Chương 200: 200：The Silver Arrow of Judgment

However, standing high upon the second-floor balcony, Soren surveyed the battlefield with a face as cold and unyielding as iron. From the exact microsecond Zagar had split his focus to activate the communication slate, Soren—fueled by his [Military Command Mastery]—had already read the absolute panic radiating from the enemy's core.

"Giving up on your little decapitation performance so soon?" Soren murmured.

"What a pity. But the time of your curtain call... is decided by me." In the face of the violently churning, pitch-black shadow mist, Soren moved with crisp, terrifying efficiency. He unslung the exquisite Elven artifact from his back, its surface tracing with ethereal cyan runes. [Windwhisper Bow]. Without a wasted breath, his fingers dipped into a specialized quiver at his waist. There, resting silently, were three arrows, their arrowheads gleaming as bright as winter frost.

These were the [Special Silver-Plated Arrows]. Forged by the Hobgoblin, Luger, who had utilized the virgin silver vein discovered in Greywater Village's back mountain to flawlessly coat the exterior of their armor-piercing bodkins. In the realm of alchemy, only high-purity silver possessed the absolute anti-magic properties required to purge shadow and necromantic mana! The passive attributes of his [Eagle Eye Perception] flared to their absolute limits!

In his vision, the plummeting raindrops hung suspended in mid-air, and the frantic panting of his soldiers ground to an agonizing crawl. Through his augmented sight, Soren pierced straight through the ink-black curtain of the shadow mist. He locked dead onto the deepest epicenter of the fog—the violently pulsing core of shadow energy desperately attempting to drift out through the breached wall. Fueled by the [Minor Blood of Titan], Soren's immensely powerful arm muscles coiled and violently contracted!

As he drew the string to its breaking point, the cyan Wind-attribute runes along the bow limbs ignited. They manifested as a miniature, shrieking whirlwind spiraling tightly around the silver arrowhead.

"Go." Soren whispered the execution order, and his fingers snapped open. THWACK! An earth-shattering sonic boom detonated in the air. The sheer kinetic backlash of the bowstring snapping back into place instantly atomized the surrounding raindrops into a cloud of white mist. Imbued with Wind-attribute mana, the silver-plated arrow tore through the night like a shrieking comet of cyan-white light, plunging with terrifying precision straight into the churning shadow mist.

The microsecond the high-purity silver made contact with the vile shadow mana, a catastrophic, corrosive reaction was triggered! Hiss! Crackle! The impenetrable mist was violently ripped apart, leaving a perfectly clear, vacuum-sealed tunnel in the arrow's wake! From the absolute depths of the fog, the sickening, muffled thud of a blade piercing flesh echoed loudly. An instant later, a bloodcurdling, unearthly shriek tore through the courtyard!

"AARRRGGGHHH! THE PAIN! IT BURNS!!" The silver-plated arrow had struck with zero margin of error. It punched straight through the center of Zagar's incorporeal shadow-chest, violently pinning itself deep into his semi-solidified spiritual spine! The absolute, purifying radiance of the pure silver detonated from within his core. Massive chunks of shadow essence rapidly turned to ash, violently flaking and ripping away from his soul-form in a frenzied cascade of destruction.

Sustaining irreversible, catastrophic trauma to his very soul, the two ghostly blue orbs of soul-fire hovering in Zagar's cowl instantly withered to the size of dying embers. With the caster so brutally incapacitated, the towering shadow canopy completely lost its anchor. The pitch-black mist violently dissipated with a heavy whoosh, leaving the courtyard of Bloodhorn Fortress fully exposed once more to the flickering, dim light of the braziers.

"The Master's magic is broken!" Stripped of Zagar's magical cover and telepathic tactical coordination, the [Sons of Titan] that had been retreating toward the breached wall abruptly froze. Deprived of their highly cunning Priest, these colossal monstrosities—which possessed only microscopic slivers of primal intelligence to begin with—instantly plunged into disorganized, chaotic frenzies.

