The nights in the Wild Highlands were always particularly quiet. Only the occasional calls of wyverns echoed in the night sky, but the soldiers had become accustomed to it. Since leaving Bracada, these massive beasts had circled high above their heads. At first, some soldiers couldn't resist the urge to shoot arrows at them, but the altitude and the air currents created by the wyverns' wings caused all ranged attacks to fall back to the ground, sometimes injuring their comrades. The orcs also seemed to cherish these valuable creatures, refraining from recklessly commanding them to attack. By the time they set up camp at night, dozens of soldiers armed with strong bows and crossbows were stationed around the campfires to guard against wyvern ambushes.
A few werewolves crept toward the camp under the cover of darkness. Even in the stillness of the night, their approach made no sound, and they didn't need any light; they could see clearly even in the moonless dark, allowing them to approach without revealing their presence. This was a capability that humans could never hope to achieve, making them excellent ambushers.
There weren't even patrolling soldiers at the edge of the camp; it was unusually quiet. The werewolves silently approached the camp's edge. Of course, with such a small number, they wouldn't be able to inflict any effective damage; this was just a probing attack and harassment.
Suddenly, a strange squeaking sound came from within the camp. It sounded like an animal, and before the werewolves could react, the entire camp was activated by this sound. Torches flared to life, and soldiers poured out of their tents. The camp, which had just been silent, erupted into a sea of shouting and chaos, as waves of soldiers rushed toward the werewolves.
The soldiers had no officers to issue orders or command them; they charged out with the same lack of organization as street thugs fighting spontaneously, driven by anger and hatred rather than discipline.
The two soldiers at the forefront instantly became victims of the werewolves' maces. Their mangled bodies flew far away, blood splattering everywhere. However, those soldiers who were splattered with their comrades' blood showed no hesitation or cowardice; instead, they charged forward even more fiercely, their cries no longer resembling those of humans but more like those of wild beasts craving blood. Under the torchlight, their bloodshot eyes were filled with a frenzied fighting spirit.
Some of the werewolves were instead frightened by this scene. They began to turn and flee.
In the midst of the soldiers, a massive figure, moving with an incredible speed for its size, rushed to one of the werewolves' sides, wielding a huge axe and swinging it down. This man was almost as tall as the arc, and the massive axe he held was equally capable of inflicting great harm.
The arc narrowly dodged, swinging its mace toward this attacker. The weapon, capable of smashing through shields and armor, collided with the other axe in a thunderous clash.
The arc let out a howl of agony, and the other axe, having missed its target, was quickly pulled back by the wielder's powerful arms and technique, delivering a horizontal strike that severed the arc's weapon-wielding arm entirely.
In excruciating pain, the arc's empty claw managed to rake a piece of flesh from its opponent. Just that brief moment allowed the surrounding soldiers to swarm in, and after the arc managed to kill two or three soldiers with its claws and teeth, it was overwhelmed and torn to shreds by countless blades, swords, and spears.
The other werewolves had already begun to flee. The man who had just felled the arc was now drenched in blood. If it weren't for his experience and timely evasions, the arc's claw could have disemboweled him.
The long-lost pain and passion of battle ignited his fighting spirit completely. With a roar, he took a step forward and hurled his giant axe, which whistled through the air as it chased after the fleeing arc. With a mournful cry, that arc fell. The others quickly vanished into the darkness.
Asa emerged from the tent just in time to see the spirited soldiers surrounding their general as he returned. The blood stains all over him didn't diminish his vigor; rather, they enhanced his spirited demeanor. The battle had infused him with renewed vitality. Upon seeing Asa, he pointed at a few small creatures tied in the corner of the tent and smiled, saying, "We owe this to your idea."
