he couldn't dodge the incoming warhammer in time. All he could do was pray that the defensive power of his warpstone shard armor wouldn't disappoint him.

"Pfft!"

What Queek received wasn't the heavy hammer, but a warm, wet body. His adjutant, a Stormvermin covered in scars, had rushed out from the side to block the carefully planned strike for him.

"Awooooh!"

Meeting the gaze of his adjutant's rat eyes, which were already half-protruding from their sockets, Queek let out a heart-wrenching roar.

"Run…"

Along with the final instruction, several damaged internal organs gushed from his mouth. The immense power and skills of his stone form, combined with runes, meant that this Stormhammer strike was something no mere flesh and blood could withstand.

This rat, though called an adjutant, was also one of Clan Mors's most notable Claw Leaders. When Queek was just a rat pup, he had received martial arts guidance from him. As Queek accumulated battle merits and his status rose, his former teacher became his subordinate, but a deep friendship, by skaven standards, still resided in his heart.

"Where can you run to?"

A hint of regret flashed across Gromril's stone face, though he hadn't expected this one hammer strike to finish Queek. The stone statue, more than twice the height of a Stormvermin, took large strides, causing the ground to tremble slightly.

"Stop, stop him for me!"

The Head Taker rolled on the spot, crawling out from under his adjutant's corpse, and shrieked orders to his subordinates.

"Only kill Queek, spare the other rats!"

The voice from the stone statue carried a buzzing tremor, but surprisingly, the Stormvermin at the foot of the city wall weren't intimidated by his terrifying entrance. They still clutched their weapons, trembling and huddling together, seemingly trying to draw courage from their comrades.

Gromril looked back and realized that his airborne assault tactic hadn't been as effective as he'd hoped. Due to a lack of prior training, the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood's disembarkation and formation speed were not very fast.

At the same time, their first flight experience had caused many members to react physically, with some old veterans leaning on their axes and dry-heaving. The surrounding rat swarms saw their chance and encircled them. They might not dare to use their flesh and blood to block the towering stone statue, but they could certainly try their luck against this group of white-bearded dwarves who seemed to be in poor condition.

These elite forces were bogged down and unable to break through the enemy lines with him to encircle and kill Queek as planned. Fortunately, the Stormvermin couldn't overwhelm them either, as these veterans covered each other while organizing their formation.

"Those who block me, die!"

Gromril twisted his neck. Although Queek was now hidden behind his guard, he had no intention of giving up and instead drew his battle-axe.

"Hah!"

The two-handed great axe, as tall as a dwarf, was wielded effortlessly by the stone statue in a move like 'Splitting Mount Hua'. The iron-plated wooden shields of the two sword-and-shield Stormvermin directly in front were shattered into fragments by the heavy Bash, along with the two remaining mangled corpses of their owners.

"Ha!"

After the downward chop, Gromril followed up with a sweeping horizontal strike. Runes glowed on the axe blade, cutting three or four rats in half at the waist. The axe gifted by the Old One Tepok, which Master Krag deemed to have great potential, had been taken for rune inscription. Gromril was currently using a finely crafted, standard-issue axe purchased from Iron Peak Fortress as a temporary measure.

"I gave you a chance, but you were useless! Then the ancestors' grudge shall be repaid on your heads!"

After a few more horizontal and vertical chops, sending a dozen rats to meet the horned rat, Gromril was truly enjoying the slaughter. These armored elite Stormvermin felt great to cut down. They were taller than Goblins, so he didn't have to bend over to chop them. They had more substance than skeletons and were softer than constructs.

A few breaths later, a look of annoyance appeared on Gromril's stone face. He found that although he was slaughtering everything in his path, the number of rats between him and Queek was growing. If it were any other skaven faction, they should have already scattered and fled.

"Clan Mors truly has something special about them," the Dwarf King muttered to himself. Even if they could only leave a scratch or chip off a tiny fragment, a large number of halberds still stubbornly pushed forward, poking at him.

"But it doesn't matter, gathering together only means dying faster!" Gromril stomped the ground fiercely, activating the Rune of Fury and Destruction. In three years of research, he had discovered that the principle of this rune had some slight connection to the geomantic network, and he had subsequently adjusted and developed it.

"Bang! Boom!"

The ground beneath the Stormvermin cracked open. Those near the center of the explosion were flung into the air, while those on the periphery stumbled.

"This move is called Autumn Wind Sweeping Fallen Leaves!"

Gromril charged forward, leveling his axe and sweeping it left and right, leaving a trail of dismembered limbs and bodies behind him.

"Defend! Defend!"

Queek hadn't even caught his breath before he saw his guard transformed into a rain of blood and gore. The terrifying stone statue, wielding its weapon, was heading straight for him again.

This time, even the Stormvermin began to fear. Their thighs visibly trembled, taking one step forward only to retreat two small steps.

"Heh heh!"

Watching the large rat with the skull rack on his back and red-tinged-green armor, his legs turned to jelly, his front paws hitting the ground as he scrambled away on all fours, Gromril smirked and raised his great axe. He felt as if he was only a few steps away from slaying the War God of Eight Peaks Mountain.

"Da da da!"

Just then, an untimely gunshot rang out. The projectiles hitting Gromril's stone body even caused him a certain degree of pain. Following the trajectory of the shots, he saw faint green vapor trails left by the bullets in the air.

A team of warpstone long-gunners had finally assembled their easily-exploding long barrels and, under the cover of the melee rats and their inherent shields, were firing their specialized weapons at him and his subordinates.

warpstone long-guns were a new type of long-range armor-piercing weapon developed by the Skryre Clan. When fired, a bullet made of refined warpstone would erupt. The high muzzle velocity provided by the long barrel and the properties of warpstone were enough to penetrate dwarf plate armor.

