Chương 109: 109：The Child's Offering

Alaric had lost the upper hand in the negotiation, but he was by no means a mediocre commander who would accept returning empty-handed. Since he couldn't win the verbal spar, as a general, he absolutely had to gauge the true caliber of this mysterious armed force that had annihilated the Bone Ridge outlaws. Recovering his composed, unshakeable bearing, Alaric stood up, brushed off his immaculate robes, and made a new request:"Captain Soren, since the matter of the armaments is settled, let us turn the page."

"However, I wonder if Captain Soren would do me the convenience of showing me around your territory? Allow me to broaden my horizons." Soren didn't hesitate for a microsecond. He generously gestured toward the door.

"Since the Grand Commander has spoken, Greywater Village naturally welcomes you."

"But it is nearly noon, and you two have traveled a long way. You must be starving. There is no rush to inspect the drills. I've already instructed the kitchens. Why not sample the humble, coarse fare of our backwater village first?"

"We are guests; we follow the host's arrangements. We trouble you," Alaric nodded politely. Moments later, however, the meal brought to the wooden table caused both Alaric and Archmage Valeriu's eyes to twitch violently. What Soren called "humble, coarse fare" indeed lacked the carved silver platters, foie gras, and truffles of the Holy Empire's royal banquets. But sitting squarely on the table were three massive platters of glistening, thick-cut beast steaks, still sizzling from the charcoal fire!

Several woven vine baskets were piled high with freshly baked, steaming loaves of pure white wheat bread, radiating a rich, earthy aroma. And resting beside them were three deep clay jugs, filled to the brim with crystal-clear, home-brewed berry wine! Valeriu swallowed a difficult gulp of saliva. This was the Misty Swamp! A death zone spanning a thousand miles, filled with highly acidic, putrid mud, where finding a single mouthful of clear water was considered a blessing from the gods!

Other routed armies and refugees were gnawing on tree bark and drinking stagnant mud-water. Yet Soren was eating freshly roasted steaks? Eating finely sifted white flour bread? He even had berry wine brewed with purified water?! Alaric maintained a perfectly stoic facade as he picked up a piece of bread and tore it open. The soft, stringy texture of the perfectly baked dough made his heart sink rapidly. Amateurs watch the spectacle; experts see the foundation.

To be able to afford this level of logistical sustenance in such a hellish geographical environment meant this was absolutely not some ragtag bandit force living meal to meal. This was a direct, glaring display: Greywater Village possessed incredibly stable food production! During the meal. The three men tore into the roasted meat and downed heavy gulps of berry wine. The atmosphere seemed to warm significantly.

Alaric raised his wooden cup, casually throwing out a probe:"Captain Soren, you are nestled deep in the belly of the swamp, yet you have forged a unit of true elites."

"Looking at the grand board, Warchief Blackstone has amassed a hundred thousand heavy troops along the Bloodfang Fortress front. The pressure is like a falling mountain."

"As someone stationed long-term on the front lines, how do you see the ultimate direction of this war between Humanity and the Orc Alliance?" This was a test. Using a Commander's lens to measure Soren's strategic vision. Backed by the absolute confidence granted by the [Warlord System], combined with the tactical mastery of his past life as a Special Forces operator, Soren casually tossed his meat bone into the wooden bucket by his feet and grabbed a piece of coarse linen to wipe his hands.

He looked up, his gaze like a drawn sword piercing straight into Alaric. He spoke with ironclad, undeniable certainty:"Victory."

"Not just victory. There won't be any need for a grueling three-to-five-year war of attrition."

"I am putting my words here today: Give me one year."

"In one year, there will not be a single orc war banner left standing in the Misty Swamp!"

"That so-called invincible green-skinned army of a hundred thousand will tuck their tails between their legs and roll right back to their Northern Wastelands!" One year! Drive a hundred thousand orcs out of the Misty Swamp! Hearing this bombastic declaration, Alaric maintained a polite, listening smile on the surface, even raising his cup in a toast to Soren. But internally? Deep down, he let out a cold, utterly disdainful sneer. Arrogant!

A frog at the bottom of the well who doesn't know the immensity of the heavens and earth! Alaric silently cursed. He relies on sneak attacks and small-squad ambushes to wipe out a two-hundred-man bandit camp at Bone Ridge, and now he's so high on himself he doesn't even know who he is anymore? Alaric was a man who had fought brutal, grinding wars. He knew exactly how terrifying the Orcish War Machine was when it truly started rolling. Those towering, fearless Blacksteel Orcs.