Those were called "mouse-rabbits," small herbivores in this wilderness with a keen sense of smell. When discussing wilderness combat with the general back in Bracada, Asa had suggested capturing these sensitive little creatures and tying them around the camp. As soon as they sensed the unique stench of carnivores, they would emit a collective cry. This method was originally employed by adventurers resting in areas frequented by beasts, but Asa's adaptation turned out to be effective against the silent ambush of the werewolves. The general had ordered all soldiers to sleep with their weapons at hand, and the moment they heard the mouse-rabbits' cries, they would immediately rise and charge at the attackers. This arrangement had proven to be immensely useful.
Soldiers in the rear carried the arc, which the general had felled with his axe, back into the camp. The general's strike hadn't been fatal; due to its own tenacity, the arc was still alive. The general ordered it to be securely bound in place.
One person had taken down two werewolves, and in the eyes of these young soldiers, the general had become a manifestation of the war god.
The soldiers surrounded the general, watching as he poured strong liquor onto his wound. The deep wound on his well-muscled body was stitched up by him, as he used a needle and thread to pull the flesh together. He threaded the needle into his flesh, pulling it out beside the wound, then poked it back in and tightened the thread. The skin and flesh were squeezed together under the tension of the thread.
The general's expression was calm and composed, as if he were sewing clothes. Most of the young soldiers were witnessing such a scene for the first time and felt immense respect for the general.
Asa observed coldly from the sidelines. He didn't step forward to use healing spells on the general; he didn't want to help someone he secretly wished would hurry up and die. Moreover, he could tell that the general's brave display was intended to inspire the morale of these young soldiers.
After the performance, the general told the soldiers to go back and rest well; after this, there shouldn't be any more ambushes.
Asa didn't leave. Once the soldiers departed, only he and the nearly lifeless arc remained.
He wanted to take a look at this arc. Here, he held no hostility toward these beasts. Having grown accustomed to seeing these creatures working with tools and living lives like humans in Orford, he didn't see much of a difference between them and humans.
From its physique, this appeared to be a arc that hadn't fully grown up, with its white fur not completely shed. If converted to human age, it would likely still be a teenager. The general's axe had left a deep wound on its back, with broken ribs clearly visible through the injury. If it weren't for the tough leather armor it wore, this blow would have certainly claimed its life.
The arc was tightly bound by ropes, but even without that, it had no strength left to struggle. Its face, resembling that of a wolf or dog, appeared weak, and its eyes half-opened and half-lifeless looked at Asa. Suddenly, tears streamed from its eyes. Its young age made it seem fragile.
Once, a poet had sung praises of tears as a unique trait of humanity, but those who understood animals knew that wasn't true. Asa never found anything particularly noble about tears, but seeing the arc's tears stirred something unusual in his heart. He bent down and placed his hand on the arc's wound, casting a healing spell.
Because he was always thinking about his upcoming travels, he had used his free time in Bracada to study various spells and consult with the priests under him. Although he hadn't memorized the complicated incantations and prayers for various supportive blessings, he had made significant progress with practical spells like healing and antidotes. Perhaps the powers of the World Tree's leaves and the Sunwell within him greatly aided his magic; although his healing spells weren't as miraculous as those of the old druid Sandru, they were much more advanced than those of an average priest. Upon using the spell, the arc's wound immediately stopped bleeding and even healed somewhat.
"Th-thank you," the arc said, its spirit lifted a little, speaking in a vague voice. Young arcs were generally trying hard to learn human language. Receiving such unexpected help here astonished the young arc. "Please… can you… let me go?"
Asa made a helpless gesture and said, "That won't work. If I let you go, they'll think I'm a spy and turn me into meat paste. Who knows, that mad old man might be looking for a handle on me."
"I… don't want… to die." The little arc's expression twitched, whimpering like an injured dog.
Hearing this somewhat familiar plea, Asa's heart stirred. However, he also knew he could not let this arc go. "In fact, you really shouldn't have attacked us..." Asa felt a bit awkward with his sympathy. It was precisely because of his suggestion that the general could easily thwart the werewolves' ambush. If we were to guard against a night attack by werewolves as one would normally expect, it would consume a great deal of military resources and morale.
