In these turbulent times, undercurrents surged across the world. Orcs, the Abyss, the Nine Hells, the Dead Three... factions once dormant beneath the sun's brilliance were all stirring.
Under such circumstances, it was by no means an easy feat for the Cinder Empire to become the true hegemon of Feanso—let alone surpass what Holy Fadlan once was and become the continent's de facto master.
Furthermore, there were no deities backing the Cinder Empire. Its sole pillar was Cassius, a patchwork figure who could barely be called a "demigod," forced constantly to mediate and maneuver among various divine powers.
Even so, faced with a chosen target, Cassius would never hesitate or retreat a single step.
Cassius sneered, shook out the dragon wings at his back, and stood up. "I'd like to see... once I slaughter every last one of these greenskin orcs, whether you can still hold back from intervening.
Let the world-shattering 'Orc Calamity' of my past life end right here!"
Whoosh!
His dragon wings beat, stirring a scorching tempest as a majestic dragon fear soared into the heavens, making all living things tremble.
In an instant, the half-dragon soldiers, wyverns, and rock dragon beasts guarding the perimeter of Dragonblood Mountain all raised their heads in unison, gazing up at that towering figure high in the sky.
...
"Th-those are dragon wings! That's a trait only great figures like Duke Trump and Duke Duoluo can possess!"
"Cassius above, Division Commander George has ascended to a half-dragon!"
"Look at that colossal corpse! He—he killed that orc! As expected of Lord George!"
"Division Commander George!"
Gazing at George, who had sprouted dragon wings and slain Jushan, the surrounding imperial soldiers erupted in an uproar. Waving their weapons, they cheered fervently.
*Schlink!*
With a faint sound, George finally pulled with effort the longsword embedded in the orc's skull, raising the bloodstained blade high with its tip pointing straight toward the sky.
George offered an enigmatic smile. "Everyone—slaying this mutant orc was not my doing, but His Majesty's!
It is the great Cinder Emperor! He watches over us like the sun, protects us, and bathes all subjects of the empire in the brilliance of victory!"
Under the sunlight, blood trickled slowly down the blade, dripping in scarlet droplets.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live Emperor Cassius!"
In an instant, the surrounding imperial soldiers broke into thunderous cheers that crashed like a tidal wave, roaring across the battlefield.
In the distance, orcs surged forward once more, blotting out the terrain. Though deprived of Jushan's leadership, they remained utterly fearless, venting their lust for war without restraint as they sought a fight to the death against the imperials.
"Everyone!"
Beating his dragon wings, George rose into the air and looked down upon the green tide in the distance, then raised his longsword toward the orcs.
"Crush them!"
Morale soaring and passions ablaze, the imperial officers and soldiers poured forth a torrential rain of bullets. Countless artillery shells crashed among the throng of orcs, sending them crashing down in vast swathes.
Before long, the reinforcements George had called for finally arrived.
Boom!
The ground rumbled dull and heavy as steel behemoths thundered across the battlefield, their tracks grinding over the piles of orc corpses and sending green blood splattering in all directions.
Piercing shrieks tore through the sky as a formation of armored wyverns glided from the horizon like a blade ripping open the heavens.
George was slightly surprised, but Dror's resonant voice rang through his communicator: "All units, charge! Prepare for the counterattack!
Did these damned greenskin bastards truly think sheer numbers could breach our defense lines? What a joke!
Everyone, show them the power of the Empire! Let them feel the baptism of blood and fire! Completely eradicate these wretched, insolent greenskin orcs!"
At Dror's command, heaven and earth began to shudder. The sky was blanketed by drakes and wyverns, while the ground was overrun by infantry, steam tanks, and dragon beasts.
Imperial forces even materialized on the orcs' flanks and rear, having clearly laid an inescapable net.
Now the imperial army surged forth in full force!
This was the exact moment Dror had been waiting for!
He had first established an impenetrable defense line of mines, traps, and bunkers—a grinding mill of flesh and blood steadily wearing down the greenskins' effective forces.
