Chương 269: 269：The Grand Steward and the Phalanx

[Name]: Talon [Talent Panel]: [Mounted Archery]: A warrior born for the saddle. Natural affinity for mounted archery, coupled with exquisite horsemanship. [Tactical Command Mastery]: Proficient in large-scale troop maneuvering and command scheduling, exceptionally skilled at directing forces on open plains and steppe terrain. Looking at these cavalry-oriented talents, Soren let out a quiet, internal sigh. He rapidly assessed the current tactical landscape in his mind.

"Talon, oh Talon. Looking at your stat panel, you are a natural-born general forged entirely for open-field cavalry charges."

"The battlefield where you would truly shine is the vast, boundless steppes. Out there, you would be a razor-sharp blade capable of rapidly shattering enemy lines."

"Placing you here, in the treacherous, mud-choked Misty Swamp filled with toxic miasma and high-acid bogs... it is a massive waste of your talents."

"It's a damn shame about your cavalry affinity... but right now, I simply do not have any other high-tier generals to spare. Buck is locked in as the Wolf Cavalry Commander, and Ein and Ilya both have their respective, specialized roles."

"You'll just have to stomach the grievance of acting as an infantry commander in this swamp for now. Regardless of the terrain, you possess the exceptionally rare [Tactical Command Mastery] talent!"

"Your macro-strategic vision and your ability to orchestrate complex troop formations are leagues beyond Kyle, who only understands logistics, and Darion, whose expertise lies entirely in naval combat."

"Only with you holding the center can I truly set my mind at ease." Pulling his thoughts back to the present, Soren reached into his coat and produced a liquid securely sealed within a crystal vial. The fluid inside was a deep, violently glowing, eerie green. It swirled sluggishly within the glass of its own accord, radiating a primal, ferocious aura.

"Talon, since you have taken up this heavy mantle, your personal strength must also be elevated to a level worthy of commanding this army." Soren handed the crystal vial to Talon, his tone turning exceptionally solemn:"This is the [Basic Troll Serum]. Swallowing this will subject you to a violent, agonizing pain beyond human comprehension. But as long as you survive it, your strength, endurance, and regenerative capabilities will shatter the limits of human biology."

Talon's hands trembled violently as he respectfully accepted the astronomically precious, supernatural alchemical potion. He knew exactly what this was! The only reason Greywater Village's frontline Black Steel elites were able to display such monstrous, invincible combat prowess on the battlefield was entirely due to this divine elixir!

"For Lord Soren's gift, I, Talon, will brave ten thousand deaths without hesitation!" Without a single second of hesitation, Talon popped the cork, threw his head back, and downed the thick, coppery-smelling serum in a single gulp!

"Urgh... AARGH!" Merely seconds later, Talon unleashed a heavy, guttural roar. The muscles across his entire body rapidly and grotesquely expanded. Thick, cyan veins bulged beneath his skin, twisting and coiling like writhing serpents. His skeletal structure emitted a terrifying, bone-grinding symphony of friction. Yet, Talon fiercely clenched his jaw, forcefully enduring the inhuman torture.

Cold sweat instantly soaked through his tunic, but the burning desire for absolute strength in the depths of his eyes only grew more fanatical....... As the days pushed forward. Under a series of rapid, decisive equipment re-forgings and personnel restructuring, the entirety of Greywater Village operated at terrifying efficiency. When a deep winter blizzard finally blanketed the Misty Swamp, the comprehensive re-arming of the Greywater forces was officially declared complete!

Early that morning, the winter wind cut like physical blades. As Soren stood atop the high platform of the training grounds, looking down at the army radiating a suffocating, lethal aura of war, even he couldn't help but feel a surge of profound exhilaration. In the front ranks stood the frontline elites. Seventy warriors exuding a monstrous, oppressive presence. Every single one of them had fully equipped the [Dark-Silver Full-Plate]!

Layered directly over their heavy, cold-resistant [Gambesons], the composite armor—gleaming with a muted, dark, and lethal luster—encased them flawlessly from head to toe into walking fortresses of steel. In their hands, they held their two-and-a-half-meter-long armor-piercing heavy halberds pointing toward the earth. Hanging at their waists were their custom winch-drawn heavy repeating crossbows.

The sheer deterrent force they projected was enough to instill paralyzing dread into the heart of any enemy who laid eyes upon them. Behind them stood the impeccably disciplined, majestic second-line army. A full thousand Macedonian pikemen, one hundred longbowmen, and ninety-three Wolf Cavalry... Every single man was fully equipped with [Dark-Silver Half-Plate] layered over thick [Gambesons]! The dark-silver armor on their chests reflected a highly durable gleam in the snow.

It guaranteed the absolute safety of their vital organs while granting them the agility to rapidly maneuver through the treacherous, muddy swamp terrain. But what was truly terrifying, truly blood-curdling, was the overwhelming firepower configuration this army now possessed. This was no longer a traditional army that relied solely on throwing flesh and blood into a grinder to plug a defensive line. As of this moment, every single combatant of Greywater Village was equipped with ranged firepower!