"Son of a rat!"

Gromril cursed. He had already used up his skills. The ring inscribed with a master-level flight rune had been removed beforehand to prevent it from being damaged by the transformation.

Although he could choose to push through the ratmen's long-gun fire and try to force his way in, he felt he didn't have the confidence to take the risk. The large armies from the north and south would soon complete their encirclement, and Queek's rat head would only remain on his neck for a few more days.

"Retreat!"

Looking back, Gromril saw that the Brotherhood, all wielding great axes, led by Gotrek and King Roon, had largely cut down the minor clan leaders who had been with Queek earlier. Gromril glared fiercely one last time before turning and leaving.

Seeing that my fellow readers are asking about updates, I've been taking driving lessons recently, but I'll still try to update daily this month.

The drop point was already beneath the city wall, and the Dwarves rushed inside in a few steps, avoiding long-range damage from the warpstone sniper teams.

If those skaven snipers had been allowed to fire freely, the Brotherhood, without shields, would have suffered significant losses.

"Kill them mercilessly!"

Inside the city wall's alleys, there was still a clan of miscellaneous rats.

Before the drop, Gromril had sent a rune message to Belegar, and the Angrund Clan had switched from defense to offense to meet their reinforcements.

"No one shall block my path!"

A tall Ancestor Chosen charged at the front, wielding his battle-axe like a helicopter rotor, wantonly slaughtering the skaven whose escape routes were cut off and whose morale had collapsed.

This was Harken Half-Beard, the last gatekeeper of Eight Peaks Mountain, whose valor in that era ranked among the top three in the entire Mountains Kingdom.

Half-Beard and his companions successfully repelled the first few waves of attacks on Eight Peaks Mountain.

In the final moments, the warriors who defended the fortress with him were almost all killed or wounded, leaving only him fighting alone.

He refused to retreat and died gloriously at his post, surrounded by tunnels filled with skaven corpses.

The combat power of the smaller clans was incomparable to the elites of Clan Mors; they quickly began to flee under the leadership of their warlord.

In the world of the skaven, it was survival of the fittest; if they lost a battle but preserved their strength, their status remained.

However, if they won a battle but sacrificed all their troops, only a tragic end awaited them.

Seeing this, Gromril did not block their escape route but instead, with his subordinates, guarded one side, intercepting the passing rats.

Even for a small clan by skaven standards, from the warlord's guard to the lowest Slave Rats, there were at least a thousand; it was unrealistic for a few dozen people to annihilate them all.

"It is truly good to see you, Ancestor Gods above, you arrived before I even finished proclaiming the articles on the Oathstone!"

Belegar Ironhammer removed his helmet, revealing a joyful young face.

His subordinates also cheered upon seeing Gromril.

These Dwarves, who had left the horrific battlefield of Eight Peaks Mountain and had only two years of peace, were somewhat disoriented by the sudden attack from their old foes.

"Hmm, how is the fortress situation?"

Gromril deactivated Avatar of the Gods.

The fact that he could change forms had been given countless explanations in various taverns, but he himself had no intention of responding to it.

"I lost several experienced sentries, but other parts are fine.

Those despicable rats couldn't even imagine you'd arrive so early; they're still probing," Belegar's tone sounded quite lighthearted.

"Brothers, clear the battlefield! Let us celebrate victory with a feast and fine wine and welcome the esteemed Ancestor Chosen and his warriors!" He jumped onto the Oathstone again, raising his arm and shouting.

"Valaya above! What are you talking about? Feast, victory?" Gromril was stunned on the spot.

"Isn't it so? You've arrived, and the rats have been repelled."

"Before the Exterminator of Plagues, the Slayer of Demigods, if they weren't scared out of their rat minds, they're considered elite!"

"Praise the Ancestor Gods and His Majesty Gromril!"

The Dwarves of Karak Drazh and the elites Gromril brought were all cheering.

In their view, wasn't it just like this? With the great warrior chosen by the Ancestor Gods in charge, what waves could mere skaven possibly stir up?

"Hey! That's Queek Headtaker, the Battle of Eight Peaks Mountain..." Gromril's roar stopped midway.

"You mean that fellow who was scrambling and crawling before you, couldn't even pull out his weapon? Such a big guy is just for show!" Gotrek scratched his head; the so-called Great Enemy of the Mountains just ran a bit fast.

"Uh, you mean that big skaven, right? He's a trusted subordinate of the Clan Mors leader, only recently rising to prominence.

What Great Enemy of the Mountains, is something wrong?"

Belegar Ironhammer handed his holy hammer and Shield of Defiance to his personal guard.

He stroked his beard, taking a moment to match the name Gromril had uttered with the enemy in his memory.

"You, you!"

The Transmigrator was speechless looking at the nonchalant master of Eight Peaks Mountain.

Only he knew that in the original history, Belegar would exhaust the last strength of the Angrund Clan in the endless battles of Eight Peaks Mountain, and eventually, his own head would be cut off by Queek Headtaker after a despicable war of attrition.

"Pick up your weapons, put on your armor, the rats will return! I say so!" Gromril's cold voice echoed in the hall.

The Dwarves, who had relaxed and were preparing to celebrate, froze.

"I only brought less than a hundred people; subtracting those just killed, the rats still have an absolute numerical advantage.

They won't retreat just like that; your head is very attractive."

The King of the Southern Lands' prestige worked; the Dwarves became busy.

Due to insufficient manpower to guard the outer wall, they began to find materials to construct simple defenses at the hall's entrance.

After Belegar assigned the tasks, he again approached Gromril.

"Those airplanes?"

