We need to go faster!"
A voice roared through the comms channel. High-speed aircraft tore through the air as Blazkowicz and Harlan, riding anti-gravity motorcycles, sped through the canyon.
"Stay behind me! You only need to focus on me, don't worry about the changing terrain!"
Blazkowicz twisted the throttle, and the anti-gravity motorcycle roared, breaking the sound barrier to rush to the front, leading the way while providing Harlan with a posture reference.
With a reaction speed beyond nanoseconds, the rapidly changing scenery around him was like slow-motion footage in his eyes.
The supersonic sprint of his fully powered mount felt like riding a snail for Blazkowicz.
At the start, Blazkowicz offered to carry Harlan to make better time, but he was firmly refused.
"Beep, beep, beep!"
The anti-gravity motorcycle's scanning equipment warned that a team of orcs was patrolling at the canyon exit ahead.
"Don't slow down! Keep going!"
The roar of the anti-gravity motorcycles quickly caught the attention of the orc team. They roared excitedly, eager for a fight!
Whoosh~~~
The two anti-gravity motorcycles didn't slow down, leaving with a characteristic supersonic shriek.
Before the orc team's youngsters could mock the enemy's cowardice, an iron fist magnified in their eyes.
By the time it reacted, it could no longer feel its limbs, and its head seemed to be held by a big human fellow?
In the instant they crossed paths, Blazkowicz jumped off his motorcycle and, with bare hands, eliminated the patrol team of ten orcs in 0.2 seconds.
With a running acceleration, he caught up to the motorcycle still moving at supersonic speed.
Effortlessly crushing the skull, he scooped out the fresh brain matter and swallowed it in one gulp. The orc's complete memories appeared in Blazkowicz's mind.
After a year of training, Blazkowicz had mastered this skill, creating an independent area within his brain to store acquired memories, which in no way affected his subjective judgment.
"Follow me!" Blazkowicz shouted, "Twelve degrees left! Ten kilometers away in the valley, approximately three thousand orcs are gathered there!"
A small unit of orcs; Blazkowicz intended to eliminate them, as it wouldn't take much time.
Ten kilometers away, the motorcycles maintained their speed, rapidly advancing through the winding canyon.
"I'll go ahead!"
Harlan activated the motorcycle's protective force field, then engaged his own armor shield, illuminated the null crystal under the motorcycle's front armor, and deployed large, fin-like cutting blades.
"Green-skinned mongrels!"
Before he even arrived, his roar was faster than the motorcycle's howl. After a long time, the Champion Swordsman once again challenged his enemies: "Your grandpa is here!"
The green-skinned orcs, camped in the woodland, suddenly heard a furious roar. The piercing, provocative bellow ignited their rage.
A fight delivered right to their doorstep? Let's do it!
The orcs excitedly grabbed whatever was at hand—swords, spears, clubs, primitive firearms—and surged out, howling!
The long, narrow valley, with the orc formation like a twisted green snake, was exactly what Harlan wanted.
The cutting cannon at the front of the motorcycle was silent, firing large cutting rays that maximized their power in the narrow terrain.
The high-speed motorcycle was like a bullet, shooting into unprotected flesh. Dimensional blades and rays were reaping, and a single impact left corpses strewn across the field.
Nothing could stand in the way of the dimension-tearing light blades.
Harlan's motorcycle was like a harvester entering a wheat field, with orcs bisected on both sides and in front.
Hot blood gushed, and severed upper limbs still shrieked, crawling on the ground, wielding weapons.
A direct hit! He immediately adjusted his height to disengage. The motorcycle and rider, stained red with blood, quickly sped away like a blood arrow.
An ancient cavalry tactic, though old, was effective.
The next moment, a man dressed like a gladiator leaped down from above.
Blazkowicz's upper body was only held by a leather strap connecting his shoulder pads to his belt, his chest almost bare. His lower body wore a skirt-like armor that simply covered his mid-thighs, and his combat boots reached his calves, leaving his knees and half of his thighs exposed.
Such wild attire wasn't meant to display savagery; it was a simple compromise.
Blazkowicz grew too fast; the Forging Masters didn't have consistent data to create custom power armor for him.
It was an unavoidable compromise. This simple armor couldn't accommodate a power source, relying entirely on Blazkowicz's brute strength.
