Chương 150: 150：Offense is the Ultimate Defense

Soren straightened his posture, his [Eagle Eye] piercing through the endless, fog-shrouded wasteland.

"Within a radius of dozens of miles, thanks to years of orcish slaughter, there isn't a single human survivor settlement left to absorb."

"Those unlucky criminals exiled to the Misty Swamp by the Silvermoon Kingdom, or the desperate refugees who miraculously fled here? We'd be lucky to spot one every few months." If he passively waited for people to flock to his banner, who knew what year or month it would be before Greywater Village could be upgraded into a proper town of tens of thousands? Meanwhile, sitting just to the east of the Misty Swamp was [Bloodfang Fortress].

Warchief Blackstone commanded a terrifying horde of a hundred thousand orcs, armed to the teeth and threatening to pour out in full force at any moment. Attempting to drive a hundred-thousand-strong army out of the Misty Swamp with a measly force of a few hundred men was pure, unadulterated fantasy. He had to expand. Constant, aggressive expansion! He couldn't afford to stop for a single second!

In his past life, executing deep-insertion decapitation strikes in the tropical rainforests, his iron-blooded drill instructors had hammered a single, absolute law into his skull. Defense only delays death! Offense and plunder are the true kings of survival!

"Do you have a plan in mind, my Lord?" Fina asked softly.

"You are absolutely right to bring this up. This is of paramount importance," Soren said, suddenly turning back to offer Fina his full affirmation. Staring straight ahead, he slowly enunciated every single word:"We have to step out. Since we cannot produce refugees..."

"Then we will go out and plunder them!"

"We will push to the borders of the Silvermoon Kingdom and round up the refugees who can no longer survive, and even the exiled criminals!"

"We will lead our soldiers and strike deep into the orcs' heartland under the cover of night!"

"We will raid and slaughter the orc-established slave camps! Whether they are human slaves or other races, we will take them all!" Meanwhile, at Bloodfang Fortress. Up on the commander's viewing platform, the floor was covered in the splintered remnants of the wooden table Warchief Blackstone had shattered with a single kick. Several goblin slaves, trembling violently from head to toe, moved swiftly and silently to sweep up the wooden shrapnel.

At the same time, they dragged away the corpses of the orc guards who had been brutally impaled through their armor by the flying splinters and died on the spot. A freezing wind howled through the observation windows, causing the flames in the surrounding three-legged bronze braziers to flicker wildly. Warchief Blackstone's explosive rage gradually cooled, leaving behind nothing but a terrifying, suffocating chill.

He did not act like an ordinary orc warlord who, upon suffering a defeat, would blindly roar and muster his entire army for immediate revenge. Instead, he fell eerily silent. The Warchief's left hand subconsciously rose, slowly rubbing an old, weathered scar on his right forearm. It was a glaring, cyan, spiral-shaped brand—the lingering mark of high-tier wind magic. At this very moment, that name—Soren—simply refused to be banished from his mind. The Warchief lowered his eyelids, his expression profoundly dark.

It was this Soren! A few months ago, during the massive battle before Storm Rift Keep, that human—a creature no more significant than an ant—had stood at a jaw-dropping distance of two thousand meters. Amidst an army of ten thousand, he used a longbow carved with cyan runes to fire a single arrow that completely pierced the Warchief's proud heavy armor, nearly crippling his right arm!

Then, within the treacherous bogs of the Misty Swamp, it was this same, fox-like Soren who utilized despicable, shameless guerrilla skirmish tactics to harvest his roaming cavalry and hundreds of black iron infantry, nibbling them away piece by piece like a farmer harvesting wheat. And today? Today he had violently swallowed the high ground of Lone Cliff and five hundred Bloodaxe elites right under his very nose!

"Little bug..." the Warchief let out a low, rumbling hum that sounded like distant thunder. Were it any other orc warlord lacking strategic vision, they would have completely failed to suppress their fury. They would have recklessly mobilized thirty or even fifty thousand main troops to directly trample that pathetic little camp called Greywater Village into dust. But Warchief Blackstone was an apex commander capable of mastering his own berserker rage.

He was acutely aware that right now, there was a far more critical matter at hand. That was the Orcish Horde's grand, multi-year strategy to march south. To completely tear through the human defensive lines, the daily logistical supply required to feed his hundred-thousand-strong Blackstone main army was entirely tethered to the transportation hubs surrounding Bloodfang Fortress.

He absolutely could not allow his anger to dictate his actions, pulling his main forces away just to swat at a slippery, loach-like guerrilla unit. To put it bluntly: although this human named Soren had constantly fed him defeat, the losses suffered each time were only in the scale of a few hundred men. To Warchief Blackstone—a ruler commanding a hundred thousand main troops with massive hordes of vassal races serving as endless cannon fodder—what did a few hundred casualties actually mean?