The Longbow Battalion carried Imperial Military Longbows equipped with triangular armor-piercing heavy heads. The Magical Ranger Battalion was armed with heavily enchanted, wind-blade arrows. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. The frontline elites wielded custom winch-drawn heavy repeaters. And the massive, densely packed phalanx of a thousand pikemen in the rear?

Every single one of them had a fully loaded, standard-issue heavy repeating crossbow hooked to their belts! Soren swept his gaze over this heavily armed, monstrously equipped army with absolute satisfaction. He knew that after this comprehensive restructuring, the military might of Greywater Village had achieved a monumental, qualitative evolution—whether in terms of physical defense against cold-steel melee, or their absolute, overwhelming ranged kinetic output!

"Come then, you Bloodbone Legion... you plague wagons of the Withered..." Soren narrowed his eyes, resting his hands on the wooden railing. A razor-sharp, predatory sneer surfaced on his face:"Let's see just what you barbaric animals can muster to resist the fully operational, three-dimensional interlocking crossfire network I've built for you!" The Dark Calendar, Year 450. Deep Winter. In a Free Trade City-State located deep within the continent's heartland, the thick morning fog had yet to lift.

Down a street corner, a newly imported rotary printing press was currently rumbling with deafening, mechanical roars. The sharp scent of cheap ink permeated the air, mingling with the sour stench of inferior ale drifting from the early-morning street markets, completely saturating the biting winter wind.

"Extra! Extra!" Dozens of young newsboys, shivering in thin, tattered tunics, waved the freshly printed, still-warm gazettes in the air. Like agile mice, they ducked through the crowds, rapidly sprinting through the streets and alleys of cities across the entire continent.

"Exclusive Interview by Battlefield Scholar Lucia! Miracle Deep in the Misty Swamp!"

"Soren, Lord of Greywater and Deputy Border Commander of the Silvermoon Kingdom, Unleashes Divine Wrath! Orc Oracle Slain at Soul-Severing Gorge!"

"Nephew of the Blood Province Governor Beheaded! Thousands of Black Iron and Black Steel Elites Annihilated!" Hearing the newsboys screaming at the top of their lungs, the commoners—who had been standing with their necks drawn in, their faces numb as they waited in line for their daily ration of black bread—violently stopped in their tracks.

Inside the taverns, the mercenaries who had been sighing in despair over the continuous frontline defeats, drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor, violently shoved their mugs aside, kicked the doors open, and flooded into the streets. Across the mainstream gazettes of over thirty large and small nations within the Human Alliance, the front-page headlines were entirely dominated by a single article.

[An Exclusive Interview with the Hero Resisting the Orcs: Soren, Lord of Greywater Village and Deputy Border Commander] Across the pages, Lucia's impassioned, highly charged writing made it feel as though the reader was standing right there in the muddy, blood-soaked trenches, witnessing a series of battles that could only be described as absolute miracles.

Through her words, the arrogant, towering bodies of Orc elites crashing to the ground, and the tyrannical Young Master Mogg being cleanly decapitated by a heavy halberd, were vividly, viscerally brought to life. However, the true catalyst that caused this report to spread like wildfire—igniting a volcanic emotional response across the entire human faction—wasn't just the glorious battle records. At the bottom of the page, Lucia had used bold, striking black ink to emphasize a sub-headline.

This was the true core that shook humanity to its very soul: [Leave No Man Behind: Greywater Village's Lifelong Pension Guarantee for the Wounded] On the outskirts of the Free City-State's plaza, a veteran who had lost his right leg in a border defense war ten years ago—and was now reduced to begging for scraps—used his frost-cracked, trembling hands to clutch a copy of the gazette. Beside him, a destitute but literate schoolteacher was reading the text aloud, his voice shaking violently:"...

In Greywater Village, thirty-seven heavily crippled veterans—men who have lost their limbs or their sight—are housed in warm, high-stilt wooden cabins. They no longer have to grovel in the muddy streets to beg."

"Lord Soren has sworn an oath: Those who fall in battle shall be brought home and buried with absolute honor! Those who are crippled shall be provided a lifelong pension by the territory!" Drip. Drip. Cloudy tears fell, staining the cheap ink of the newspaper. The one-legged veteran suddenly broke down, weeping loudly, entirely disregarding how he looked.

He had once bled his body dry for his nation, only to be ruthlessly kicked out of the army by the high-and-mighty nobles, left to endure starvation and freezing winds on the streets.

"A lifelong guarantee... So in this rotten era... there actually is a general who treats the lives of us disposable grunts as actual human lives..." The old veteran choked on his sobs, clutching the gazette tightly to his chest as if it were his sole remaining pillar of support. Scenes exactly like this were playing out in every single corner of the continent of Eresia. From the bustling trade ports of the Holy Halycon Empire, to the bitter, freezing fortresses of the Ironpeak Duchy in the north.

From the obscenely luxurious Royal Capital of the Silvermoon Kingdom, to the dozens of minor, peripheral principalities. Soren's majestic, earth-shattering quote at the very end of the interview—"The darkness will eventually disperse; the Human Alliance will triumph!" —cleanly swept away the suffocating gloom that had blanketed the hearts of humanity for years. Greywater Village! Soren!

These two names experienced a meteoric, staggering rise to prominence, their absolute prestige echoing like thunder across the entirety of the continent of Eresia!