Chương 336: 336：Marching into the Abyss

During the day, Soren issued an absolute, ironclad order. Aside from a skeleton crew of third-line engineers and a handful of sentries left in the trenches to keep watch and repair the barricades, all first- and second-line combat troops who had survived the centaur bloodbath were ordered to immediately retreat into the underground anti-air bunkers to rest. Down in the bunkers, the geothermal furnaces radiated a deep, comforting warmth.

Buckets of rich, hearty sorghum-and-meat stew, brewed by the logistics battalion, were hauled down into the depths. The soldiers ravenously scarfed down the hot meals, and the moment their stomachs were full, they were ordered to shut their eyes and sleep. A solid sleep to restore their physical stamina was the absolute foundation required to survive the hellish battle to come.

Time bled away amidst the howling blizzard as the dense curtain of night descended, tightly suffocating the entire Erythian Continent in darkness. Ten o'clock at night. The winds howled with a biting ferocity, the pitch-black darkness so absolute you couldn't even see your own hand in front of your face. In a concealed grove behind the Greywater Village defensive line, a silent, deadly detachment had already finished assembling.

Soren, draped in a pitch-black cloak that seemingly melted into the night, stood with his steel longsword at his hip and the [Windwhisper Bow] strapped to his back. His sharp gaze swept over the high-mobility tactical strike force he had meticulously assembled. To any conventional human general, the composition of this detachment would look like an absolute, logic-defying freak show. At the vanguard stood Wolf Cavalry Commander Buck, leading his ninety-three Wolf Riders.

The ninety-three massive direwolves crouched low to the ground, deep, bloodthirsty rumbles vibrating in their throats. And securely straddling the broad backs of these direwolves—positioned right behind the original riders—were the elite sharpshooters of the Half-Elf Magic Ranger Battalion. Bringing up the rear of the formation were exactly 205 Centaur youths—the very same who had sworn their allegiance before the defensive lines just hours ago!

Though lacking the terrifying, bulky mass of adult Centaur elites, these 205 youths were still towering, robust creatures standing well over two meters tall by human standards. At this moment, their broad equine backs bore the weight of Sharpshooter Ein's Longbow Battalion, as well as a unit of frontline elites clad in thick [Dark Silver Armor] and wielding deadly [Heavy Repeating Crossbows]!

"Listen to me, and listen well!" Soren's low voice cut through the howling wind.

"Tonight's entire tactical doctrine boils down to two words: Mobile Strike!" Soren pointed a finger at the trembling, adrenaline-filled Centaur youths, and then at the Wolf Riders up front, laying down the absolute law of the operation:"Buck! And you new Centaur recruits! In this night raid, your sole purpose is mobility! You are the stable transport platforms for our marksmen!

I don't care if the enemy is breathing right in your face—you are absolutely forbidden from drawing your weapons or engaging in direct melee combat!"

"Your only mission is to maintain absolute focus on your steering and maintain a safe kiting distance! Your job is to provide the elite shooters on your backs with a perfectly stable, highly mobile firing platform! Do I make myself clear?!"

"Yes, my Lord!" Buck and the soldiers chorused in a low, unwavering growl. At the rear of the formation, the hearts of the 205 Centaur youths were practically hammering against their ribs. The leader of the Centaur youths, Karl, currently had a heavily armored, shockingly weighty frontline elite firmly straddling his back. Feeling the freezing chill and substantial weight of the Dark Silver Armor pressing against him, Karl didn't feel exhausted or burdened.

Instead, an unprecedented wave of sheer, unadulterated excitement surged through his veins. The Lord... he actually trusts us! Karl screamed internally in absolute awe. He and his kin had originally assumed that as foreign defectors—having betrayed the Orc Alliance and surrendered less than twenty-four hours ago—they would be treated as prisoners. They expected to spend years doing backbreaking slave labor in Greywater Village, likely bound in iron shackles and heavily guarded. But who could have predicted this?

Tonight, this supreme human Lord hadn't shown a single ounce of hesitation before placing his most precious, core heavy-infantry elites and vital magic marksmen right onto their backs! What staggering charisma! What absolute trust! The feeling of being treated as true brothers-in-arms—of being completely, genuinely trusted—instantly shattered whatever lingering anxieties the Centaur youths still harbored.

A fanatic morale, born of the ancient warrior ethos to lay down one's life for a Lord who truly recognized their worth, violently erupted from the young Centaurs. They secretly ground their teeth together. Even if they had to run until their hooves shattered and their legs snapped tonight, they absolutely would not let these Greywater Village brothers on their backs suffer even a scratch!

