Chương 141: 141：Three Grandmasters and an Imperial Branch

The instant the command left his lips, Warchief Blackstone felt as if his very heart was bleeding. Retreating didn't just mean his painstakingly planned counter-encirclement was completely shattered. It meant that the human army—the very creatures he had always viewed as nothing more than lambs waiting to be slaughtered—had just reached across the strategic chessboard and delivered a vicious, resounding slap directly to his face.

"Soren... SOREN!" The suffocating frustration, the sheer incomprehensibility of this defeat, and a newfound, deep-seated dread of human tactics all coalesced in this single moment into absolute, volcanic rage. Warchief Blackstone's massive frame shot up from his bone throne. Blood rushed to his leg, the muscles bulging terrifyingly as he delivered a devastating kick to the ironwood table sitting before him—a table weighing hundreds of pounds! BOOM!

The priceless ironwood table instantly detonated into a cloud of splinters and sawdust. Jagged shards of wood exploded outward like shrapnel. Several guards standing too close didn't even have time to scream before the thick wooden stakes punched clean through their armor, painting the viewing platform with their blood. Amidst the carnage of the ruined platform, the deafening cheers from the gladiatorial pits below had, at some point, completely died away in pure terror.

The biting, bone-chilling winds howling off the edge of the Misty Swamp crashed against a magnificent wall forged of sheer basalt, shattering into nothing more than a harmless breeze. This was the Holy Halycon Empire's border stronghold: Megalith Fortress. A rapid, unified thud of galloping hooves approached from the distance. Escorted by the Lone Cliff guide unit, Soren rode side-by-side with his Intelligence Officer, Meyer, passing through the towering gates of refined steel.

Meyer's eyes—empowered by his [Photographic Memory] Talent—discreetly swept over the rows of heavy ballistae gleaming with cold light atop the battlements. He meticulously analyzed the highly disciplined, orderly patrols of the Imperial regular army moving through the courtyard. He lowered his voice, leaning toward Soren.

"My Lord, the defensive fortifications and military discipline here are staggeringly strict. The foundation of the Imperial Army is unfathomably deep."

"Keep your eyes forward, Meyer. We are guests here," Soren replied simply, staring straight ahead, his posture as straight and rigid as a javelin. Before a majestic stone keep in the inner sanctum of the fortress, the Imperial Iron Guard verified their credentials. Immediately, a guard bellowed out with utmost respect:"Lord of Greywater Village! Commander of the 1st Vanguard Battalion of the Silvermoon Kingdom's Crimson Moon Knights—Lord Soren has arrived!"

The massive, copper-bound double doors slowly groaned open. Soren took a long stride into the central command hall. The hall boasted towering, vaulted ceilings, flanked by thick, burning pine-resin torches. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of premium cigars and melting wax. A massive tactical sandbox dominated the center of the room, and behind several rows of long oak tables stood a throng of the Empire's highest-ranking generals. In that instant, every single gaze in the room locked onto the young man.

There was scrutiny. There was curiosity. But above all, there was profound shock. He was simply too young. Basking in the baptism of their intense stares, Soren marched to the dead center of the hall and stopped. His leather boots snapped together with a crisp clack. There wasn't a single ounce of stage fright in his demeanor. Keeping his back straight, he slammed his right fist against the light armor over his left breast, executing a flawless, razor-sharp military salute.

His voice rang out clear and steady:"Commander of the 1st Vanguard Battalion of the Crimson Moon Knights, Soren! Reporting to the Supreme Commander!"

"Dispense with the stiff formalities, young lion. Victors are entitled to preferential treatment." Sitting at the absolute center of the main table was an elder with silver hair, yet he exuded the rugged, unyielding presence of a pride alpha. He wore a luxurious deep-blue ducal mantle, and pinned to his chest was the Twin Swords of the Sun—the highest military honor of the Holy Halycon Empire. This man was the Supreme Commander of the Northern Borders: Grand Duke Valentine.

The Grand Duke's demeanor was surprisingly amiable. In those eyes that had judged countless men over decades of war, there was now a clear, unmistakable glint of admiration. He smiled and raised a hand.

"Grant him a seat." Soren nodded in acknowledgment and prepared to sit. But at that exact moment, several of the most prominent figures standing beside the Grand Duke stepped away from the table and approached him. To the Grand Duke's left was the Empire's Deputy Minister of War and Chief Tactician of the Northern Defense Line, General Marr. He was lean, with eyes as sharp as a hawk's, radiating the calculating aura of a master strategist.

Alaric, Commander of the Royal Griffon Knights, walked respectfully at his side. But what truly surprised Soren was the third elder, who hurriedly stepped forward from the Grand Duke's right. He was dressed in the signature silver-fox-collared general's uniform of the Silvermoon Kingdom, his hair entirely grey.