"Now's our chance! He's at the end of his rope! Focus fire on those three heavily wounded freaks!" Gary, commanding from the frontline, acutely captured the tactical opening. He roared at the top of his lungs, violently slashing his signal flag downward. The battle-hardened elites of Greywater Village were not the type of men to show mercy to a drowning dog. Capitalizing on the monsters' chaotic stupor, the heavy repeating crossbow squads instantly abandoned their wide-area suppression.

They concentrated every single ounce of their firepower, zeroing in exclusively on the three most catastrophically wounded [Sons of Titan]. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. THWACK! SQUELCH! A torrential, concentrated downpour of triangular armor-piercing bodkins shredded the three behemoths. The sheer volume of incoming fire turned their towering frames into grotesque, writhing pincushions.

"DIE, YOU FREAKS!" High in the air, an unmatched, tyrannical arc of steel shattered the falling rain. Seizing the exact microsecond one of the [Sons of Titan] crashed to its knees in agony, Leona vaulted directly from the second-floor pillars. Riding the gravitational descent, her colossal greatsword unleashed a terrifying, half-moon cleave! CRUNCH! The apocalyptic slash completely severed the four-meter-tall monster's incredibly thick neck! A foul, dark-green geyser of blood violently erupted meters into the air.

Simultaneously, the Military Priestess Elena flawlessly executed two [Shackles of Holy Light], the radiant chains tightly anchoring another Titan's massive legs to the earth. Barely a second later, Chief Mage Victor released the [Hyper-Compressed Wind Blade] he had been channeling. The ultra-thin, shrieking crescent of cyan wind cleanly bypassed the beast's remaining defenses, horizontally bisecting the monster's broad chest and cleanly slicing its massive heart perfectly in two!

In the span of a mere dozen seconds. Three [Sons of Titan]—monstrosities that had historically struck absolute terror into the hearts of human kingdoms—were systematically eradicated. Under the relentless, ammunition-burning focus fire and flawless tactical synergy of Greywater Village's troops, they crashed heavily into the muddy, blood-soaked courtyard, utterly devoid of life.

"Damned human filth... one day... I will personally flay the skin from your bones..." Cowering behind the shattered remains of a stone gargoyle, Zagar watched his three prized behemoths fall. The ghostly blue soul-fire burning in his empty sockets radiated a hatred so absolute and venomous it practically wept blood. Yet, his survival instinct screamed at him. He knew perfectly well that if he didn't flee this exact second, he would be mercilessly butchered and dismembered alongside those corpses.

The catastrophically wounded Shadow Priest abandoned any remaining shred of his aristocratic dignity. Casting one final, utterly apathetic glance at his remaining twitching, dying monsters, he didn't entertain a single thought of rendering aid. Utilizing the massive cloud of debris kicked up by the final two robust [Sons of Titan] smashing through the outer wall, Zagar desperately channeled his remaining dregs of shadow mana.

He tightly encased the silver-plated arrow impaling his chest, frantically trying to suppress the agonizing, purifying rot from spreading further into his soul. Looking as pathetic and broken as a beaten stray dog, Zagar corralled the five surviving, heavily wounded [Sons of Titan]. Stumbling and swaying through the jagged breach in the wall, they fled blindly into the absolute depths of the Misty Swamp. Soren remained standing on the high balcony, his grip firm on the [Windwhisper Bow].

He did not issue the order to pursue. He even raised a hand, actively halting the heavy crossbowmen who were adjusting their aim to fire at Zagar's retreating back.

"Do not pursue a cornered beast. Especially not into the heart of the swamp." Displaying an unshakeable, terrifying level of tactical composure, Soren silently calculated the grander strategic board in his mind. Chasing a dying, desperate High Priest through a labyrinth of toxic mire was fundamentally unwise. The risk of sudden casualties from a cornered counterattack was far too high.

More importantly, resting beneath their feet was a subterranean vault overflowing with a mountainous stockpile of strategic supplies that desperately needed to be extracted. To have fought this raid to such an apocalyptic conclusion was, by any military standard, an absolutely inconceivable, flawless victory. Winter thunder rumbled lazily across the horizon as the torrential downpour finally began to taper off.