"There's not enough fuel, and Queek will likely deploy some anti-air defenses." Gromril guessed what Belegar wanted to ask; when he returned, he really needed to consider developing transport planes, not always making do with gondolas.

"And then? Hold out until your troops and King Kazador arrive, then charge out together and twist off all their rat heads?" Belegar sought advice.

Gromril looked up and down at the young king, realizing that Belegar lacked independent thinking ability.

But then he thought, it seemed it should be so; this last bloodline of the Angrund Clan had no shortage of advisors since his ascension.

Unlike Balin, who mainly served as a secretary, and the taciturn Captain Grenson, the four Ancestor Chosen were all strong and capable leaders and administrators in their time, and Lady Anya's family from Copper Mountain Hold should also provide many suggestions.

"skaven also gather intelligence; you've experienced Clan Mors's capabilities for thousands of years.

Utilize rune transceivers more to maintain contact with the north and south lines; this will give us the initiative."

While the Dwarves were busily constructing fortifications, Queek also gathered his remaining forces outside the city.

Chopping off the heads of a few who ran faster than him, Queek finally suppressed the fear and anger in his heart.

"Beard-things, not, not many more! Let, let the sniper teams find, find good positions; if, if any more fluttering moths come, Shut! Shut!"

He paced, habitually assigning tasks, but did not hear the familiar "Yes, Yes!"

The silence in the tunnel again reminded Queek that he had lost his second-in-command and most of his mid-level subordinates.

"Someone! Get, get the brats some, some good stuff! When, when the Evil Moon is in the sky, I want Belegar, Belegar's head! And, and that stone thing's too!"

Queek bared his white teeth; he knew he couldn't just go back like this.

Considering the possibility of poisoning, sabotage, and other tactics, Gromril specifically arranged a team to protect the water source and food storage, but it turned out he was overthinking things; Lord Gnolandor, worried about Clan Eshin interfering, had not included them in Queek's forces.

As the large candles on the ceiling were replaced, sounds of footsteps and "squeaks" echoed from outside the fortress.

The warriors quickly formed their ranks behind the low wall, and Belegar's Oath Stone was once again brought out.

This Oath Stone was also a cherished heirloom of the Angrund Clan, a stone pedestal inscribed with dwarf runes detailing the clan's lineage and glorious deeds.

Standing on this Oath Stone could strengthen the Lord's will and ensure that all enemies would notice him first, coming forward to meet their deaths.

Belegar's eyes under his helmet briefly met Gromril's, as he was asking whether to transfer command.

The King of the Southern Lands shook his head; with so few men and a very clear combat objective, all they needed to do was hold their ground.

"Your experience in this area is greater than mine.

My men and I will act as a special detachment, lest the rats use some cunning schemes."

The Daemon Slayer Brotherhood was too valuable to be used on mere cannon fodder; it would not be too late to deploy them when the skaven elites appeared.

If possible, Gromril wanted to lead them to attempt to kill Queek one more time.

"Oh, Emissary of Lord Thurni, may I ask if this treasure is to remain under my control or be handed over to you?"

Belegar, with the help of his guards, stepped onto the Oath Stone, and behind him, another Ancestor Spirit appeared.

Gromril, of course, knew the last of these four grandfathers, Throni Ironbrow, the former Rune Master of Karak-Azul.

He was a distant relative and close friend of King Ruen.

Upon learning that Eight Peaks Mountain was in danger of falling, he led his Anvil Guard and apprentices away from Iron Peak Fortress, venturing north through the Underway network to aid his relatives in distress.

At the last moment, he and the Rune Masters of Eight Peaks Mountain together sealed the Ancestor Tombs and important treasuries.

Unfortunately, after their success, they were cornered by the enemy and never returned to their homeland.

Now, Throni has been reawakened, wielding the Anvil he brought with him to assist Belegar.

"You should take it.

Each Anvil has its own characteristics, and it would take me time to get used to manipulating it."

Gromril demurred; he had been busy researching spirit veins these past few years, and his runic skills had become a bit rusty.

"It's Clanrats right from the start, lads, brace yourselves!"

Belegar Ironhammer, standing high, saw far, and loudly warned his subordinates.

"Prepare for battle! young'un!" King Ruen also shouted.

Gromril yielded the front-line position, intending to observe Belegar's abilities first and await an opportunity.

The dwarves saw the approaching tide of rats, their dense, reddish eyes particularly oppressive in the darkness.

"Respected Ancestor Chosen, could you lead everyone in a prayer?

These children haven't faced true war yet."

Lady Anya's gentle voice pulled Gromril's thoughts back.

The mistress of Karak Drazh also donned her armor, with a normal breastplate on her upper body and a skirt-armor on her lower body.

She, along with a team of Brass Guards and handmaidens from her maiden home, protected the women and children at the very rear.

Gromril looked back and saw several young dwarves quietly weeping.

Their mothers, grandmothers, and older or braver children around them were comforting them.

As Gromril approached, the immediate relatives of the weeping children looked embarrassed.

To behave so undignified in front of the Ancestor Chosen would, at best, be a personal disgrace, and at worst, would cause the clan's ancestors to be unable to hold their heads high in Gazul's hall.

"Grown-ups, tell, tell me, if you say you are here, the Ancestors are here, and everything will be alright, is that true?"

A little girl sobbed, asking.

She seemed to have been secretly pinched, and her words got stuck halfway.

"Hmm, I think so!"

Gromril mused for a moment; he knew that compared to famous sayings and grand principles about bravery and strength, direct affirmation was most comforting at this time.

"My name is Janrick, and I'm almost an adult!

May I join your team and follow you?

When I was at Copper Mountain Hold, I was the bravest among my peers!

