Chương 134: 134：Redefining the Art of War

Right at this moment, the two commanders, accompanied by a dozen personal guards, were making their way up the narrow mountain pass—a path completely dyed green with orc blood—step by step until they reached the summit of Eaglebeak Ridge. With every step upward, the shock in their eyes grew more profound. Severed limbs and mangled corpses littered the ground! Heavy armor had been crushed into meat paste by catapult boulders. Corpses were charred down to blackened skeletons by exploding fireballs.

Along the cliff edge lay rows upon rows of orc bodies, their backs bristling with thick, heavy crossbow bolts. Everything painted a picture of the absolute, apocalyptic devastation that had been unleashed here over the past hour. General Galahad's eyelids twitched violently.

"Gods above... Five hundred Black Iron Orcs. They were utterly massacred before they could even form their ranks..." Any commander with even a basic grasp of military strategy would feel their scalp tingle at the sheer magnitude of this achievement.

The tactical manuals of the Kingdom's War Ministry explicitly stated: [Should one encounter a Black Iron Orc infantry phalanx, a force of heavy infantry outnumbering the enemy by at least four to one, anchored by high walls, is required just to withstand their frontal assault.] A fully staffed battalion of five hundred Black Iron Orcs!

Relying on their inhuman physical strength and nigh-impenetrable heavy black iron armor, if they launched a charge across a plain or hillside, they could easily rout a regular Silvermoon Kingdom infantry regiment of two thousand men in a pitched battle! And what had just happened? Galahad had seen it with his own eyes. The main force Soren brought up the mountain—even counting the longbowmen—barely numbered over a hundred men!

With a mere hundred men, he had launched an assault against five hundred heavily armored orcs holding a natural high-ground choke point. And he had wiped them out to the last man in under an hour! Achieving this with minimal casualties was an epic miracle—a feat destined to be written into the military textbooks detailing humanity's long war against the orcs!

"Lord Soren!" The moment Gabriel set foot on the plateau, he didn't even pause to catch his breath. Boot splashing directly through a puddle of gore, he marched toward Soren with long, purposeful strides. His eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on absolute fanaticism. Stopping in front of Soren, Gabriel actually planted the tip of his sword into the ground and offered a deep, formal salute typical of a junior officer paying respects to a superior!

"Magnificent! Simply breathtaking!" Gabriel didn't hold back a single word of praise.

"If the noble officers back in the Silvermoon Kingdom could witness your art of war, they would tear their heavily-funded military manuals to shreds and toss them into the furnace!

"To slay our enemies on the same battlefield alongside a peerless commander such as yourself... I, Gabriel, consider it the utmost honor!" Galahad, trailing right behind him, nodded vigorously in agreement. The old veteran, who had spent half his life holding the line at Ironwood Fortress, was flushed red. While he wasn't as overly theatrical as Gabriel, the profound respect shining in his eyes was completely genuine.

"Brother Soren," Galahad said, taking a deep breath.

"The sheer merit of today's battle... if we submitted this combat report to the Kingdom's Council, even the most nitpicky Minister of War would be forced to give you a standing ovation. A victory of this magnitude is enough to earn you an immediate peerage." Hearing these two commanding officers heap such tremendous praise, the dozen personal guards behind them looked at Soren in a completely new light.

They no longer saw him just as a commander of allied forces; they were looking at him as if he were a living God of War. Yet, standing at the center of their reverence and receiving the highest of accolades, Soren's expression remained completely unfazed. He didn't show even a flicker of the smugness one would expect from such ego-inflating praise. Meeting Gabriel's fanatical gaze and Galahad's deep admiration, Soren merely gave a dismissive quirk of his lips.

"You two generals praise me too highly." He waved a hand.

"What 'art of war'? It's nowhere near as mystical as you're making it out to be." Soren extended a buckskin-booted foot and, much like kicking away a piece of rotting wood, casually nudged the headless corpse of an orc lieutenant aside.

"In truth, it isn't because my tactics are brilliant, nor is it because my men are invincible warriors..." Soren spread his hands, letting out a helpless sigh.

"It's just that these Black Iron Orcs... are simply too damn fragile." Dead silence fell over the peak. Gabriel's smile froze on his face. His mouth hung half-open, as if a rock had just gotten lodged in his throat. Old General Galahad's vision actually went dark for a second; he nearly coughed up blood. Fragile?! These were the fucking Black Iron Orcs! The absolute nightmare of every human kingdom! And out of Soren's mouth, they were casually dismissed as "too fragile"?