The arc's spirit had recovered somewhat, and in its unique strange tone said, "We didn't attack... we just came to scout... General Grutt wants to understand your troop's purpose and intentions..." It was clear that this was a clever little arc; speaking human language came easily to it.
Intentions and purposes? Should I say we're going to wipe out Orford or that we're simply seeking death? Asa could almost foresee the consequences when this troop directly encountered the orc army led by General Grutt. Of course, General Grutt alone couldn't withstand all five thousand soldiers here, but rushing headlong into this throng to rip off the general's head like twisting an apple or crushing it like a tomato wouldn't be difficult at all. Losing their commander and spiritual leader, and witnessing such a stark power disparity, would instantly break the morale of even the most spirited soldiers, leaving them vulnerable to the orcs' slaughter.
But Asa's goal in coming here was to avoid such a situation as much as possible. To save the five thousand young lives... To be honest, Asa never thought of himself as that noble; he just didn't want to see a sea of corpses and rivers of blood, nor did he want a massacre that was dozens of times more brutal than the one he experienced half a year ago. Regardless of what the general thought, these five thousand soldiers were innocent.
However, Asa still couldn't think of any way to resolve the current situation. He could only hope that a way would present itself as the army moved forward.
Looking at the little arc in front of him, Asa wondered what the general would do with this captive. Would he use it to establish authority when the two armies faced off? In fact, this arc was just as innocent as these five thousand soldiers. Asa patted the arc's head and said, "I'll do my best to prevent them from killing you. This battle isn't really your business."
The little arc looked at Asa and nodded its head repeatedly, expressing gratitude, saying, "Thank you for your help... Mr. Mayor said we will negotiate soon, and once we negotiate, we won't have to fight. Please be sure to come to Orford..."
Suddenly hearing such a naive invitation, Asa couldn't help but smile a little. He suddenly had the thought that he must save this little creature. He patted the arc's head again and said, "Don't worry, I'll take you back to Orford."
The little arc let out a couple of low whines, and there were even tears in its eyes.
Asa got up and returned to his tent to sleep. He suddenly felt that accompanying the army this time was indeed meaningful; if it could save some innocent lives, that was always a good thing.
He was vaguely awakened by the noise outside and opened his eyes to find it was already dawn.
The soldiers were ready to depart. They were gathered in one place, listening to the general's orders.
Asa walked over, surprised to see the general standing next to the injured arc, one foot on the arc's head, powerfully pointing to the orc captive bound on the ground, shouting, "Everyone can see that these beasts who have harmed our compatriots are not to be feared. For we possess unmatched courage and the justice of avenging our comrades."
The soldiers responded with a passionate roar. Though their methods were different, the general conducted similar motivational speeches every day, ensuring that the flames of revenge within these soldiers did not extinguish and maintaining their frenzied fighting spirit.
The general continued his speech, "The orc's lair is very close. Soon, we will crush them like bugs. All orcs will die under the justice of our swords. Now, let's kill this arc. All warriors, come forward and strike him with a blade, using his blood to cleanse our swords."
The soldiers erupted in another roar.
"Hey, wait." Asa didn't expect the general to use this captive as a flag-raising sacrifice that very morning, and hurriedly stepped forward to intervene. "This captive can no longer resist. Aren't you warriors...?"
"Get lost." The general waved his axe threateningly. "You weak priest. Do you think we don't know? You're just acting under the orders of those noble powers, trying to soften our warriors."
Asa knew that saying anything to the general would be futile. He turned to the soldiers and shouted, "This arc is only five or six years old at most; he couldn't possibly have harmed humans. Weren't the werewolves who once ate people already killed off?"
"Those barbaric races owe blood debts; does the fact that they have died mean it can be forgotten? Can the hatred of our comrades who were killed and eaten just be wiped clean?" The general waved his arms, his face filled with fervor, allowing every soldier to feel it through his voice and momentum, even if they couldn't see clearly. "Tell me, can we just let it go?"