I wanted to participate in today's battle, but my grandmother wouldn't agree!"

A boy with just a hint of stubble stood out, breaking free from his grandmother's restraint, looking up at Gromril with his chest puffed out and a face full of anticipation.

"Hahaha, good lad!

How about this: if you don't get scared and close your eyes tonight, I'll consider you to have passed."

As they spoke, the skaven vanguard had already engaged the dwarves.

Under the threat of sharp halberds from behind, the Clanrats swung their crude weapons, launching a desperate charge at the shield wall.

Clan Mors would not pity the lives of these lesser clan rats, but if they showed ability and earned merit, they might receive rewards.

One should know that many good positions had opened up due to Gromril's aerial strike during the day.

"Clang, clang, clang!"

Belegar struck his left-hand shield with the warhammer in his right hand, causing the runes on both legendary weapons to activate.

"Hoo! Ha! Ha! Today is a good day, today we will slaughter skaven! Today we will settle the hatred of Clan Mors! The Ancestor Gods' Chosen is with us, and They are watching here!"

The true master of Eight Peaks Mountain passionately delivered his war mobilization speech.

"Bang!"

"Crack!"

"Thump!"

"Clatter!"

The clash of weapons, the roar of muskets and cannons, the dull thud of blunt objects striking flesh, the loud war cries of the dwarves, and the sharp squeals of the skaven filled the entire hall at once.

Gromril looked at the little ones beside him; some buried their heads in their mothers' arms, while others either focused on the battle or turned their backs.

Janrick, however, kept his eyes fixed on the front, looking eager to join the fray.

"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!"

Suddenly, Gromril heard a familiar sound; it was the firing of warpstone Jezzails, whose power he had experienced just that day.

Undoubtedly, this time the projectiles were aimed at the most conspicuous target: Belegar Ironhammer.

"He shouldn't stand..."

Gromril instinctively reached for his warhammer, but then pulled his hand back.

Belegar had, after all, fought in Eight Peaks Mountain for many years; he had stood on the Oath Stone and remained active until today, so Gromril didn't need to worry about him at all.

"No! No! Don't, don't waste, waste ammunition on him!"

Queek stopped the Crooked Peak skaven from firing.

These Jezzailiers were horrified to discover that the living target standing on the stone had simply blocked an entire volley with a slight movement of the strange shield on his left arm, rendering it harmless.

"As expected of the Shield of Resistance, a pinnacle of Golden Age runic technology."

Gromril praised it.

According to guild records, it was almost impossible to break its defense without demigod-level strength.

The Shield of Resistance's defense was unparalleled, and the Hammer of the Angrund Clan was indestructible.

The head of this heirloom hammer was trapezoidal when viewed from the side; as a one-handed hammer, its size was not large, but master runes endowed it with power disproportionate to its appearance.

"Tsk, tsk, the clan's inherited treasures," Gromril muttered to himself, watching Belegar Ironhammer rampage on the Oathstone as if he had activated a cheat.

Although his birth clan suffered heavy losses in the Great Holy War, with half of its treasures scattered, as a disciple of Krag the Grim, he still acquired many good things, but unfortunately, their functions were mostly auxiliary.

The candle behind him had burned down significantly, and Gromril could hear the warriors in the front row breathing becoming heavier, their frequency of swinging weapons also beginning to slow.

Belegar clearly noticed this too, and he rhythmically tapped his shield, issuing the command to change formation.

dwarves in the back row moved forward to take over the defensive line, replacing their exhausted comrades.

Even though Belegar's subordinates were well-trained, the rotation still brought some fleeting chaos to the formation.

Lady Anya and other women together simply treated the wounds of the retreating clansmen and offered them food and beer.

Although the inferior weapons of the Clanrats were not mixed with warpstone, they were rich in various viruses from their harsh living environment; while dwarves had high resistance, it was better not to endure it if conditions allowed.

Another long round of attrition, Gromril even closed his eyes and dozed off for a while.

Although it looked incredibly boring, this was the tactical warfare that dwarves had relied on for thousands of years to survive, using their resilience and heavy armor to withstand the onslaught of enemies with an absolute numerical advantage.

Belegar did not have much strength at hand, but fortunately, he himself and the two ancestral spirits directly participating in the battle hardly needed rest; they became the backbone of the defensive line, continuously encouraging their clansmen and inflicting casualties on the skaven.

Gromril keenly noticed that the combat morale of these miscellaneous skaven began to rapidly decline.

Having lost the warlords who commanded them, relying solely on coercion and inducements could certainly make them fight desperately on the battlefield, but wanting to fight intelligently and efficiently was destined to be impossible.

And once the attack was frustrated, stamina declined, and hunger appeared, the collapse of morale among normal skaven was almost irreversible.

Perhaps those big shots who held a seat in the Council of Thirteen could have some special tricks, but Queek Headtaker was helpless at the moment.

When the second batch of warriors showed signs of fatigue, Gromril knew it was time for another rotation.

Queek obviously realized this too; the teachings of Gnolandor and several years of struggle against Belegar had given him such insight.

"Not good!"

Gromril noticed that the skaven ranks showed some unusual movement; the Clanrats slowed their attack and began to retreat backward and sideways in an organized manner, clearly to make way for something.

The Angrund Clan did not disappoint him; the ancestral spirits were older than Gromril and Belegar combined when they died on the battlefield, and their experience and beards—even in spirit form—were reliable enough.

Troni Ironbrow struck the anvil in front of him; he had been observing the previous battles from the sidelines.

Gromril was accustomed to first unleashing runes and then wielding his weapon to engage in melee, while this Rune Master of Iron Peak Fortress had a different understanding of combat.