With knuckle spikes embedded in his left gauntlet and a dimensional lightsaber in his right hand, the man leaped straight into the pile of orcs.
Without roars or shouts, Blazkowicz's silent slaughter began!
In that instant! His figure vanished from the orcs' retinas; the green-skinned physiology couldn't capture his speed.
One light punch pulverized the head of an orc in front of him, a kicked stone pierced through several orcs, and the azure dimensional light blade he wielded became a shimmering circle.
The dimensional blade sliced through orc bodies without resistance, leaving wounds as smooth as a mirror.
Before the first drop of blood could spray, before the orcs could even feel life draining away, Blazkowicz had already completed his harvest of lives.
8!
As Blazkowicz killed his eighth enemy, his fluid movements continued, but his extremely keen senses detected an unusual gaze fixed upon him.
His sword-wielding movements didn't stop. The new War Lord was venting a kind of vexation.
Worry for his father, speculation about the situation, all swept into the radiance of his blade, all unleashed.
88!
He was invisible, his figure uncatchable; he was visible, with only fragments of orc corpses left where the blue light passed.
Harlan parked his mount on a high hill. He didn't participate in the subsequent attack but leaned against the motorcycle, easing the fatigue of the journey.
He knew Blazkowicz's inner agitation; the young man was eager, hoping to help his father quickly.
Looking at the valley, which resembled a slaughterhouse, he constantly marveled at Blazkowicz's power. His already high expectations continued to rise.
Blood flowed everywhere in the valley, and shattered bodies flew. Harlan couldn't track Blazkowicz's figure, only seeing the light particles of the azure sword light lingering in the air, the afterimages left behind, and a trail of blood.
Harlan felt an abstract beauty: in the blooming sea of blood-red flowers, a blue butterfly flapped its wings, and wherever it flew, the blood-red intensified.
Readings inside his helmet were alarming; the normally sensitive captors couldn't scan Blazkowicz, and the aiming assistance system couldn't keep up with his movements.
"If I were to shoot at him, how would I aim, how would I predict his position?"
Almost subconsciously, yet seemingly by accident, this thought suddenly popped into Harlan's mind.
A chill ran down his spine, startling him, and he quickly banished this absurd idea from his head.
888!
In a few breaths, thousands of orcs lay in pools of blood, not even understanding what had happened, their confusion frozen in their lifeless eyes.
Blazkowicz could feel the gaze in the void, excited and trembling for the slaughter.
Without paying much attention to the gaze, Blazkowicz could roughly guess what it was, most likely that entity calling itself the "God of Warriors."
If it wants to watch, let it watch. Blazkowicz felt no strong resistance internally; he was helpless against it, and it merely watched without causing any impact.
"What the hell is…"
The orc's frantic howl abruptly ceased. Its lower jaw, along with its tongue, was swept away by a sword, and its mighty head slowly slid off.
"Know that your Gork and Mork are on top!"
Blazkowicz's slaughter was unwavering. With an unperturbed mind, he made a jibe at the orcs' faith in Gork and Mork.
Having consumed orc brain tissue, he naturally knew the two gods the orcs worshipped.
Gork and Mork! Gork is cunning yet brutal, and Mork is brutal yet cunning!
There are no gods in this world! Wait a minute…
A flash of inspiration suddenly struck Blazkowicz's mind, bringing forth a familiar question he hadn't deeply considered.
On the blood-splattered battlefield, Blazkowicz's extraordinary brain began to process at high speed, re-retrieving information from his mind.
The image of Isaac, fallen in the bloody mud, weeping, gradually became clear, and the broken words from his mouth slowly connected.
Blazkowicz's expression grew colder, and his killing became faster.
Carefully analyzing Isaac, linking him to the City of Truth, then to faith, and finally…
God! It seemed to be an unavoidable point!
"So that's it!" Blazkowicz muttered, kicking an orc into pieces, a preliminary conclusion forming in his mind.
One minute. The residual warmth of the first orc's spilled blood had not yet dissipated, and there was not a single living orc left in the orc camp; all three thousand orcs had been executed.
Blazkowicz stood in the mountain of corpses and sea of blood, his blade pointed at the ground. His breathing was not at all hurried, covered in blood, the filthy orc blood flowing down his body along his muscle lines.
Harlan descended from the high ground and shouted at the white figures appearing outside the valley: "You're too slow!"