Then, once the enemy was sufficiently weakened, Dror launched the counteroffensive to deliver the fatal blow, wiping out all several million orcs on the front lines!
As for the mines and traps?
They had long since been triggered by the flood of greenskin orcs. Vast layers of corpses carpeted the ground, forming what was practically a new terrain surface.
...
Boom!
The imperial artillery unleashed its full fury. Shells trailing plumes of smoke crisscrossed the sky, weaving a dense web overhead.
Artillery rounds crashed down like raindrops and detonated, threatening to turn the ground inside out. Under such ferocious firepower and facing such a one-sided slaughter, even the orcs—who had never feared death—could no longer muster their fervor.
They loved war, but they did not love dying pointlessly, and they hated being blown to cinders without even knowing what had hit them.
"We can't even touch the enemy!"
"Dyin' like this is a rip-off! I haven't even had a proper kill yet!"
"Damn it, those old farts wanted us to be cannon fodder so they could have all the fun killin' later!" one greenskin orc cried, slapping his own head as he reached this epiphany.
His name was Barn, a greenskin renowned far and wide for being "clever."
These "old farts" were what the greenskin orcs called the pureblood orcs.
The two factions had always despised each other. The pureblood orcs looked down on the greenskins as lowly and vile, while the greenskins viewed the purebloods as "cowards who feared even death."
Yet under the mediation of Great Chieftain Solo—who possessed blood from both sides—the greenskins had temporarily yielded to the purebloods' might, lured by promises of "plundering Evindeldan clean," which was why they had marched to the front line as cannon fodder.
Now having figured this out, some orcs decided that rather than getting blown up senselessly on the front lines, they might as well brawl with those old farts and enjoy a good slaughter before dying.
To their minds, who they fought didn't matter at all; what mattered was having a fight, seeing blood, and killing someone.
And so, driven by this utterly bizarre logic that no ordinary person could comprehend, tens of thousands of greenskin orcs charged en masse toward the rear—straight at the positions held by the pureblood orcs.
"Old farts, we can't beat those imperials! We can't even get close, so we'll just have to bash you instead!"
"Lads, let's have a blast before we kick the bucket! Charge with me!"
"Waaagh! You old farts, I'll slaughter the lot of ya! Making us cannon fodder! Tryna trick us!"
The turncoat greenskins brandished their bone clubs and stone axes, roaring madly as they charged the orc lines.
The earth trembled, and gravel cascaded down the slopes.
"Gruumsh above..."
"Get back! Are you trying to desert?"
"Damned lesser orcs! What are you doing? Rebelling?"
"No—wait, they... they've actually turned! These lesser orcs have rebelled!" an orc sentry screamed.
Barn brought a bone club crashing down on the shouting orc's head, shattering the skull and sending brains splattering everywhere. Then, with righteous indignation, he bellowed, "You old farts thought you could trick us into dyin'! We should've beaten you to death long ago!"
Caught completely off guard, the orcs defending the encampment managed only a few enraged curses before being swallowed by the ocean of greenskins.
Even in death, they never could have imagined that these creatures—barely considered their kin—would turn on them mid-battle and counterattack over a reason as absurd as "having nobody to fight."
Yet compared to a battlefield spanning millions of orcs, the rebel orcs barely made a ripple.
"Chieftain! Chieftain, disaster! The lesser orcs at the front have rebelled!"
"Chieftain, the imperials' magic is far too powerful! The lesser orcs on our flank have been wiped out—not a single one survived!"
"Disaster! The imperials' steel behemoths are about to roll over us!"
Mounted on worgs, orc scouts sped in from every direction, frantically bringing reports—and without exception, every single one was bad news!
Seated upon a throne of white bone, Solo's expression was as dark as storm clouds. His right hand gripped his blood spear so tightly that it trembled slightly, his knuckles popping and creaking.
"Damned imperials..."
Gritting his teeth, the orc sprang to his feet and lashed out at the subordinates below him: "You useless trash! Idiots! You couldn't even control a mob of lesser orcs!