"The will of the Sons of the Mountains for vengeance is stronger than steel!"

Oath and Steel Runes are common on various protective gear, and with the help of the anvil of doom, it can also be applied to warriors over an area.

"That's a warpstone flamethrower!"

Gromril narrowed his eyes, and he again saw weapon teams of two skaven, except this batch of rats didn't have long rifles and shields in their hands.

The one behind carried a huge fuel tank, while the one in front held a nozzle with both claws.

The warpstone flamethrower is one of the Skryre Clan's deadliest weapons; it is considered typical of the Skryre Clan's technology—powerful and dangerous.

This thing is relatively cheap, and correspondingly, it is crude and extremely unstable, so much so that its operators have to wear heavy protective suits, making their movements somewhat comical.

"Puff!"

"Whoosh!"

The warpstone flamethrower is technically simple and crude; as soon as the trigger is pulled, a chemical agent mixed with warpstone powder will spray out and ignite, turning into evil green flames.

Fortunately, the flamethrower's range was limited and indiscriminate, and the assorted Clanrats, valuing their rat lives, cleared the path too early, giving the dwarves ample time to react.

"Throw them for me!"

Belegar roared, and the Ironbreakers pulled out their personal blasting charges and threw them.

These grenade-like explosives were slightly less powerful than artillery but had the advantage of being convenient and quick.

"Well done!"

Watching the large patches of evil green flames suddenly erupt in the skaven ranks and the scene of rats screaming and fleeing, Gromril punched the air and cheered.

The explosion of the blasting charges ignited the fuel tanks, and unrestrained warpstone flames burned among the rat swarm.

This green flame was incredibly domineering; once it touched something, it would spread to almost all surfaces of the target.

The unprotected Clanrats wailed and scurried away, even spreading some flames to the rear.

"Useless! Useless!"

Queek's whiskers trembled in anger.

"Burn! Keep burning for me! These dwarfs are enough waaagh!"

"You, you have a very, very accurate understanding of yourself!"

The two heads on the skull rack laughed; the former losers couldn't help but gloat at Queek's predicament.

The loud noise and incessant murmuring in his ears made Queek frantic; he knew that obedience stemmed from violence, and now he needed a spectacular charge to boost morale.

"Let's compete, let's see who can fight better! We're going to have a good fight with them! Yes, Yes! Cut off their beards!" The Headtaker stood up, revealed his twin blades, and issued the command to attack.

"Yes! Yes!"

"Bearded things, die! die!"

"Kill! Kill!"

The rat swarm became agitated; an astonishing number of Stormvermin gathered together, these elites among the skaven erupted with amazing fighting spirit.

The batch of Stormvermin closest to Queek wore red plate armor; they were called the Crimson Guard, Queek's hand-picked personal guards.

"Prepare to fire!"

Altman-Rockbrow shouted loudly; since Dramar-Hammerfist had gone to meet the Iron Peak Fortress army and had not returned, he temporarily took over command of the Karak Drazh artillery team.

Belegar had placed the Cannons and ballistas on the outer walls; now there were only a few Organ Guns in the hall.

"Fire!"

Simultaneously with the dwarf artillery, the rifle teams also fired; they had excellent range, providing fire support for the Stormvermin's charge from afar.

The limited firepower of the Organ Guns, when unleashed upon the tide of rats, was largely ineffective, if not entirely swallowed. Aside from those directly hit, who fell immediately, the Stormvermin were able to withstand the flying shrapnel with their shields and armor.

The black-furred Stormvermin and the dwarf battle line engaged in close combat. This time, Belegar was not as at ease as before. Stormvermin, especially those of Clan Mors, had individual combat capabilities roughly comparable to ordinary dwarf conscripts.

Although to the Sons of the Mountains, the armor on the black-skinned rats was crudely made—if it had come from a dwarf workshop, the blacksmith would only face a finger-severing ritual—it was undeniable that they were still metal plate armor, providing basic protection.

Leveraging their advantage in combat experience, average Stormvermin were roughly evenly matched against hastily assembled dwarf miners, and the Clan Mors, which relied on its strength to stand tall in the Skaven Empire, naturally had extraordinary qualities.

Fortunately, Belegar's subordinates were not newly conscripted soldiers; most of those present had been tempered by the Eight Peaks Mountain battlefield. In that environment, they participated in more battles in a single year than their brethren in the heart of the Mountains might in ten or even decades.

When there was no significant generational gap in equipment, the role of combat experience and tactical skill became prominent. How to conserve stamina during repeated swings and blocks, how to accurately thrust an axe into the gaps of an enemy's armor, and how to skillfully deal with multiple enemies—these were not skills gained from labor in mines or blacksmith workshops.

Upon arriving at Karak Drazh, Gromril was deeply envious of the quality of Belegar's subordinates, which further solidified his idea of forming a full-time standing army. Now, facing an enemy with a significant numerical advantage, and despite lacking any advantageous terrain, these veterans did not fall behind for a time.

"It's not as simple as I imagined! Even if Clan Mors and the Grey Seers don't get along, they still have ways to limit the Ancestor Gods' spirits," Gromril muttered, watching the battle.

The weapons in the claws of the Stormvermin surrounding King Ruen and the gatekeeper Rockbeard shimmered with green light. Although weapons directly carved from large pieces of warpstone were only affordable by Warlord-level rats, Clan Mors, which dominated the Badlands, could afford to mass-equip its elite troops with weapons that had warpstone fragments or scraps mixed in during forging.

Such cleverly crafted halberds still possessed the characteristics of warpstone, one of which was the ability to inflict magical damage and thus harm spirits. Additionally, the Jezzail teams targeted them, and each time they were hit, the bodies of the two spirits would subtly, almost imperceptibly, fade a little.

