Sensors were placed behind the ears.
Ancient relic technology converted the wearer's brain activity into signals, transmitting them to the central holographic display to manipulate images, allowing them to follow the commander's line of sight.
After a small modification, these signals were now directly converted into digital signals and transmitted to the eyes of the Sentinels on the front lines.
When Blazkowicz accepted the Sword Seal in the Royal Council Chamber, he had already envisioned the blueprint of this war in his mind, and was gradually turning it into reality through his own methods.
Argent Nur's Sentinels did not know, and even he himself did not know.
The Primarch, created by the Emperor in conjunction with the Warp and adapted to any form of warfare, possessed an innate and extraordinary understanding of war when he engaged in it, an understanding that no other life form could ever match.
"Begin."
As the first command was issued, the fortress command room fell into an unusual silence; the usual sounds of command transmission completely vanished.
The relic technology took the objectives and conclusions Blazkowicz calculated in his mind, with reaction speeds in nanoseconds, even approaching picoseconds, combined with the computational power of a supercomputer, and used digital commands to set the entire war in "motion"!
A battlefield of nearly three hundred thousand square kilometers was composed of complex personnel numbers and simplified terrain lines.
In the eyes of the Sentinels, such a complex combination of numbers, bringing with it a huge number of variables, was almost uncontrollable.
Across the vast expanse of the battlefield, numbers representing the Orks were scattered everywhere; under the continuous assault of the Sentinels, their large forces were broken up, and now there were only countless small groups.
They moved in groups of three or five, or dozens, with hundreds of Orks in some squads and thousands gathered in tribes, scattered all over the place.
The current situation was most difficult; the Orks were scurrying everywhere, spreading their genetic material, and if not stopped in time, the elite Sentinels would once again fall into an endless war of attrition.
They would be exhausted from putting out fires everywhere, eventually surrounded by an infinite number of Orks, leading to another siege.
The Sentinels became even more dispersed.
With fewer than ten thousand, there were companies of a hundred, squads of ten, groups of two or three, and even many lone hunters.
As Blazkowicz began to control the battlefield, the Sentinels started to move, following the instructions of the digital commands.
Although some commands seemed to have no practical purpose, the loyal Sentinels chose to execute them unconditionally, arriving at the designated location at the scheduled time.
The exquisite personnel deployment, the coordination of supplies at every step, and even the calculation of each soldier's stamina were almost pushed to the extreme threshold.
The previously quiet air in the command room gradually became suffocating.
Personnel not involved in other tasks slowly gathered around the central console, watching the holographic sand table, where numbers and lines frantically changed and flickered.
"What is he doing?" Erica asked through the communication channel, not daring to speak aloud to disturb him; she couldn't understand the detailed processing, but she knew the overall situation was changing.
"It should be a net!" Harlan's vision and command ability were not bad, but his personal combat prowess overshadowed it; he could somewhat understand the situation.
His intuition told him that Blazkowicz was using the Sentinels as a net to catch the fish and shrimp in the water.
Blazkowicz was expressionless, like a cold command-issuing instrument; every second, thousands of commands appeared in his mind and were then sent out digitally.
This was not his limit, but rather that battlefield resources were limited, and Blazkowicz's deployment and integration were subject to many constraints.
Even so, such incredible battlefield coordination caused the senior officers in the command room to feel a sense of powerlessness.
If such a being were the enemy commander on the battlefield, how could he be defeated?
Blazkowicz felt quite bored at this time, not even putting in his full effort—he had sectioned off a specific area in his left brain dedicated to battlefield coordination calculations.
Everyone thought that such high-intensity command should be single-minded, with external communications shut off.
More often, Blazkowicz's attention was not on the battlefield, but on listening to his subordinates discuss him in the communication channel.
Weaving a fishing net?
Blazkowicz shook his head internally.
What Harlan saw was just the surface; the deeper aspects were very difficult to understand.
However, he couldn't be blamed for not understanding; their physical and brain functions were completely on different levels.
A fishing net would have holes, and countless fish would escape; he would not let a single Ork get away, leaving endless future troubles.
Blazkowicz preferred to compare himself to a "farmer," meticulously cultivating his own backyard.
To him, the Orks were pests constantly emerging from the soil, impossible to eradicate.
If even one was missed, it wouldn't be long before more would breed, continuing to devour the fields and harm the crops.
What Blazkowicz was doing now was using a plow and a rake to thoroughly turn over the soil, meticulously breaking up every clod of earth, finding every single pest, and then gathering them together.
"What is our War Lord doing?"