If it weren't for the undeniable sea of blood and mountain of corpses laid out before them, the two men would have sworn Soren was subtly mocking the entire Kingdom's regular army, calling them a bunch of worthless trash. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Just as Galahad cleared his throat to break the awkward silence, a bizarre ripple of energy—one that only Soren could feel—suddenly echoed from the deepest recesses of his mind! [Ding!] [Annihilation Quest Conclusion Calculating...] [Target: Enemy Vanguard - Bloodaxe Heavy Armor Battalion] [Annihilation Progress: 100% (No survivors)] [Quest Rating: Outstanding] [The Warlord System is now distributing quest rewards as promised.] Soren suddenly felt a surge of scalding energy flush down his entire spine before shooting back up, coalescing and dissolving right between his eyebrows!

[Talent Acquired: Danger Sense] [Talent Description: Any hostile attack initiated within a 100-meter radius of the Host—be it a hidden arrow, a sniper's bolt, or a magical lock-on—will instantly trigger the Host's instincts, generating an automatic early warning!] Hum— The very instant the Talent fused with his flesh, Soren's perception of the world around him underwent a miraculous shift. The trajectory of the breeze sweeping over the cliff seemed to slow.

The faint rattle of Galahad's sword shifting against its scabbard became incredibly distinct. Even thirty meters away, the minute hostile intent of a swamp viper hiding beneath dead leaves as it bared its fangs flared in Soren's mind—like a blinding red beacon lighting up a pitch-black room! He could accurately pinpoint the viper's exact location with his eyes closed!

Even with the mental fortitude of a transmigrator who had lived two lifetimes, Soren couldn't suppress the burst of ecstatic joy blooming in his chest. He already possessed [Master-tier Military Swordsmanship] for physical defense, the raw, dominating strength of the [Faint Blood of the Son of Titan] for close-quarters combat, and [Eagle Eye] for precision targeting. In a head-on clash, he feared absolutely no man.

His true vulnerability in this otherworldly realm lay in the unpredictable: Shadow Shamans lurking in the dark, ready to unleash formless curses at any moment, or Phantom Assassins wielding blades coated in lethal, flesh-melting poisons! After all, it's easy to dodge a spear thrust in the light, but near impossible to avoid a poisoned dart in the dark.

In a brutal world where human life was as cheap as grass, countless brilliant and ambitious warlords had met their end not amidst the clash of massive armies, but asleep in their beds—slain by a single, venom-laced arrow through the window. But now? With the addition of [Danger Sense], paired with his [Hardened Skin] which already boasted a massive 70% physical mitigation rate...

It was safe to say that within a hundred-meter radius, any attempt at a magical or physical decapitation strike against him was utterly nullified! As of this moment, he was truly a Warlord without a single blind spot!

"Lord Soren?" Gabriel watched as Soren's spine suddenly coiled. The casual look in Soren's eyes instantly morphed into a glare sharper than the finest razor's edge—an intensity so profound it was difficult to look at directly. Gabriel's heart hammered in his chest. He subconsciously took a half-step back, terrified he had said something wrong to offend this living God of Slaughter. Soren instantly reined in his aura, tucking that suffocating pressure away.

A beam of dark red sunlight pierced the heavy fog, illuminating the Lone Cliff heights. A look of deep satisfaction flashed through Soren's eyes.

"It's nothing, General Gabriel," Soren replied, an inscrutable smile tugging at his lips. He looked up, his gaze piercing into the darkest, most treacherous depths of the Misty Swamp.

"I just had a sudden feeling... that this swamp will bring me many more satisfying surprises." Meanwhile, deep within the Misty Swamp. The encampment of the Crimson Moon Knights. Inside a drafty command tent, several oil-soaked torches mounted on the wooden struts flickered violently in the wind. Illuminated by the sporadic firelight was a massive oak table, chaotically cluttered with beast-hide maps, mildewed logistical ledgers, and a jagged rock serving as a paperweight for a stack of parchments.

Commander Leona sat straddling a rigid wooden bench. Her crimson hair, radiant as roaring fire, was tied back carelessly with a leather strap. Her eyes glittered like polished rubies, but a deep, unyielding storm of irritation was etched into her brow. It had been a solid two months since she stood before the King of the Silvermoon Kingdom and made her military pledge: Recover the lost territories within the Misty Swamp in one year.

Yet, the war effort was currently progressing like a broken wagon wheel bogged down in the mud. The noble lords back at the capital not only refused to send reinforcements or supplies, but they were actually watching with eager, dog-like anticipation, just waiting for her to fail so they could strip her of her command and disband the Crimson Moon Knights entirely. The sheer stress was suffocating, threatening to break even this famously iron-willed female commander.

Just then, the heavy canvas flap of the command tent was pushed aside by a pair of pale, unblemished hands.