"Soren, my boy! Seeing you safe and sound finally puts my old heart at ease." The elder's gaze burned with fervor, his tone dripping with an almost overly intimate familiarity. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Soren immediately recognized the rank insignias on the uniform and offered a slight bow. This man was General Rodman, the oldest and most highly respected veteran of the Silvermoon Kingdom.

The only reason General Rodman had ridden through the night to get here was driven by a singular, terrifying fear: that the Holy Halycon Empire would use wealth, titles, and glory to poach Soren—a genius who rightfully belonged to his homeland! He was here to physically block them from stealing his nation's rising star. After all, just a few days prior, the Shadow Priest Zagar had led eight Sons of Titan to infiltrate Silvermoon City.

Like wolves slaughtering sheep, they had murdered several high-ranking nobles in cold blood. Now, the capital was gripped by terror, practically teetering on the edge of collapse. Right when the nation desperately needed a pillar to stabilize military morale, this unparalleled genius named Soren had miraculously sprouted from the frontline, delivering an impossible victory.

Facing these three supreme commanders—men whose mere stomps could make the entire Northern Defense Line quake—a sudden, whimsical thought popped into Soren's mind. Soren lowered his eyelids slightly and silently activated his [Appraisal] skill. Targets locked: Grand Duke Valentine, Chief Tactician Marr, and General Rodman. Hum! The very next second, a translucent screen visible only to Soren materialized above the heads of the three elders. Their stat panels popped up instantly.

[Target: Valentine] [Command Talent: Grandmaster-tier!] [Specialty: Commanding Massive Armies] [Target: Marr] [Logistics & Tactics Talent: Grandmaster-tier!] [Specialty: Strategic Deductions] [Target: General Rodman] [Command Talent: Grandmaster-tier!] [Specialty: Fortified Defense] Soren's heart suffered a massive jolt. Not a single one of them is a simple placeholder. They are all apex military prodigies! It finally clicked.

He understood exactly why the human armies of this world—despite suffering a crushing disadvantage in raw physical strength against the orcs—had managed to stonewall the hundred-thousand-strong Blackstone Warband for over a decade. It was because the upper echelons of humanity weren't entirely plagued by corrupt, incompetent bureaucrats like Viscount Blake. The men truly holding the reins of the military were peerless paragons, absolute legends forged in mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

Confirming that the three commanders standing before him were all Grandmaster-tier legends, Soren instantly tucked away any trace of pride or underestimation. Taking a deep breath, his face returned to a mask of absolute calm composure as he gracefully sat down in the prepared mahogany chair. This perfect, unflappable poise in the presence of the continent's most powerful men caused the admiration in Grand Duke Valentine's eyes to burn even brighter.

"Bring the wine! Fetch my private stash of Red Dragon's Blood! Have the kitchens slice up the freshly roasted mountain ram!" Grand Duke Valentine roared with a hearty, booming laugh, waving his hand grandly. A line of servants streamed in. Golden platters were piled high with tender, grease-dripping roast meat, while crystal goblets were filled to the brim with ruby-red wine. Yet, despite this mouth-watering feast, not a single general in the room picked up their silverware.

The Grand Duke skipped the pleasantries entirely. Raising his goblet, he cut straight to the chase, voicing the agonizing question that had been scratching at the minds of everyone present like a cat's claw:"Lord Soren. Lone Cliff is a natural fortress. With the Bloodaxe Battalion's five hundred elites holding that high ground to the death...

even if I personally commanded the most elite Griffon Breaker Battalion to storm it, we would suffer hundreds of casualties and require at least a full day and night of non-stop siege." The Grand Duke leaned forward, his expression turning deadly serious.

"And yet, the combat report states that from the moment you initiated the charge to the moment you severed Garrosh's head... it took you less than an hour."

"Can you tell me exactly how you managed to pull this off?" Hearing this question, General Rodman and Tactician Marr froze. The massive command hall instantly became so silent you could hear a pin drop. Soren, however, remained utterly relaxed. He calmly sliced off a small piece of roast mutton, placed it in his mouth, chewed twice, and then swallowed. Only then did he openly begin to recount the battle.

"It's quite simple, really. What I used does not fall under the traditional definition of military tactics. I call it... a Three-Dimensional Crossfire Matrix." Soren gestured casually with his fork in mid-air.

"First, I had my Hobgoblin Engineer, Luger, rapidly assemble heavy trebuchets at the front lines. Combining that with the elemental magic of my Chief Mage, Victor, we executed a high-intensity, precision bombardment directly on Lone Cliff's frontal defenses."

"The primary purpose of that ten-minute barrage was not to inflict casualties. It was to use the concussive shockwaves and blinding flashes of magical explosions to temporarily strip the Bloodaxe Battalion of their hearing and create visual blind spots. True suppressive fire." The surrounding veteran generals literally held their breath. These completely novel terms and modern combat doctrines sent their brilliant minds into overdrive.

"The orcs' attention was entirely pinned down by the frontal firepower. And right at that moment..."