Chương 305: 305：The Imperial Scheme and the Disarmament

General Marr pointed frantically at the swirling blizzard beyond the window, his voice laced with agonizing anxiety as he broke down the reality.

"It is the dead of winter! If our grand army abandons the plains and pushes deep into the miasma-choked, toxic mud of the Misty Swamp to rescue him, our heavy supply wagons won't be able to advance a single inch!"

"Once our forces are bogged down in the mire and surrounded by the sheer mass of the Orcs' outer cordons, the Empire's entire Northern Defensive Line will face an immediate, catastrophic collapse!" Grand Duke Valentine's body shuddered slightly. As a supreme military commander, cold rationality rapidly pierced through his impulsive burst of emotion. He closed his eyes in deep pain. He knew Marr was absolutely right.

To throw tens of thousands of human soldiers into a frozen swamp for a meeting engagement in the dead of winter was a massive military taboo.

"Then write a letter to Soren! Dispatch our swiftest Griffon Knights to airdrop it under the cover of night!" General Marr took a deep breath, proposing a seemingly pragmatic strategy of abandoning the territory to preserve their core strength.

"Grand Duke, please advise Soren to abandon the village and retreat immediately!"

"As long as he is willing to give up those wooden huts in Greywater Village, he can lead his two thousand-odd elites, break his main force down into smaller detachments, and slip away before the thirty-thousand-strong army completes its encirclement. With his masterful, ingenious guerrilla tactics, he absolutely has a chance to escape toward the Ironpeak Duchy or our Empire's borders to preserve his forces!"

"You think Soren will run?" Grand Duke Valentine snapped his eyes open, his gaze entirely resolute. He slowly shook his head, bluntly rejecting Marr's suggestion.

"Soren is absolutely not some wandering bandit who fires a shot and flees to the next town! He implemented an absolute safety net for the crippled, he established schools within his territory, he is fighting tooth and nail to improve the lives of the common folk... A Lord attempting to forge an entirely new set of rules views that piece of land as heavier than his own life."

"He will not easily abandon the territory he built with his own two hands," Grand Duke Valentine declared with absolute certainty.

"His troop reserves, his factories, the very foundation watered by his blood and sweat—they are all there."

"The moment he flees, the absolute military faith he has painstakingly forged will shatter. Soren is the kind of man who will draw his sword, stand at the gates of his territory, and fight to the bitter, bloody end." General Marr was stunned. He looked back at the tiny red dot on the sand table, a profound sense of tragic heroism swelling in his chest. Two thousand men fighting a battle to the death against thirty thousand elites... what kind of apocalyptic meat grinder would that look like?

"Bring me the map! The precise topological map of the swamp!" General Marr roared suddenly. He spread the detailed map—drawn on the hide of a magical beast—across the desk. Holding a candelabra in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other, his face was practically pressed against the parchment. He intensely analyzed the terrain of Greywater Village, cross-referencing it with their operational charts. Hiss! After a long moment, General Marr looked up, drawing a sharp breath.

His eyes were filled with awe and a sudden, unexpected glimmer of hope.

"Grand Duke... if it is truly as you say, and he refuses to retreat, then the location this kid chose for his territory is an absolute, impregnable natural fortress!" General Marr's finger tapped fiercely at the outer perimeters on the map.

"Look here! To the left of Greywater Village lies a sprawling expanse of high-heat sulfuric mud flats spanning dozens of miles! To the right is a highly toxic swamp lethal enough to kill birds right out of the sky!"

"These two geographical features form an insurmountable barrier gifted by nature itself! It doesn't matter how massive the Orcs' numbers are—they absolutely cannot launch a flanking charge from either side!" His finger then slashed violently toward the rear of Greywater Village.

"And to their rear, they are directly adjacent to an endless, primeval forest! The terrain is treacherous, deep, and perfectly obscured."

"Grand Duke, this means that even if their frontline defenses are ultimately shattered and the battle turns catastrophically against them... as long as Soren survives the initial wave, he has an absolute fallback route! He can lead his remaining elites, retreat deep into the dense forest, and continue to drag the enemy through a grueling guerrilla war!" Hearing this precise military analysis, the deep furrows on Grand Duke Valentine's brow slowly smoothed out. He was thinking.

It was true that the Holy Halycon Empire could not sacrifice tens of thousands of troops for a village belonging to another nation. Yet, no matter how impregnable Greywater Village's terrain was, under the crushing treads of thirty thousand elites and Ironclad Earth Dragons, its total annihilation was merely a matter of time. For Soren, it would be an apocalyptically tragic blow, resulting in the loss of his entire stronghold. But...

what if, at that exact moment, the Empire suddenly extended a hand, leading a supreme rescue force?

"Marr." Grand Duke Valentine turned around. With a sharp shing, he slid his greatsword back into its scabbard. He exuded absolute confidence, as if he had already foreseen the ultimate conclusion of this war. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"To sacrifice tens of thousands of troops for a village is not worth it. But for the man named Soren... it is absolutely worth it!" Valentine walked back to the fireplace, the dancing flames casting a deep, fiercely ambitious glow over his face.