Illuminated by the flickering, dancing light of the braziers, the courtyard of Bloodhorn Fortress was a macabre masterpiece. The hill-like corpses of the [Sons of Titan] lay strewn across the stone slabs. The severed limbs, shattered armor, and broken weapons of the Orc garrison were thoroughly intertwined, serving as the ultimate, bloody declaration of who had won this brutal chess match. Soren descended the stone staircase, his boots echoing rhythmically as he stepped into the courtyard.

Wherever he walked, the reaction was uniform. Whether it was Leona, Commander of the Crimson Moon Knights, the veteran Commander Cedric of the Ironpeak Duchy, or every single blood-soaked, mud-caked elite infantryman of Greywater Village... They all autonomously, proudly puffed out their chests. Their eyes burned with an absolute, unadulterated reverence as they gazed upon the Warlord who had just delivered them a miracle.

This micro-detachment from Greywater Village, numbering less than a hundred men, hadn't just flawlessly conquered a heavily fortified enemy stronghold in a single day. They had executed over a dozen untouchable, aristocratic Orc officials and systematically slaughtered nearly a thousand elite Orc soldiers.

Furthermore, in an absolute, head-on collision of force, they had relied purely on three-dimensional, intersecting crossfire and overwhelming tactical suppression to catastrophically wound the Shadow Priest Zagar. And as the cherry on top, they had butchered three [Sons of Titan]—monstrosities universally feared as unstoppable siege engines—right where they stood. Hundreds of miles away, deep within the impregnable walls of Boulder Fortress.

Grand Duke Valentine, who was currently suffering through a sleepless night in his supreme command center, agonizing over the massive deployment of forty thousand Orcs massing outside his gates, would likely never know the truth. He would never know that on this freezing, desolate winter night, a surgical decapitation strike meant to sever his head in mere days—a crisis capable of utterly collapsing the entirety of the human northern defensive line—had already been silently, violently dismantled by Soren's troops.

Meanwhile, in an entirely different sector of the Misty Swamp. The horizon remained heavily suffocated by thick, oppressive rain clouds. This was the Black-Rot Vine Basin. It was a notoriously perilous death zone, explicitly marked as a completely unnavigable dead end on the official topographical maps of the [Blood Province]. A thick, suffocating layer of dark green, highly toxic algae carpeted the surface of the water, completely masking the violent, churning undercurrents below.

Not only did the acidic, rotting sludge easily swallow a man past his thighs, but the waters were infested with mutant leeches capable of effortlessly boring straight through iron armor, alongside hyper-aggressive packs of Demon Crocs. Even the most hardened veteran Orc scouts, who made their living prowling the swamp year-round, wouldn't dare set foot in this hellscape. Bloop... Ripple... The dense layer of toxic algae on the murky surface was slowly, almost imperceptibly pushed aside.

A hollow reed silently breached the surface. A split second later, a human head, thickly slathered in anti-corrosive, foul-smelling mud and wearing a standard-issue black iron helm, slowly emerged from the depths. Kyle—Captain of the Pikeman Battalion and possessor of both the [Brute Force] and [Herbalism Mastery] talents—violently breached the surface, gasping for air.

His burly, muscular torso was clad in a black iron half-cuirass, tightly wrapped in a layer of grayish-brown, waterproof oilcloth to ward off the swamp's acidic bite.

"Pah!" Kyle spat the hollow reed and a mouthful of sour, acidic sludge out of his mouth. Keeping his voice to a harsh whisper, he cursed, "The water in this godforsaken shithole burns the throat worse than boiled Half-Orc slop."

"Stow the complaints, Kyle. Pay more attention to the Poison-Thorn weeds brushing against your boots." Right beside him, another lean, impeccably athletic silhouette fluidly broke the surface of the water without kicking up a single, extraneous splash. It was Darion, the Vice-Captain of the Pikeman Battalion. Casually wiping a clump of toxic duckweed from his face with his sleeve, his eyes remained locked intensely onto the dense fog dead ahead.