"For stealth, wrap the paw pads of the direwolves and the hooves of the Centaurs in thick rags!" Following Soren's orders, this unorthodox mounted unit of over three hundred combatants moved out. Cloaked by the pitch-black night, they advanced in absolute, terrifying silence, slipping single-file down a concealed trail on the flank of Greywater Village and threading their way deep into the Misty Swamp. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Their objective: to completely flank the ten-thousand-strong Minotaur army and strike them from the absolute rear! In reality, to any armchair general heavily reliant on orthodox military theory, attempting to bypass the flanks of a ten-thousand-strong army to strike their rear while severely outnumbered was pure, unadulterated madness. It was practically begging to be spotted by enemy outriders and surrounded. But Soren was different.

The former apex Special Forces Operator had already flawlessly calculated the variables of weather, terrain, and troop psychology before he even issued the order to march. In the freezing dead of this winter night, the treacherous terrain of the Misty Swamp became Soren's ultimate natural ally. These ten thousand Minotaurs weren't like the Centaurs. A Centaur's four-legged structure and innate agility allowed them to navigate the uneven, muddy fringes of the swamp to a reasonable degree. But the Minotaurs?

These massive behemoths, packed to the brim with explosive muscle mass and hauling solid wooden totem poles weighing hundreds of pounds, were simply too damn top-heavy! Within the Misty Swamp—a hellscape riddled with highly acidic muck, deceptively deep sinkholes, and lethal pockets of miasma—if a Minotaur stepped even a foot off the hard-packed trails, their immense weight would instantly plunge them deep into the mire, trapping their hooves in the suction.

Because of this, the massive ten-thousand-strong Minotaur army couldn't possibly fan out into a wide marching formation like they would on an open plain. Shackled by the atrocious terrain, they were forced into bloated, clumsy, single-file columns. They had to squeeze together, inching sluggishly forward like a giant worm along the few relatively solid land bridges the swamp offered.

Worse still for the enemy, the laughably primitive military discipline of the Orc Alliance was laid completely bare in these conditions.

"A bunch of blood-drunk barbarians who only know how to charge on instinct actually think they can properly march a legion of ten thousand?" Soren sat astride a jet-black direwolf, activating his [Eagle Eye Perception]. His enhanced gaze pierced effortlessly through the night and the blizzard, coldly staring down at the massive, winding procession of torches stretching for miles in the distance. To him, Warchief Blackstone's command structure was riddled with amateurish holes.

It was so painfully crude it almost hurt to look at! Once troop numbers breached the ten-thousand mark, the lack of modern communication protocols and a rigid, layered hierarchy of NCOs and junior officers meant that the Orc army's march quickly devolved into chaotic disarray. The Minotaurs at the front rushed ahead to hog the firm ground, moving too fast. The Minotaurs in the rear bogged down in the mud, moving too slowly.

Across the entirety of the elongated marching column, massive, shocking gaps began to appear—some stretching hundreds, or even thousands of meters wide! And what's more, they hadn't even bothered to deploy active outriders or stealth sentries in the muck along their flanks! Relying purely on this devastating tactical insight, Soren led his high-mobility strike force through the dark.

Cloaked perfectly by the pitch-black night, they glided silently over frozen topsoil and dead roots along the swamp's edge—surfaces just solid enough to bear their lightly armored weight. They met zero resistance along the way. They sliced through the massive, chaotic gaps in the Minotaur column with insulting ease, smoothly arriving directly at the absolute rear of the ten-thousand-strong army! 2: 00 AM.

The blizzard had escalated into a raging tempest, the temperature plummeting to an absolute, bone-chilling nadir. The Minotaur rearguard trudged through the freezing muck, dragging their exhausted, massive frames forward while continuously barking savage curses at the weather. They had absolutely no idea that a lethal Reaper's scythe was already hovering mere inches from their necks.

Crouched behind a patch of elevated brush less than two hundred meters from the Minotaur rear, Soren raised his right arm high into the freezing air. Behind him, the three-hundred-strong strike force moved with absolute synchronization. Every single man and beast held their breath. The direwolves crouched low to the earth. The Centaur youths firmly rooted their four hooves into the frost.

On their backs, a forest of drawn bows and heavy crossbows aimed downward into the darkness, locking onto the massive, torch-lit, and utterly defenseless meat targets below.

"Distance is optimal. Tailwind." Soren's voice was a whisper of absolute death.

"Erase them." Soren slashed his right arm down! TWANG! The [Windwhisper Bow] in Soren's grip exploded with power. A single arrow tore through the night, instantly impaling the throat of a Minotaur Centurion below, forcefully jamming his death scream right back down his windpipe. That was the signal to fire! In a split second, the devastating, pent-up heavy ranged firepower of Greywater Village erupted furiously into the dead silence of the winter night!