If he mobilized his main army on a large scale to eradicate Soren, it would only expose a fatal flaw for Grand Duke Valentine of the Holy Halycon Empire to exploit. Thinking of this, Warchief Blackstone turned his head, his singular eye locking onto the figure sitting in the shadows to his left: the Shadow Priest, Zagar. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Having nearly destabilized his shadow-constructed body out of pure shock upon hearing the combat report from Lone Cliff moments ago, Zagar had finally managed to pacify the violent shadow mana boiling within him.

"Zagar," Warchief Blackstone's voice boomed like a giant bell. He reached down to the newly replaced stone table and picked up a parchment scroll stamped with a dark crimson bloody handprint.

"Do not mind the deaths of those five hundred pieces of trash at Lone Cliff."

"Look at this." The Warchief casually tossed the scroll. It traced a perfect arc through the air and landed precisely in Zagar's pale left hand.

"What is this?" Zagar suspiciously unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the unique, ancient orcish runes. This world was unfathomably vast. The entire territory of the Orcish Horde spanned hundreds of thousands of miles across the northern tundras and wastelands. Within this colossal alliance system—an empire larger than the Holy Halycon Empire and the Silvermoon Kingdom combined—they were by no means a loose, scattered collection of warring tribes.

To execute cruel, highly efficient governance, the Horde divided its massive territory into nine great provinces. The hundred-thousand-strong army commanded by Warchief Blackstone was actually just a single main force belonging to the [Blood Province]. The Misty Swamp itself also fell within the Blood Province's sphere of influence. Within Zagar's hollow, shadow-filled eye sockets, a ghastly blue soul-fire suddenly flared!

He rapidly scanned the document dispatched from the ruling core of the province thousands of miles away, his breathing suddenly turning sharp and ragged.

"The high command of the Province... those ancient High Warlords and Seers, they actually..." Zagar could hardly suppress the wild ecstasy bubbling in his chest.

"They noticed us!" The Warchief gave a slight nod. For over a decade, the frontlines had been locked in a grinding stalemate. The defensive perimeters on both sides had become stagnant pools of dead water. Aside from endless, daily skirmishes, pushing forward even an inch was virtually impossible.

Yet, just recently, Zagar had personally led eight [Sons of Titan] through a secret underground passage and unleashed an absolute slaughter within the capital of the Silvermoon Kingdom, violently crippling the human nation's very heart. Though it was merely a small tactical insertion, it successfully decapitated several pro-war high nobles, plunging the Silvermoon Kingdom's rear lines into severe, crippling political infighting.

This caliber of tactical doctrine was the definition of low-investment, zero-casualty, and astronomically high-yield. It was a strategy capable of bypassing the humans' proud, heavily fortified bastions at a minuscule cost to execute direct decapitation strikes against their commanders! The Warchief stood up. His massive, tower-like frame exuded a suffocating, oppressive aura as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"The old fogeys sitting on the Provincial Council have expressed extreme interest in your decapitation tactics utilizing shadow magic synchronized with the Sons of Titan!" The Warchief walked right up to Zagar, his singular eye burning holes into him.

"To evaluate whether this tactic possesses the value to be universally implemented across the entire Horde, the Province has specifically assembled a Joint Inspection Delegation."

"It includes a [Grand Councilor of the Supreme War Council], responsible for evaluating combat results and allocating military funding!"

"It includes an [Ironblood High Warlord] from the Ironblood Clan, holding absolute control over troop deployments!"

"And it even includes a [Provincial Oracle] representing the ancient Witch Doctors and the distribution of magical resources, alongside [Elder Representatives] from several ancient clans!" The Warchief exhaled a long, heavy breath.

"The absolute power-holders of the major clans! They have pulled over a hundred high-ranking orc officers!"

"They are riding direwolves southward day and night, specifically coming to the frontlines to observe the combat capabilities of your elite Son of Titan squad!" Hearing this laundry list of titles—titles that possessed unimaginably prominent, earth-shaking status within Orcish society... Zagar's already dancing soul-fire thoroughly ignited, burning straight to the absolute zenith! In this Orcish nation that worshipped physical brute strength and absolute might above all else...

to actually have over a hundred high-ranking officials—men who usually wouldn't even deign to spit in their direction—personally travel to the muddy frontlines just to observe his magical art? This meant sky-shattering wealth, and an unimaginable, meteoric rise in military prestige! As long as he could perfectly demonstrate the terrifying lethality of these special decapitation tactics in front of those influential heavyweights, not only would the hundred-plus provincial officials present bow to his genius...

the name Zagar would be permanently engraved onto the Monolith of Honor of the Blood Province! When that time came, endless wealth, slaves, ancient shadow magic grimoires, and even the right to independently command a main army would all flood toward him like a tidal wave! He would completely ascend into the absolute, core inner circle of the Horde's power! This utterly irresistible, intoxicating temptation caused the crushing defeat Zagar had just suffered at Lone Cliff to instantly evaporate into thin air!

This was a massive, high-stakes gamble that would completely alter the trajectory of his entire life!