Chương 182: 182：Zero Odds, Absolute Resolve

Deep into the night, the torrential downpour finally ceased. A desolate, chilling crescent moon hung over the Misty Swamp. Inside the well-crafted guest quarters assigned to the visitors, incense burned steadily, warding off the swamp's toxic insects. Cedric unbuckled his sword and slumped heavily into a wide, bearskin-draped wooden chair by the round table. Leona hadn't returned to her own room. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Elena sat quietly before the brazier, turning the pristine white pages of her holy text in silent prayer. The three of them sat in a heavy, prolonged silence before finally beginning their pre-battle discussion regarding an operation destined to be etched into the annals of this region's history.

"I still think this is utter madness," Cedric rumbled, the heavy stubble on his jaw looking even more rigid in the dancing shadows. He let out a long sigh.

"Ladies... I admit that Soren's tactical prowess is arguably the most flawless I have ever witnessed in my life. And his allocation of equipment extracts every last ounce of lethal potential.

"But there is one universal truth in war that tactics simply cannot erase: the insurmountable gap in sheer numbers.

"No matter how ferociously the soldiers of Greywater Village can fight, their combat-ready troops number barely seven or eight hundred.

"And they are marching out to face thousands of blood-forged Orcish guards!

"In a large-scale advance of that magnitude, if even a single squad in his chain fails to retreat in time, gets bogged down, or exposes their position... they will be instantly swallowed by a sea of Orcs!

"If that happens, this supposedly brilliant 'multi-point severing' formation will be brutally torn to pieces under the merciless grind of heavy armor!" Cedric paused. Then, surprisingly, the very commander who had just been declaring this mission pure suicide found his eyes igniting with an uncontrollable, burning desire. He let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. His gaze burned with intensity as he looked out the window at the peaceful, slumbering silhouette of Greywater Village.

"Yet... damn it all to hell.

"Logically, the odds of victory are microscopic. But after hearing him issue those ironclad, uncompromising military orders... I actually find myself anticipating it. I am secretly hoping that, in the face of absolute despair, this man's command and control can forge yet another impossible miracle for the human world." Cedric felt that if he could witness such a miracle with his own eyes, his entire lifelong understanding of warfare would be completely shattered and reforged.

Even if he died in this wretched swamp, to witness such divine tactical artistry as a soldier... he would die without a single regret. Leona turned her head. Her amber-red eyes reflected a pure, unadulterated trust.

"I don't share your agonizing over-calculations, Cedric," she said.

"In this chaotic era, aren't 'impossibilities' meant exactly for the strong to shatter?" She strode over to the table, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders as her imposing aura flared.

"Devouring a chunk of the Orcs' central inspection delegation? For anyone else, it's impossible. But if it's him... I am absolutely certain he will pull it off!" Her unwavering conviction echoed through the quiet room. Elena closed her holy text with a soft smile. Gently exposing the girlish pride hiding beneath Leona's bluster, she teased, "It seems our grand Commander is truly harboring an immense amount of pride over the fact that Soren is a general raised under the banner of the Crimson Moon Knights."

"K-keep your nonsense to yourself! I'm just stating facts!" Leona stammered, her face suddenly flushing bright red as she loudly deflected.

"Hurry up, strip your armor, and get to sleep! We have a show to watch tomorrow!" The sight of the fierce Commander fleeing the room with a red face added a rare, lighthearted touch to the otherwise grim, oppressive rainy night. Deep into the night, around three in the morning. Three exceptionally agile silhouettes landed lightly, one after another, onto the wooden steps outside the highest command cabin. It was Kyle, Ilya, and Meyer, all draped in camouflage cloaks thickly caked with fresh mud.

They pushed the door open. There were no lamps lit inside. Amidst the dim silence, illuminated only by a sliver of penetrating moonlight, the man who should have been resting was wide awake. Soren sat perfectly upright in his wide, wooden Lord's chair. His spine was straight, his posture exuding a cold, iron resolve. He had been waiting for them. The three commanders dropped respectfully to one knee.

The absolute core operational details for every battalion—the cryptographic passphrases, the concealed signal beacons, and even the brutal contingency plans for suicidal rearguard actions in the event of a catastrophic failure—were fully drafted on thick Demon Croc parchment. They held the military scrolls high above their heads.

"My Lord! All detailed battalion pre-orders and tactical displacement protocols have been perfected!" Soren took the three heavily detailed combat execution plans from his most capable lieutenants. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. These scrolls carried the absolute weight of over eight hundred lives. Soren took a deep breath of the freezing, damp night air.