"He's quite cautious. A rat is a rat; it can't change its rat-like habits."

The Transmigrator's attention had never left Queek. The future Eight Peaks Mountain God of War charged at the front, but once the fighting began, he and the Crimson Guard skirted the battle line, giving Gromril no possible opportunity.

Gromril was monitoring the situation, and Queek was doing the same. His crimson rat eyes darted about, searching for that terrifying animated statue from yesterday morning. If he was fighting fiercely and that statue suddenly descended from the sky again, no rat would be there to block the flying hammer for him!

Queek Headtaker spent the entire afternoon gathering intelligence about those fluttering moths and the bearded things that jumped down. Without the omnipresent spies of Clan Eshin, he felt completely blind.

Fortunately, the statue was highly recognizable. The few Crooked Peak chieftains who miraculously survived analyzed and determined that the figure was Gromril-az Thorson, the Dwarf King who ruled the Southlands. But why he would leave Red Cloud Mountain and suddenly appear here was unknown.

"Tell me, which one is, which one is him?"

Queek grabbed a rat by the scruff of its neck, lifting it into the air, and pressed, his voice low.

"Your, Your Excellency! I, I really don't know!" The Crooked Peak Warlord cried out in injustice. Although they had engaged in small-scale conflicts with the dwarves of Red Cloud Mountain for two or three years, they had only heard the name of Gromril-az Thorson, the legendary King of the Southern Lands, but had never seen him.

Gromril, who spent years researching in Highland Fortress, owed his high renown among the local rat-folk to Johnson Strongshield's tireless propaganda.

He was now respectfully called Johnson the Emissary by his clansmen, solely because he had repeatedly and loudly conveyed Gromril's commands, and even divine oracles from the Ancestor Gods, on the battlefield.

With each new batch of recruits, Johnson would recount his story of following Gromril, from being a sheep before the anvil to a sheep after, and his loud voice ensured that the rats on the other side could hear every word clearly.

Out of dwarf habit, he continuously refined his stories to make Gromril's and his own image grow ever taller and richer.

At the same time, not being able to participate in the expedition after Casket Canyon was this old warrior's greatest regret. First, slaying a spider; second, fighting a Great Demon; third, repelling Elves—these were major parts of Gromril's epic! Perhaps to make amends, his descriptions of these events were even more "vivid and dramatic."

After hearing the local rats' report that afternoon, Queek quickly checked a mirror to see if horns had sprouted from his head. If their account was true, his not being crushed to death by the statue's landing moment must have been due to the profound grace of the horned rat god.

"Then, then I'll force him out, and then, then take his head as a trophy!"

Queek bared his rat teeth, looking at the dwarf battle line, which was already showing casualties in some areas and beginning to deform. What if it was a statue? This morning, he just hadn't been prepared. After all, the total number of bearded and non-bearded ones didn't exceed the Stormvermin under his command!

"Yes, Yes!"

Upon receiving the command, the Crimson Guard, who had been itching for a fight, shrieked and charged. The impact of these rat-lords directly caused the defensive line to buckle, even after Trony's runic enhancements.

"Is it our turn to act?"

Gotrek asked, taking down the battle standard rolled up on his back and unfurling it.

"Let's wait and see. Belegar has encountered these red rats before," Gromril thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"In the name of the Angrund Clan!"

"Where the oath goes, firm as a rock!"

"Ancient grudges will be settled!"

As they spoke, a squad of dwarves standing behind Belegar moved. They wielded their runic war hammers, shouting as they charged towards the Crimson Guard.

"The Andergrund Oathguard. To join them, one must swear an oath before that oathstone. Note their equipment; these are all Golden Age treasures once sealed in the vault, superior to the products of today's smiths!"

As the dwarf most familiar with the situation in Karak Drazh, Gotrek raised an eyebrow and explained. Although he was no longer an engineer, his animosity towards blacksmiths was still deeply ingrained in his character.

As the Andergrund Oathguard entered the battlefield, the crumbling defensive line was once again stabilized. Although Queek had encountered these elite dwarf warriors before, he had no better solution than to throw more Skaven lives at them.

To Gromril, the equipment specifications of this dwarf unit were comparable to the Eternal Hammer Guard, but with red and gold as their primary colors, which was likely the representative style of the golden age Eight Peaks Mountain Kingdom.

Although the overall quality of the Oathguard couldn't compare to the High King's Guard, who were selected from the entire Mountains Kingdom, the enhancement of their equipment still made their combat power far exceed that of their comrades.

"The Angrund Clan's treasury should have more good things than this, right? I wonder if they couldn't bring everything out at the time, or if Belegar thought not everyone was qualified to equip and use these ancestral relics."

A thought flashed through Gromril's mind, but now was not the time to delve into it. The Stormvermin holding the front line suddenly changed formation again, revealing a terrifying weapon.

They were also two-Skaven weapon teams, but the Skaven in front held a six-barreled machine gun, while the one behind operated a warpstone steam engine and crank that powered the machine gun.

"Ratling Gun? How can they have this? Quick! Stop them!"

Gromril roared at the top of his lungs. The leaders of the Angrund Clan seemed to have never seen this multi-barreled firearm before and failed to react appropriately in time.

"Da da da da!"

"Taste this, taste this!"

"More, more ammunition, more madness!"

Before the Dwarves could act, the weapon teams, disregarding the Stormvermin covering them who hadn't fully scattered from the firing line, eagerly activated the death-spreader in their claws. This probably proved that in the world of Skaven, the more loyal you were, the faster you died.

The Ratling Gunners screamed wildly as they swept the area. Skryre Clan's latest invention required the most suicidal madmen to operate. They were extremely unreliable; perhaps only The Great Horned Rat knew whether the gunner or the enemy would die first.