"We can consider paying an exorbitant price to rescue him."

"Notify the Royal Griffon Regiment. Handpick fifty of the Empire's most elite knights. Equip them with high-tier anti-venom potions and Flight Magic Scrolls! Furthermore, requisition three High-Tier Mass Teleportation Scrolls from the Royal Vault!" Valentine turned his head, his piercing gaze locking onto General Marr as he laid bare his true, calculated scheme.

"I couldn't care less if the wooden huts of Greywater Village are trampled flat by the Centaurs."

"But... if we can suddenly appear at the exact moment Greywater Village falls—when Soren is driven into an absolute corner, staring down a dead end—and save his life and his remaining troops..." The Grand Duke smiled, radiating absolute certainty.

"That isn't just a life-saving debt. By then, having lost his territory, Soren will have absolutely no other path left but to pledge his absolute loyalty to the Holy Halycon Empire."

"As long as we can bring him under our banner, what we will gain is a God of War—one fully capable of helping the Empire sweep away all alien races in the future!" Meanwhile. The rhythmic thud of hooves shattered the tense quiet of Greywater Village's defensive perimeter.

"Halt! Identify yourself! Take one more step and you will be killed without mercy!" From the shadows, a patrol sentry from the second-line Longbow Squad suddenly materialized. A three-edged, armor-piercing broadhead was already nocked and drawn on the bowstring, its razor-sharp tip catching the cold light amidst the blizzard.

"Hold your fire! Friendly forces! We are from the Crimson Moon Knights!" Zim screamed, his voice hoarse as he tore through the swirling snow. The ten-year veteran ranger looked utterly wretched. The twenty heavily armored knights trailing behind him were in even worse shape, both men and mounts pushed to the absolute brink of exhaustion.

Their plate armor was caked in thick frost and rotting mud, and their warhorses snorted thick plumes of white vapor, looking as if they might collapse and die in the toxic mire at any second. Zim lifted his head, peering through the violently swirling snow at the settlement that had supposedly only been built a few months ago. His jaw dropped in sheer disbelief. How in the hell was this a village?!

What filled his vision were towering, impossibly sturdy formations of chevaux-de-frise, and massive, terrifying siege ballistas mounted strategically on the high ground! Every single soldier standing guard in the blizzard was clad in meticulously crafted, thick [Padded Cotton Armor], worn beneath gleaming [Dark Silver Half-Plate]. They stared straight ahead, their eyes exuding a cold, iron discipline. There wasn't a single trace of fear or cowardice at the prospect of facing the Orcs!

As a spy forcibly planted by Shadow Priest Zagar, Zim's heart began to hammer violently against his ribs. His heart—tainted by the lethal [Shadow Seed] poison—throbbed with a dull, constant ache, serving as a cruel, never-ending reminder of his humiliating betrayal of humanity. Yet, relying on the razor-sharp tactical instincts of a ten-year veteran, the moment he properly assessed the breathtakingly secure defensive layout of Greywater Village, a sudden flash of profound clarity pierced through Zim's mind!

'Abysswater Keep was destroyed by Lord Soren... The City Lord was killed, the logistical hub burned to the ground...' Zim's mind raced as he rapidly calculated the strategic board, his hands trembling uncontrollably on the reins.

'The Orc Alliance boasts a hundred thousand troops, and this time they've mobilized tens of thousands of elite aces. But in this swamp, they absolutely cannot deploy their formations! And the most critical factor... provisions!' Zim understood the iron law of warfare better than anyone: an army marches on its stomach. Warchief Blackstone's current stockpiles could, at most, sustain his forces for five days! Five days!

As long as the fortress of Greywater Village could stand firm and weather this apocalyptic onslaught for just five days... those ten thousand Centaurs, and the main Orc force trailing behind them, would completely and utterly collapse from starvation! Lord Soren... isn't just sitting here waiting to die. He holds a massive winning hand!

"Open the gates. Let them in." An authoritative, commanding voice echoed down from the towering watchtower. Soren, his black cloak whipping wildly in the blizzard, stood as unshakeable as a mountain, his piercing gaze locked onto the small detachment of knights below. Zim vaulted off his horse, dropping to one knee in the freezing mud, and roared: "Vice-Commander Soren! Ranger Zim of the Crimson Moon Knights, acting under orders to lead twenty heavy knights to reinforce Greywater Village!"

Soren descended the wooden stairs of the watchtower, his leather boots crunching heavily against the packed snow. He stopped directly in front of Zim, silently scrutinizing the man with a gaze so intense it felt as though it could pierce straight through to Zim's very soul.

The deeply ingrained caution and paranoia from his past life as a special forces operative dictated one absolute rule: at this life-or-death juncture, he would absolutely not trust any foreign armed force that operated outside his direct system of control.