Chương 282: 282：Thirty Thousand Blades

"Felix is an exceptionally brilliant infiltrator. Since he dared to reveal himself under these circumstances, it means he has already mapped out a flawless exfiltration route. If we make contact rashly right now, he will perceive us as a threat and it might even disrupt his plan."

"True talents often possess fierce, untamable temperaments. Now that his value has been definitively confirmed, there will be other opportunities to recruit him in the future." Soren stood up, pulling the heavy burlap hood back over his head, entirely concealing half of his face in the shadows once more. The hour was growing late. Having dealt with this unexpected interlude, he had an even more critical rendezvous waiting for him tonight.

"Let's go. It is time to meet the imperial general who possesses the sheer audacity to invite me for a pint of ale right under the noses of the Orcs." The two silhouettes blurred gracefully across the rooftops, silently extracting themselves from the danger zone just before the Orc reinforcements fully surrounded the slum.... Over half an hour later. At the end of a remote, pitch-black alleyway in the western sector of Abysswater Keep.

A freezing gust of wind swept through, rattling a weathered wooden signboard hanging above a battered door with a rhythmic, eerie creak. On the signboard, the faded, chipped outline of a rose could barely be made out. The Rose tavern. In the past, this was a grey zone where smugglers and thieves gathered to trade illicit goods and black-market intelligence. Soren paused in front of the wooden door. The system's [Danger Perception] remained completely silent—no magical locks, no hidden crossbowmen lying in ambush.

He tilted his head slightly, signaling Lyra to remain hidden in the shadows outside the door to secure the perimeter. Then, Soren extended his hand and pushed the wooden door open. The sharp, sour stench of inferior ale mixed with years of mildew and a gust of warm air immediately washed over his face. Pulling his hood low, Soren's gaze rapidly swept across the tavern's interior like a radar.

Deep in the back, tucked into a corner that perfectly avoided the sightlines of the windows and the entrance, sat a man draped in a voluminous grizzly-bear pelt cloak. Even though the man was deliberately hunching his back and had half his face wrapped in coarse, cheap linen, the inherent, majestic aura of a man who commanded thousands of troops simply could not be entirely suppressed. It was Alaric, the Commander of the Royal Griffin Knights of the Holy Halycon Empire.

Soren walked smoothly through the tavern, seamlessly weaving past several tables of cursing, half-drunk patrons, before taking a seat at the grease-stained round table.

"You arrived even more punctually than I anticipated, Lord Soren." Alaric looked up, looking his comrade-in-arms squarely in the eyes, his gaze revealing the genuine, profound joy of reunion. He personally picked up the black clay pitcher on the table and poured Soren a brimming cup of cheap ale into a chipped wooden mug.

"In the heavily guarded core of enemy territory, absolute punctuality is the first rule of survival." Soren picked up the wooden mug, gently clinking it against Alaric's. The two men tilted their heads back, draining the harsh, throat-burning ale in a single gulp.

"Let's get straight to it, Commander Alaric," Soren said, setting his mug down and cutting straight to the core of the matter.

"You risked vicious political attacks from your rivals in the capital, and even placed yourself in a death trap swarming with Orcs. You didn't do this just to buy me a cup of cheap ale." Alaric leaned forward slightly, resting his crossed hands on the sticky tabletop. His expression turned incredibly grim.

"Soren, your intelligence network may have already detected that the Orc Alliance's absolute trump card, the [Bloodbone Legion], has broken camp," Alaric stated, strictly suppressing the volume of his voice.

"But I have intercepted intelligence that goes far deeper. Warchief Blackstone has been thoroughly enraged by your recent actions. Not only has he deployed the Bloodbone Legion, but he has secretly amassed an elite army of thirty thousand troops in the rear! Their target is pointed straight at Greywater Village!" Hearing the words "thirty thousand elite troops," Soren's brow furrowed slightly, his heartbeat involuntarily skipping a beat. Thirty thousand troops!

And they were the absolute main-force elites of the Orc Alliance! If a force of this magnitude executed a charge on open plains, it possessed enough sheer, apocalyptic momentum to effortlessly shatter the main defensive line of any human kingdom!

"It seems slaying that Oracle and Mogg at Soul-Severing Gorge truly struck a crippling nerve within the Orc High Command." Soren's mind rapidly engaged in high-speed tactical simulations: "An encirclement of thirty thousand... Greywater Village's current firepower configuration is undeniably formidable. But if we are subjected to an airtight siege, once our logistics are bled dry and our crossbow bolts are exhausted, total annihilation is inevitable."

"I must secure their advance routes, their unit composition, and their logistical supply points in advance!" Seeing Soren sink into deep thought, Alaric seized the perfect moment to reveal the true purpose of this highly dangerous rendezvous.

"Soren, the logistical transit hub for this thirty-thousand-strong army... is this very fortress beneath our feet!" Alaric dipped a finger into some spilled ale on the table and rapidly sketched a crude outline of Abysswater Keep onto the wood.