A large number of warpstone bullets rained down. Belegar's subordinates tried to resist. The shield-holding dwarf warriors felt their arms numb from the continuous impacts, but before they could adjust their posture, they found their steel shields were riddled with holes.

According to the Old World Dwarves' experience, Ironbreaker's meteorite iron shields were still reliable against warpstone projectiles, but they were already a small proportion of Belegar's subordinates, and many were in the two relief forces that had been dispatched.

"Ugh!"

"No! Johnny…"

"meteorite iron, me…"

The front line was filled with groans and cries of pain. The armor of the front-line warriors quickly followed the fate of their shields, and next were their flesh and blood. The Andergrund Oathguard didn't even have shields; they tried to twirl their long hammers to deflect the projectiles but with little effect. The impact force of Ratling Gun bullets was incomparable to Clanrat slingshots or Greenskin arrows.

"Go!"

Gromril rubbed his ring, firing a Runic Fireball at the Ratling Guns. Immediately after, he released the Rune of Fury and Destruction. Even if the distance wasn't enough to blast them directly into the sky, the ground tremors were enough to prevent them from aiming.

"Men in the back! Push up and stabilize the line! We are not just fighting for ourselves!" Belegar clanged his shield again. Although he was a traditional melee lord who couldn't deal with weapon teams dozens of meters away, he had his own mission.

In most Skaven Warlord tactics, ranged weapons firing warpstone ammunition were not used for large-scale killing of the enemy's conventional forces. The core reason was still "expensive." Skryre Clan's goods were fierce, but the prices were equally exorbitant.

Organized Jezzail teams and Ratling Gun teams might only be affordable if the Boss risked his life, and the subsequent consumption of warpstone ammunition, losses from misfires, etc., forced them to use them sparingly.

Indeed, after a few rounds of firing tore open the dwarf line, the Ratling Guns began to retreat, and a large group of Stormvermin surged into the breach. Belegar's litter bearers also suffered casualties during the intense firing. He was momentarily unsure whether to jump off the Oathstone; doing so before achieving victory was considered highly taboo.

"It's our turn! Let the brothers of the Angrund Clan rest for a bit!"

After receiving Gromril's approval, Gotrek unfurled the Dragon's Bane Battle Standard, holding the banner in one hand and a great axe in the other, leading the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood directly to the breach.

"Move! Move!"

Queek was a little further away and not affected by the battle standard. From his perspective, the bearded things' turtle shell had finally been torn open, but his subordinates didn't fiercely bite at the exposed soft flesh. Instead, they hesitated, watching as the guys who had descended from the sky that day filled the gap.

It took a while for the Skaven of Clan Mors to adapt to the terrifying illusion the battle standard created, as if they were in a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, witnessing dragons fall. What awaited them were the Brotherhood's sharp Runic Great Axes.

"Where is Queek? Come and face your death!"

Gotrek swung his great axe with one hand, cutting three Skaven in half at the waist. He then jumped onto a small hill of corpses, glaring at the Skaven horde and loudly challenging them. The young dwarf's heroic posture and the large banner he carried intimidated the Skaven horde. Pairs of Skaven eyes involuntarily darted in Queek's direction.

"Oh? So it's you! Hmph, hiding your head and tail, what kind of hero is that!" Gotrek locked onto Queek by following the direction of their turning heads. "Head-taker, huh! I think it should be Head-hider, hahaha!"

The Dwarves' laughter, taunts, and his subordinates' strange glances made Queek extremely embarrassed. He was not yet the Eight Peaks Mountain War God famous in the Badlands. The Crooked Peak Skaven obeyed him mainly out of fear of Clan Mors's power.

His pathetic performance that day would not have been so easily overlooked if the Skaven qualified to question him hadn't mostly died. If he faltered again this time and caused the Crooked Peak cannon fodder to lose morale, it would directly affect his chances of completing his mission.

"Who, who is this one?" Queek pulled the local Skaven Warlord over again, grinding his teeth and quickly asking. Gotrek had achieved great success in the airborne operation, but the Head-taker was busy fleeing at the time and didn't pay attention.

"He, he's a run, a transport guy! Escorting convoys between here and, and Red Cloud Mountain."

"Wh-what! A transport captain, dares, dares to challenge me!" Queek was completely enraged. This was simply too disrespectful to a Skaven!

He twisted his neck, finally scrutinizing the swaggering bearded thing. Experience told him that to judge their strength, he mainly looked at their beards and equipment. Generally, those with white beards and glowing equipment were more powerful. This one had a very short beard, and only the axe in his hand looked decent. He really must be a transport guy!

Gotrek Gurnisson was the son of a commoner, and his inherited equipment was indeed nothing special. After securing his allegiance, Gromril's first priority was to arm him—his champion, because 'a good horse deserves a good saddle.'

However, this encountered some difficulties. Gotrek disliked heavy plate armor, as it would affect his flexibility. He chose to continue wearing the somewhat protective work clothes from his time as an engineer. Gromril had no objection to this; after all, it was Mr. Gao, and even going shirtless would be perfectly reasonable for him.

His armor was ordinary, and weapons were also hard to come by. The Dwarf King himself didn't even have a legendary battle-axe, so it was naturally impossible to equip his subordinates with one. Gotrek wielded a standard epic weapon, the same model as Gromril's. As for the legendary battle-axe of Grimnir, he could only wait for a future opportunity to acquire it himself.

"You, you beard-thing, you should go, go challenge the mindless pack animals, not me, Gnolandor's right claw, Queek Headtaker of Clan Mors!"