"No!" The soldiers responded in high spirits. Asa felt as if he was about to be deafened, drowned out by the shouting around him.
The little arc struggled desperately. It understood it was unlikely to escape death, but the ropes were tied too tightly, leaving it only able to futilely writhe on the ground. The arc let out deep growls.
Amidst the deafening shouts of the surrounding soldiers, Asa could still clearly hear the arc's voice, filled with the desire to survive and the beastly instinct tortured in the face of despair. At that moment, he felt as if the creature lying on the ground was another version of himself.
With a mighty swing of the general's massive axe, he declared with a sense of mission, as if issuing a historic order, "Kill it." The soldiers erupted in a cry and began to swarm forward.
Asa tried to intervene, but he was immediately swept away by the tide of people. The soldiers surrounded the arc like a horde of starving ants around a locust. Countless swords and blades came crashing down upon the arc on the ground.
The arc let out a piercing scream, mixed with the sounds of bones breaking and flesh tearing, as if the flesh itself was wailing. A chill ran down Asa's spine.
Asa was pushed away and could no longer see how the arc was being dismembered; all he could see was blood and small chunks of flesh and fur flying up with the soldiers' weapons, splattering onto them.
Perhaps due to its robust physique and vitality, the arc did not die immediately. Its cries continued for a while before slowly fading away into silence. Yet the soldiers continued to surge forth, hacking and slashing, the horrifying sound of flesh being turned into pulp showed no signs of stopping. Soldiers eagerly lined up to take their turn, as if participating in a long-awaited sacred ceremony.
After a long while, this grand ceremony finally came to an end, and the soldiers returned to their ranks.
The arc was no more; on the ground lay a large puddle of deep red mush, as if it were garbage. Besides a few larger bones and traces of juvenile fur, anyone arriving would not discern what it once was.
The soldiers waved their weapons smeared with these crimson substances, many with bloodstains on their faces, yet without exception, they were all exuberant, as if those red substances were medals of honor, proof of their warrior status, tokens of loyalty and bravery.
The soldiers were howling, rejoicing. They clearly understood that what excited them was a kind of virtue. Killing enemies, aliens, and foes was a noble virtue of loving home, country, and one's own ethnicity. This primal collective frenzy and the full affirmation of their values intertwined, boosting their morale infinitely.
Asa stared at the soldiers before him. It was only then that he realized how naive he had been to think he could save them. But they didn't need, nor would they want him to meddle.
He felt neither anger nor sorrow. Looking at the bloody remains scattered on the ground, he only felt disgust.
The general remained unmoved, like a statue, overlooking everything happening before him.
Asa silently turned away, mounted a horse, and headed toward Bracada.
"What's wrong? Aren't you waiting for me to die here? Don't you care about what I lead them to do?" The general finally spoke, his eyes reflecting the satisfaction of a victor. He could see how this young man had reacted. The general felt pleased that this annoying kid had finally been scared off. This was war, and this was how it was; in fact, these were merely minor incidents, insignificant and trivial.
The eastern sun had already risen, red and glowing. Under this morning light, Asa felt his blood boiling. He turned to glare at this fanatical leader and his five thousand adherents, shaking his head and saying weakly, "You can go die for all I care; I can't help, nor will I."
In the city hall of Orford, Mayor Theodorus was standing and reviewing a huge pile of documents.
The city of Orford was continuously expanding, its population constantly increasing, with orc immigrants joining in. How to manage it more effectively, the attitudes of various countries towards it, the imperial army... All of these matters required his mind to analyze the myriad of relationships and devise the most effective solutions that could kill two birds with one stone, or even more. During this period, Mayor Theodorus slept no more than three hours a night.
Yet, this elderly man in his seventies remained energetic and vibrant; he even maintained a standing posture to concentrate more on his work. For him, this was not just a job but an enjoyment of the work itself.