"Tomorrow night, the Overlord of this fortress, a Black Iron Orc named Nak, is hosting a grand banquet at his stronghold." The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Ostensibly, this banquet is to celebrate Warchief Blackstone's impending campaign. But in reality? That greedy animal Nak intends to use it as an opportunity to viciously extort the wealthy human merchants who have submitted to the Orcs to survive. He plans to squeeze them for massive quantities of grain and winter supplies to fund the sweep of the Misty Swamp!"

Alaric looked up at Soren, his tone ringing with absolute certainty: "To facilitate this extortion, human merchants are exceptionally being permitted into the inner keep for this banquet!"

"Through the Empire's deep-cover intelligence network, I managed to secure two entry tokens from a wealthy merchant who was pushed to the absolute brink of ruin." Alaric's eyes burned as he laid out his incredibly audacious tactical plan:"This is a once-in-a-lifetime infiltration opportunity!

At that banquet, not only will we be able to observe the inner defenses of Abysswater Keep, but we might even be able to pry the exact encirclement routes and deployment schedule of those thirty thousand troops straight from the mouths of drunken Orc Overlords!"

"If we can secure that intelligence, it will provide an absolutely critical advantage for Greywater Village's upcoming counter-siege operations!" Hearing this plan, Lyra, who was standing guard just outside the door and listening closely, felt her heart leap into her throat. Two supreme commanders of the human faction actually intended to disguise themselves as merchants and swagger directly into a stronghold guarded by thousands of heavily armed Orcs to attend a banquet?! This was playing with absolute fire!

But Soren didn't show a single ounce of hesitation or fear. Instead, a razor-sharp, predatory smile surfaced on his face. The absolute essence of modern Special Operations was striking precisely when the enemy was entirely off guard, in the place they least expected!

Compared to engaging in a brutal, meat-grinding war of attrition against thirty thousand troops in the mud, this direct penetration into the enemy's core to execute deep-cover espionage and decapitation strikes was a discipline he was exceptionally, lethally proficient at from his past life!

"For the survival of Greywater Village, I will take this gamble." Soren raised his empty mug, openly expressing his profound admiration for the imperial knight:"Alaric, you are a noble of the Holy Halycon Empire and the son of a Grand Duke. Yet you are willing to risk your life deep behind enemy lines for the safety of Greywater Village. This boundless courage is something I, Soren, will never forget!" Hearing this, Alaric let out a hearty, suppressed laugh, refilling both of their mugs.

"Soren, this isn't just for you. This is for the entire human defensive line. If you fall in the swamps, the Northern Frontiers of the Empire will never know peace." In the dim, squalid tavern, over cups of cheap ale, the two commanders quietly finalized the secret countersigns and extraction routes for tomorrow night's infiltration.

After briefly swapping a few mocking remarks about the absurdities of the corrupt, rotting nobles in their respective high commands, the two men seamlessly vanished into the night, departing in separate directions to avoid drawing any suspicion....... The next day. The narrow window just before nightfall. The sky above Abysswater Keep was smothered beneath layers of heavy, oppressive storm clouds.

Violent, freezing gales tore through the dilapidated streets, signaling the apocalyptic storm that was about to hit tonight. To confirm the shift-change patterns of the Orc patrols around the stronghold prior to the banquet, Soren and Lyra had left their safehouse early to conduct on-site, pre-mission reconnaissance. Almost without realizing it—or perhaps entirely by design—Soren once again passed by the crowded, filthy black-market grain exchange in the eastern sector of the city.

Through the sparse crowd of shivering civilians, Soren's gaze locked onto the massive, heavily muscled young man named Duran.

"I wonder if, after a night of agonizing deliberation, this highly filial brawler has finally made his decision," Soren mused internally. However, just as Soren prepared to step forward and speak with him, a sudden disturbance erupted. RUMBLE! The brutal, grating sound of heavy wooden wagon wheels violently crushing the bluestone pavement echoed down the street, accompanied by loud, arrogant cursing.

A logistical requisition squad, consisting of over a dozen fully equipped Green-skin Orcs driving two massive, empty flatbed wagons, brazenly charged straight into the market.

"Make way! You lowly, filthy human trash, get the hell out of the way!" The Green-skin Orc captain leading the squad wildly cracked a spiked leather whip, viciously lashing the human civilians who couldn't dodge in time. Agonized screams instantly erupted as fresh blood splattered across the dirt. The entire market was instantly plunged into absolute panic. Peddlers didn't even bother to grab their meager goods; they tripped, fell, and scrambled frantically to scatter in every direction.

But amidst the chaotic stampede, exactly one man remained completely motionless. Duran, his towering, massively built frame planted like a boulder, stood stubbornly in front of his grain stall, physically shielding the heavy sacks of damp sorghum behind him.

"Halt! You there, at the stall in front! Load all your grain onto the wagon!" The Orc captain's eyes instantly locked onto the massive pile of sorghum behind Duran. He spat a foul-smelling glob of saliva onto the ground and took heavy, aggressive strides forward.