A company of one hundred Sentinels appeared at the valley entrance, the light on their weapons indicating they were battle-ready, their objective being to clear the Orks from the area.
"You're too slow!"
Harlan shouted at the Sentinels at the valley entrance, waving a signal to indicate the danger was clear and urging them to hurry over.
At the bottom of the valley, blood had pooled into streams, and severed body parts were piled up, astonishing the entire company of Watch.
"Champion Swordsman! Harlan Ogilvy!"
Someone recognized Harlan before his identity was confirmed by the identifier code, shouting out in excitement.
Harlan Ogilvy. Renowned among the Sentinels, a duelist on the battlefield, representing the pinnacle of individual martial prowess.
His personal identification number, not needing a decoder, was memorized by many warriors.
The company commander, with an insignia carved on his left shoulder, stepped forward and patted Harlan's shoulder, asking, "Did you two do this?"
The bodies scattered across the ground represented immense glory and merit.
The company commander instinctively believed it was the work of the two of them; such a battle record was simply astonishing.
Even for the powerful Sentinels, achieving such a feat was an incredible accomplishment.
"Not me." Harlan quickly shook his head, not daring to claim credit: "He did it all by himself."
His words left the hundreds of Sentinels speechless, and they all looked with curious gazes at the tall figure in the camp's pool, washing off bloodstains.
Blazkowicz wiped the viscous blood from his face, revealing a polite smile.
"Blazkowicz! The Third Prince!"
Upon seeing the rune mixed with blood on his chest, the company commander gasped and was about to drop to one knee.
"No need for formalities." Blazkowicz flashed, appearing before the company commander in the stunned gaze of the Sentinels, reaching out to steady him.
"Complete your follow-up work; we'll be leaving first."
Blazkowicz was in a hurry to get to the battlefield command center and couldn't wait for the lengthy post-battle procedures.
The most troublesome aspect of the Ork battlefield was not the roaring Orks charging forward, but the need to destroy their genetic material after combat, which required plasma flames for incineration.
After speaking, he and Harlan got on a motorcycle and quickly left the valley.
This group of Orks was not far from their route; clearing them was just a casual effort. Blazkowicz, after precise calculations, ensured it wouldn't delay their journey.
Watching the two depart, the company commander glanced at the temperature sensor on his helmet; the blood covering the mountains and plains had not yet dropped to ambient temperature, making his scalp tingle.
"It seems that legendary Prince truly has some skills!"
The war to hunt Orks constantly shifted its front lines, and the command post had no fixed area.
The Sentinels's trapezoidal War Fortress floated in the air using anti-gravity technology, serving as a mobile command post that continuously moved.
The command room was large, with a holographic image on the central console simulating all scenes within the reconnaissance range. Several temporary commanders each oversaw a section, continuously dispatching the Sentinels to engage.
"Have the Sentinels complete their current tasks, then stand by in place."
In the busy command room, a forceful voice suddenly rang out, so authoritative it brooked no argument, echoing in everyone's ears.
The noisy command room suddenly fell silent, and the commanders looked towards the doorway—at the young man carrying a helmet, covered in blood, yet with a heroic face.
The mark on his chest was very clear; everyone knew who he was.
Blazkowicz's deeds had long circulated on the front lines, becoming a topic of conversation for the Watch during their breaks.
"Your Royal Highness, the Third Prince, you should understand..."
The Watch serving as temporary commander was interrupted mid-sentence by Blazkowicz raising his hand, signaling Harlan beside him to provide an explanation.
Pulling out a sword seal from his embrace, Harlan held it high, using facts to dispel all doubts.
"We obey the War Lord!"
Everyone knelt! Blazkowicz was no longer the Third Prince at this moment, but the War Lord commanding a myriad of armies.
No one dared to question the authority bestowed by King Nowick.
"Do as I just said!" Blazkowicz stood before the central console, expressionless, looking at the images on the screen:
"I don't care how much control territory we lose or how many Orks escape by stopping the operation. Have the Watch complete their tasks, then rest and stand by in place."
"I just want them well-rested, and then we will advance my way!" There was no room for negotiation in his voice; the heavy pressure was suffocating.
Soon, after the commanders completed their final orders, they were all relieved of their duties, to be used later.
All Sentinels on the front line stopped, either resting in place or returning to camp for supplies and rest, awaiting the next command.