The conclaves of High Shamans capable of calling down meteor strikes and hellfire. This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The endless, suffocating tides of Warg Cavalry stretching over the mountains, as far as the eye could see. In his eyes, Soren's claim of taking back the swamp in a year was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to puff out his chest and save face in front of a high-ranking Imperial General. Ridiculous boasting. Pure hot air.

It seems this Soren is a genius on the tactical level, but his strategic vision is laughably shallow. He lacks the depth to become a true, existential threat. Alaric made his dismissive assessment. Consequently, he secretly lowered a fraction of his guard against Greywater Village. After they had eaten and drank their fill. Alaric brought up his previous request: "Captain Soren, the food and wine leave a lasting impression. Now, about that tour..."

"Right this way, Lord Commander." Soren stood up, pushing open the wooden door with complete openness.

"I will show you the place where the soldiers of Greywater Village sweat and bleed." The post-rain mud carried a pungent, acidic stench. Soren walked in the lead, with Alaric and the Royal Mage trailing half a step behind. The three men navigated through the staggered, stilted wooden cabins, heading toward the training grounds at the base of the rear mountain. Along the way, Greywater Village displayed an undeniable, throbbing vitality.

The areas flanking the path looked absolutely nothing like a lifeless, despairing refugee camp.

"Good afternoon, Lord!" Several goblins, sweating profusely as they pushed wheelbarrows loaded with iron slag, didn't cower in terror and scatter like rats at the sight of humans, as was the norm. Instead, they stopped in their tracks and offered somewhat clumsy, yet highly respectful salutes over their chests. A few peasant women sitting outside, mending leather armor with baskets of linen thread in their laps, saw Soren pass by. Genuine, radiant smiles bloomed on their faces: "Praise the Lord!

The radishes distributed today were so crisp and sweet!" Furthermore, several ten-year-old children, covered head to toe in mud, were chasing each other barefoot through the puddles. Giggling and laughing, they darted right past Alaric—the Grand Commander of the Empire—nearly splashing mud onto Valeriu's priceless robes.

"Insolent!" Valeriu instinctively raised his staff to berate them. Right at that moment. A seven or eight-year-old boy, his face dotted with freckles and his hair looking like a bundle of dry weeds, suddenly broke away from the pack of children. Splash, splash, splash. He ran through the mud and stopped directly in Soren's path. Pinched tightly in his grubby little hands was a dark red object no larger than a thumb. The boy looked up, his clear eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered adoration.

Like offering a priceless treasure, he stood on his tiptoes and thrust his hands high toward Soren.

"Lord! This is the dried smoked meat I got for helping the logistics team weave straw ropes! I couldn't bear to eat it! For you, Lord!" The piece of dried meat was shriveled, tough, and even dusted with a bit of mud. In the eyes of the Holy Halycon Empire's nobility, this kind of behavior was considered a "commoner's assault." A knight's horsewhip would have already been brought down, snapping that filthy little hand in half—a completely standard, everyday practice among the aristocracy.

But Soren stopped in his tracks. This cold-blooded butcher, who had just forced an Imperial Commander into a corner at the negotiation table, who had casually ordered the slaughter of hundreds of orcs... Right now, on this muddy village road, he bent his knee and crouched down. Soren brought his line of sight perfectly level with the child. He didn't reach out to take the meat. Instead, he reached out and vigorously ruffled the boy's messy brown hair.

"I don't want it."

"Good things are meant to be stuffed into your own belly." Soren pointed at the boy's arms, which were as thin as reed stalks:"Eat this meat. Eat lots of meat. Grow tall quickly, and build muscles strong enough to flip boulders."

"When you grow up, go to the armory, sign out a pike, and go pierce the guts of those green-skinned orcs! Do you hear me?"

"I hear you! I'm going to grab a pike and kill all the green-skins to protect the Lord!" The little boy tightly gripped his piece of dried meat, his face flushed bright red as he screamed his vow with every ounce of strength in his tiny body. Then, bubbling with excitement, he ran back to his friends. Watching this unfold. Alaric, standing just a few steps away, felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck him directly on the crown of his head! His mind was churning like a stormy sea.

In the Holy Halycon Empire, what were nobles? They were the clouds high in the sky, representing exalted, untouchable bloodlines. And what were commoners? Nothing but two-legged livestock that could speak. They were bottom-tier tools to be arbitrarily taxed, conscripted, and worked to death in hard labor. Wherever the iron hooves of the Imperial Army marched—even the heavily romanticized, "righteous" Knights of the Holy Light—did the local commoners not flee in absolute terror?

Did they not clutch their rice bins and shiver in the dark?