Gotrek's unremarkable equipment gave Queek ample confidence. While announcing his name, he drew his twin blades, twirling them twice in mid-air to get a feel for them. Seeing their Boss accept the challenge, the Stormvermin cleared a path directly to Gotrek.

"Glory belongs, belongs to Clan Mors! As for, as for your head, hehe, my rack has no, no room for a smelly cart-puller!"

Queek twitched his nose, his crimson rat eyes fixed on Gotrek's short, thick neck. He was already in the zone, greedily searching for every possible weakness on his enemy's body.

"You've successfully angered me, rat!" Queek's aggressive stare also made Gotrek uncomfortable. He violently plunged his banner into a pile of corpses and walked towards Queek, dragging his great axe.

"I am Gotrek Gurnisson, Standard Bearer of the King of the Southern Lands! Your head, I shall have it!"

Rage filled Mr. Gao's chest. What he hated most now was people bringing up his past as a transport captain!

After receiving an unprecedented promotion from Gromril, he had used his fists and axe to silence all doubts about his strength, but some long-bearded veterans still grumbled about his beard and experience.

Queek needed his head to stabilize morale, and wasn't Gotrek the same? He also needed a commendable achievement to silence the gossip in the taverns. This large rat had been designated a "Great Enemy of the Mountains" by the Ancestor Chosen; its head would be perfect!

"Die!"

"Die! Die!"

The two young but highly talented warriors, about ten paces apart, simultaneously began their charge, both intent on a single decisive strike.

"Clang!"

The great axe and the warpstone battle-blades collided head-on, producing a crisp sound.

"Ugh!" Queek grunted, retreating three or four steps. He paid the price for underestimating his opponent.

According to the classification system of that Hill King's world, warrior professions were divided into three types: defensive warriors with one-handed weapons and shields, weapon warriors wielding long two-handed weapons, and berserker warriors holding a weapon in each hand.

The Headtaker, of course, belonged to the latter, and such an equipment setup was extremely rare in any world. Dual-wielding, while increasing killing efficiency, also greatly increased risk, and placed higher demands on the warrior's strength, skill, and even financial resources.

In the first round of confrontation, Queek attempted to parry Gotrek's great axe with the weapon in his right claw, so his free left claw-blade could directly take off the dwarf's head. But the moment of contact, he felt the power from the great axe was too much for a single claw to parry. He narrowly managed to block the blow by quickly retracting and changing his grip.

"Pah!"

Gotrek spat, and the dwarf and the rat stood a few steps apart, beginning to re-evaluate their opponent.

"This fellow has some moves!"

A single exchange was enough for both experts to drop their guard.

"Thud!"

Queek was the first to break the brief standoff. He suddenly pushed off with his two strong hind legs, leaping into the air and bringing down his twin blades in a 'dark clouds covering the top' attack. Recognizing the disparity in strength, he sought to compensate in other ways.

"Hoo-ah!"

Gotrek was not to be outdone. He raised his great axe diagonally, parrying the greenish battle-blades.

"Creak, creak!"

The two warriors gritted their teeth and grappled, their weapons grinding against each other.

"Bang!"

As the saying goes, strength comes from the ground. Queek's aerial strike failed to overwhelm the dwarf, and once he landed, he could no longer exert enough force to match his opponent. Gotrek used the strength in his arms to push away the twin blades, then seized the opportunity to kick the rat-man in the groin.

"You, you don't play fair!" The Headtaker cried out in pain, clutching his groin with his left claw and retreating several more steps.

"Hmph, a rat from the sewers dares to talk about fairness?" Gotrek, of course, wouldn't miss this good opportunity. He swung his great axe and pressed forward, cold light flashing repeatedly.

"Die! Die!"

Just as the axe was about to decapitate the Headtaker, the large rat suddenly twisted its body, nimbly dodging the blow. Then, its right claw-blade swiftly stabbed towards the dwarf's neck from behind. Indeed, a single kick was not enough to injure Queek through his warpstone shard armor.

"Careful!"

Belegar, standing on the Oathstone, saw clearly. He knew Queek's strength well, and the ability to suppress this rising star of Clan Mors made the true master of Eight Peaks Mountain look at captain Gao with new respect.

"You dare to play tricks with your Grandpa Gao!"

The dwarf rotated the axe handle, turning the chop into a block, deflecting the rat-man's battle-blade. Then he flicked it upwards, before aiming for the lower abdomen again.

"Clang! Clang!"

Queek's blade work was indeed exquisite. He used Gotrek's force to spin his body, and the two battle-blades in his claws continuously slashed like a large windmill.

"Good heavens, is he doing a whirlwind attack here?" Gromril's eyes widened as he watched the large rat spinning like a top. This set of combat skills was undeniably flashy. The rat-men cheered loudly, while the Dwarves held their breath in tension.

Gotrek had apparently never seen this before either. He wielded his great axe so tightly that not even a drop of water could pass through, desperately fending off Queek's storm-like blade-glow. Even so, a bloodstain appeared on his cheek, and a few broken whiskers floated in the air.

"Hmph! Light as a feather, are you dancing with Grandpa Gao?!"

Clearly, such a continuous whirlwind slash was very energy-consuming. Gotrek parried while looking for patterns and openings. Finally, he caught a momentary gap and thrust the sharp tip of his axe straight into Queek's chest.

"Rip!"

The axe tip poked Queek's chest, but the red-and-green plate armor did its job; it didn't pierce but slid to the side. The rat-man sneered, bringing his twin blades together in front of him. Gotrek, his strength already spent, was forced to roll to dodge.

"What a pity." The dwarf readjusted his posture, gripping his battle-axe horizontally. He muttered softly, narrowing his eyes, searching for a way to break through the armor.