Normally, Blazkowicz would explain things to them, gradually winning their respect.
After understanding the key point of the City of Truth, he was very eager—eager to kill all the Orks and then reinforce his elder brother.
Blazkowicz could imagine the immense responsibility and pressure Ennio was bearing, facing the pressure of a "God" alone.
"Where is the Forging Technician?"
Blazkowicz called out for the person in his plan, to execute all the actions he had devised in his mind.
"War Lord, what do you need me to do?"
A young man with several auxiliary mechanical arms on his back and special lenses over his eyes emerged from a corner, his visible nervousness evident.
"Don't be nervous, just adjust the battlefield projection to the simplest mode."
The excellent Forging Technician from the core furnace deep beneath the Argentum City did not understand, his mechanical arms subconsciously scratching his face, following his thoughts.
"I... I don't understand what you mean." The Forging Technician's voice stammered, not grasping Blazkowicz's meaning.
"What I mean is, the virtual projection doesn't need to display battlefield details meticulously. I need the maximum range, sacrificing everything superfluous to maximize the range!"
Blazkowicz took a deep breath, letting go of the awe-inspiring presence that made everyone nervous, and explained in a gentle tone: "The current battlefield projection is like a refined movie. I want simple lines and extreme range, do you understand?"
"Understood!" With the terrifying aura gone, the technician quickly understood what the War Lord needed, giving an accurate time: "Ten minutes, and you will see what you need!"
The War Fortress's reconnaissance equipment had a huge difference between its upper and lower scan limits. With high quality and good detail, it could cover an area of about 100x100 kilometers.
This was the limit of the War Fortress's detectors after the loss of artificial satellites.
However, by sacrificing detail, the detection range could be increased by at least five times, greatly enhancing the scanning range until the influence of the planet's curvature became too great.
The command room was very quiet during the wait, with only Blazkowicz writing and drawing on a piece of paper.
"Who gave the order! To make everyone stop?"
Her voice arrived before she did.
Undoubtedly, if this were a banquet, this lady's elegant, magnetic, and sensual voice would become the center of attention as soon as it sounded.
But her tone was very unfriendly, an icy voice suppressing anger: "Have you fought the greenskins for so long that you've caught their stupidity?"
Blazkowicz knew who was coming; there was only one woman among the Sentinels: Erica von Stern.
Her genetic origins could be traced back to the "Aryans" of the Terra era, possessing an innate, serious, and meticulous temperament.
She wore a specialized stealth blackout suit. Although its defense was not as good as other standard power armor, its stealth function was powerful, distorting light to achieve invisibility, specifically designed for stealth assassination.
"Erica von Stern!" Harlan stepped forward, igniting his blade and holding it against her, his rough voice and stern tone reprimanding: "Watch your words, I don't mind using a sword to teach you what politeness is!"
Erica saw the Champion Swordsman, and her imposing aura immediately softened a bit. Seeing the identical emblem, she instantly understood the relationship between the two.
Offending his sworn lord, a member of the royal family, in front of a sworn protector, such a warning was considered light.
She saw the sword seal, her expression changed, and she knelt on one knee again: "War Lord! Please forgive my offense, I was a bit impulsive, thinking it was a disagreement among temporary commanders that caused the front line to stop."
Blazkowicz's expression was normal, and he offered no further explanation. He glanced at her, then waved his hand, signaling her to wait aside.
"All heralds, transmit this content. I want all Watch to be proficient in using it within two hours."
The herald respectfully took the handwritten document, which was filled with numerical symbols and the meanings represented by different number combinations.
It was a new cipher command, used for quickly directing troops, and even specified the detailed codes for various units.
This set of numerical commands was of moderate difficulty; for the Sentinels, two hours was enough to master it proficiently.
Ten minutes later, the central command console successfully restarted, performing remarkably under the Forging Technician's adjustments.
The range increased several times, but the terrain displayed on it had all become simple lines.
With the input of numerical commands, the simplified map was full of numbers representing various combat units, as well as numbers representing enemies.
"Let them see your ability!" Harlan Ogilvy murmured softly, he urgently wanted his colleagues to know Blazkowicz's extraordinary nature and talent.
Two hours passed in a flash.
After confirming that the Sentinels were familiar with the numerical commands, the first order was transmitted.
"All units attention, command authority transfer successful, you will immediately receive orders from the War Lord!"