We had three million! Three million marched to assault a single enemy fortress, and we're getting butchered to pieces!"
Solo turned his head toward the black-robed shaman standing off to the side, his bloodshot eyes glaring as he snarled, "Moke! Is this the method you promised?
Your grand plan—was to have tens of thousands of lesser orcs attack our own lines?!"
Moke bowed respectfully, his voice as raspy as ever, betraying not the slightest hint of emotion. "Great Chieftain, I sowed a 'seed' among them—a seed capable of breeding a mighty orc.
Alas... the enemy we face was simply too powerful. Someone beyond the legendary tier intervened. Even I was helpless."
Hearing this, Solo flew into a rage, sorely tempted to hurl the blood spear at him.
Striding forward, he seized Moke by the throat with one hand, hoisting him clean off the ground, and roared into the shaman's withered face, "Then that is your incompetence! Incompetence!"
Though strangled by the neck, Moke still wheezed out word by word, "Great Chieftain... this is... meaningless."
Boom!
An artillery shell detonated just outside the encampment. The explosion soared skyward, engulfing several orc soldiers and clan chieftains while gouging a scorched crater right outside their command tent.
"The chieftain of the Black Bird Clan is dead! Blown to bits!" someone cried from outside.
The orcs inside the tent snapped their heads toward the opening, gasping in horror as panic and confusion washed over their faces.
The weapons forged by the imperials were terrifying enough to reach them here in the deep rear!
At this sight, Solo tossed Moke aside. Yet the fury in his eyes burned even hotter, tinged now with unease and fear as sweat trickled down his forehead.
He panted heavily, taking quite some time to regain his composure. Looking around, he asked, "Everyone, what... what do we do now?"
"Fight them to the bitter end! Even now, we still have over two million men!
Exactly! Even if we were two million pigs, those imperials couldn't butcher us all!" someone shouted, slamming the table in heated passion.
"The imperials' weapons can wipe people out from thousands of meters away..."
"Aye, those lesser orcs are worthless. No matter how many there are, they're useless..."
"We should pull back to the Ugo Steppe and disperse to our own pastures. The imperials probably won't chase us all that way..."
Yet more orcs shook their heads, muttering and whispering among themselves. Having lived through the collapse and defeat of the Red Blood Tribe under Batu's leadership, they had grown increasingly cautious.
After all, most of the reckless, hot-blooded ones had already died on the battlefield, beneath the walls of Evindeldan.
Listening to the chieftains' deliberations, Solo looked progressively grimmer. He had believed he would become a hero surpassing Batu, fulfilling the thousand-year longing of the orc race.
Now, Solo's beautiful dream was completely shattered.
The brutal reality was that under his command, the orcs hadn't even laid eyes on the walls of Evindeldan before suffering catastrophic casualties, their corpses blanketing most of the ground.
Moke stepped forward and said, "Let us leave, Great Chieftain. We must depart this place and return to that valley."
He pointed toward the distance, where greenskin orcs still surged like waves. "These lesser orcs are like weeds on the steppe. Burn down one patch, and another will sprout. They can never be wiped out completely.
We need only lie low on the Ugo Steppe, continuously breeding lesser orcs and letting them multiply. One day, the imperials will let down their guard—and that will be our opportunity."
At these words, the clan chieftains chimed in with their agreement. After all, the only lives spent this time were those of lesser orcs. Things like that could spring up like weeds anytime.
Even if millions perished, it was nothing more than a number.
Whereas the elite orc warriors under their command would take years or even decades to train if blown to bits by the empire. Wasting them in this battle was definitely not worth the cost.
Besides, the chieftains harbored their own selfish calculations: if the Red Blood Tribe were to fracture again, they would need these brawny warriors to vie with other clans for pastures and hunting grounds.
Bang!
After a long silence, Solo clenched his fist and slammed it down onto the table. "Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "Then... we do as you say.
We will pull back to Red Blood Valley for now, continue breeding orcs, and await our next chance to strike. Evindeldan will belong to us one day.
As for these lesser orcs... abandon them all here."
Chapter 670