"Dawn is approaching." His words were as cold as ice, completely uncompromising.

"Have the mess halls light the fires. The entire army eats their fill. In one hour, we march." Early the next morning. The faint light of dawn bled through the sky in a dull, murky rust-red, struggling weakly to pierce the overlapping canopies of dead trees. Yet, beneath the concealment array covering Greywater Village, an atmosphere of suffocating, killing intent had already taken root, forcing men to subconsciously hold their breath.

The rhythmic, synchronized thud of marching boots and the metallic clatter of armor plates filled the air. The tension was palpable, drawn as taut as a bowstring. On the vast, muddy training grounds, the various second-line units of Greywater Village were already melting into the depths of the swamp, strictly executing the tactical dispersion Soren had finalized the night before.

Under the command of Kyle and Darion, the Pikeman Battalion—over two hundred and fifty soldiers wielding studded bucklers and three-meter-long pikes—kept their spear points lowered. Maintaining a brutally tight formation, they slowly advanced toward their designated interception zones. The Half-Elf Commander, Ilya, and the Longbow Captain, Ein, marched on the flanks.

Over a hundred Half-Elves bounded onto the towering tree trunks with preternatural agility, utilizing thick vines to traverse swiftly through the canopy. Down below, fifty sharpshooters wielding heavy Imperial military bows stuck tightly to their overhead cover, fading into the dense, forward miasma. As for Commander Buck's Wolf Cavalry, the ninety-two massive Swamp Direwolves emitted nothing but bone-chilling, suppressed growls.

Relying on their terrifying burst speed, they vanished swiftly into the eastern quadrant of the territory. A military longsword was strapped to Soren's waist, while the azure [Windwhisper Bow] rested diagonally across his back. He stood on the steps of the stilted command cabin, silently overseeing the lethal deployment of his army. He then turned to look at the three guests standing beside him.

Leona, Commander of the Crimson Moon Knights, had done something exceedingly rare today: she had tightly coiled her eye-catching fiery red hair beneath a solid steel helm. Clad in the signature heavy plate armor of her Knights, she rested her hand on her slab-like greatsword, her battle lust radiating like a furnace. Priestess Elena had draped a waterproof, mud-resistant, grayish-brown burlap cloak over her pristine white clerical robes.

Gripping a staff embedded with the holy symbol of the Bright Moon, her demeanor remained gentle, yet her face bore an incredibly rare, heavy solemnity. Commander Cedric of the Ironpeak Duchy had stripped off his dozens of pounds of defensive plate armor to adapt to the swamp's treacherous terrain. However, he wore a highly resilient suit of chainmail beneath his tunic. His wrists were tightly wrapped in oil-soaked hemp rope for grip, and a razor-sharp, battle-ready longsword hung at his waist.

"You three." Soren picked up an earthen bowl filled with warm, purified water from the wooden table. He casually tossed a pinch of coarse salt into it, stirred it, and downed it in a single gulp to hydrate. Setting the bowl down, he bluntly laid out the facts.

"The army has marched. You have now seen every last trump card Greywater Village possesses.

"But this also means that the place I am about to step into is a hellscape defined by absolute slaughter." Soren's sharp gaze swept over the three of them one by one.

"I am giving you one final chance to choose.

"Either you return to the center of this heavily fortified village, sit safely by the warm hearth, and wait for the battle reports to filter back from the frontlines..." Soren's face twisted into a mask of pure killing intent.

"... Or you cast your lives aside, follow me directly to the vanguard, and witness true, brutal carnage right under the noses of thousands of Orcs!"

"Are you insulting my honor as a Knight, Vice-Commander Soren?" Leona stepped forward without a microsecond of hesitation.

"Back at the Storm Rift Fortress, I was the Commander who led the bloody charge from the very front! What kind of coward lets her subordinate march to his death while she toasts her boots by the fire?!" Elena smiled softly. Tapping her staff gently against the wooden floorboards, she spoke with a serene grace.

"The radiance of the Bright Moon must always shine upon those warriors bleeding in the darkest depths of despair. As a military priestess, my healing spells belong on the bleeding edge of the frontline." Cedric was so hyped his beard was visibly trembling.

"Lord Soren! How could a soldier of the Ironpeak Duchy ever turn a blind eye to a campaign of this magnitude?! I won't just watch—I am marching directly with your frontline elites!" That was their absolute resolve: to directly follow the deadliest spearhead into the fray.

"As you wish," Soren replied, his voice cold and resolute.