Every time he completed a task, he knew that Orford, the city he had built, grew stronger and more perfect. The joy, satisfaction, and comfort he derived from it injected him with new vitality and life. In his eyes, these tasks didn't even count as "work"; if anything, they felt more like a "game." He enjoyed the sense of achievement just like a child building a sandcastle, but the difference was that he was ten million times more serious and diligent, and the sense of achievement he reaped was correspondingly more intense, while the scale of the project itself was unimaginably vast.
Footsteps sounded from outside, causing Theodorus to furrow his brow, sensing that trouble might be brewing. He recognized those hurried steps belonged to General Grutt, and matters that could make his friend seem anxious were few.
General Grutt pushed the door open and reported, "A troop from the Bracada is rapidly approaching from the Einfast border. At the current speed, they should arrive in about seven or eight days."
"Hmm." Theodorus didn't lift his head, still focused on the documents. "What are their intentions?"
"We've been observing them for several days. They show no concerns or hesitation and are taking the most direct route here. I sent a few griffons to scout, and there are no signs of reinforcements, ambushes, or logistical support—only that single troop. Last night, I sent someone to probe their attitude," Grutt snorted coldly. "Their stance is very clear."
"Hmm?" Theodorus was quite surprised, finally stopping his work and looking at Grutt. "Please tell me everything in detail without missing a thing."
After hearing General Grutt's account, Theodorus pondered for a moment and shook his head helplessly. "The envoys from various countries have gathered in the capital, and we have expressed enough goodwill. They should understand that this war is futile, especially since Ronis should also have made a statement. So it's impossible that the Emperor of Einfast ordered them to attack, and I suspect a retreat order has also been issued. But this small troop has rushed in without any plan or military strategy, killing intent radiating from them... I really can't make sense of why they would do such a thing." Theodorus sighed, bent down, twisted his neck, and moved his joints before patting General Grutt on the shoulder. "Let's go take a walk."
The two leaders of Orford walked out of the city hall and onto the street. The surrounding orcs didn't seem surprised; at most, they would casually nod in greeting before hurriedly getting back to their work.
"That troop does indeed have a clear attitude; they are here to die." Theodorus looked at General Grutt and asked, "What do you plan to do?"
"Simple. I'll lead the charge against them when they're most exhausted from their long journey." General Grutt's tone was relaxed, as if it were indeed a very straightforward task. "I'll first kill their leading officer, and the remaining soldiers will naturally lose morale and may even scatter, making them much easier to deal with."
"If that's the case, how much damage will we sustain?" Theodorus inquired.
"Never more than five men," General Grutt replied nonchalantly. His tone was not one of confidence but rather a matter-of-fact lightness, as if one wouldn't doubt their ability to bite through a boiled egg.
"Five?" Theodorus raised his right hand, carefully inspecting the wrinkled fingers before sighing, as if reluctant to let go. "No, not a single one can die."
"While five men might seem insignificant given our current troop size, what we must avoid is not the losses themselves but their repercussions. If our kin are killed by other races in war, it will undoubtedly lead to feelings of hatred towards humans. Hatred between races benefits no one, and it's especially dangerous for a multi-racial country like ours. So, we must avoid that."
"You don't intend to persuade them to retreat, do you?" Grutt asked.
"Since they've come here against the Emperor's will, it indicates they've lost their reason, so fighting is unavoidable. Moreover, this is precisely when we need to demonstrate our fighting strength to the various nations. Annihilating them in one fell swoop would also be beneficial..." Theodorus pondered. The highland sun was intense, reflecting off his silver hair, making him appear like a statue symbolizing wisdom, not revealing that he was considering how to slaughter five thousand people.
The two walked into a street filled with workshops where craftsmen and orc apprentices were diligently working. The heat from the forges made the air rise, distorting the sunlight into waves of shadows on the ground. Theodorus glanced at those shadows, then looked up at the dazzling sunlight, nodded, and turned to Grutt, saying, "Take a griffon and send a message southeast for me, then bring a few people back."