A Sentinels panted, asking his companion, as their entire ten-man squad had advanced continuously for four hours at a speed of fifty kilometers per hour.
During this time, they eliminated several scattered Ork groups, avoiding larger groups that they could have destroyed.
"I don't know! But talking less and conserving stamina is the right thing to do."
His companion shook his head, also panting.
Every command from the War Lord pushed them to their physical limits, keeping them from resting for a moment.
But they could all feel that the current battlefield coordination had improved several notches; everyone and every piece of war machinery was constantly in motion.
All the tactical commands everyone completed contributed to a single strategic objective, and the results were astonishing.
"Rush three kilometers to the right, engage and eliminate a hundred-strong Ork squad within one minute."
The captain's voice rang out; a new digital command arrived, and he read out the interpreted instruction:
"Also, avoid the current route; the Rangers' anti-gravity motorcycles are drawing a thousand-strong Ork force, passing through our location."
Such scenes occurred almost across the entire battlefield, with commands transmitted quickly and precisely every second.
The Sentinels didn't need to consider anything extra; when their stamina reached its limit, a rest command would immediately arrive.
When supplies were needed, Rangers on anti-gravity motorcycles would sweep low, drop off supplies, and then hastily depart.
No waiting, no questioning.
Even war machines carrying heavy firepower sometimes received some inexplicable commands.
What to use as a reference, the direction at what o'clock in front, how many degrees to raise the muzzle, how many inches to move it horizontally, what type of shell to use and how many rounds to fire.
After completing a series of actions and continuing on their way, a few minutes later, thanks would come from allied forces, who had received precise fire support in the previous battle, with perfectly placed shell impacts.
This level of battlefield detail control, while incredible to the soldiers, also greatly invigorated them.
With such unparalleled command, how could victory not be assured?
The Sentinels were incredibly excited, needing only to focus on the enemy in front of them, wielding their swords and blades, and advancing according to the deployment commands.
In the command room, the officers overseeing the entire situation stood there like wooden figures, stunned.
They watched on the battlefield sand table as scattered Orks were driven, lured, and then gradually converged towards a small plain.
Seventy thousand Orks!
Blazkowicz glanced at the sand table; clearing out scattered small Ork groups and guiding the direction of large settlements had the sole purpose of gathering the Orks.
The number was not far from the estimate; Blazkowicz's eyes narrowed, the first phase of the plan was complete, it was time to begin the next phase!
"Champion Swordsman, Harlan Ogilvy!"
For the first time, from the start of commanding the battlefield until now, twenty hours had passed, and Blazkowicz spoke for the first time, calling his guard.
"My Lord!" Harlan knelt on one knee, ready to receive any command from his master.
"In past battles, you have achieved countless victories, earning the title of Champion." Blazkowicz looked at his most loyal servant and made an unexpected request: "Now, I want you to lose!"
"My Lord! For your victory, for the complete triumph over the greenskins, I am willing to abandon all past honors!"
The rough voice was resonant, and Harlan's reply surprised and deeply impressed those in the command room.
Harlan Ogilvy was a man who valued honor immensely; he could hold a long-standing grudge against Siran over the gain or loss of honor.
He was the sharpest presence on the battlefield. He had countless praises and honors for slaying generals, capturing banners, breaking formations, being the first to climb walls, and facing the enemy's blades directly.
His reputation echoed throughout Argent Nur, and his enemies were deeply impressed by him; their champions' defeat at Harlan's hands was not a disgrace but an honor.
Even among the Orcs, there were praises for him.
At this very moment, Blazkowicz's plan required reputation, and it required Harlan to sacrifice everything he had gained in the past for victory.
"Excellent!" Blazkowicz extended his arm to pull up the Champion Swordsman, patting his shoulder with an affirming look.
Blazkowicz himself didn't place much importance on honor, but Harlan's sacrifice was still admirable.
Sacrifice is not an obligation; when someone sacrifices for the greater good, they deserve to be remembered by those who benefit.
"Let's go, Ms. Erica, I'll need your help later."
Blazkowicz, taking Harlan and calling out to the dazed Stealth Master, walked out of the command room and headed towards the Orc gathering place.
In the plan's blueprint, Erica was an indispensable and equally crucial component.
As for command duties, within the War Fortress's scanning range, communication would not be an issue.
Blazkowicz, at the front line, could still transmit precise orders in a timely manner via the sensor attached behind his ear.
"What do you intend to do?" Erica's beautiful face wore a humble expression. Seeing the War Lord's almost artfully precise wisdom, she was deeply impressed and felt uneasy about her rashness.
Could such a rational person, possessing the extraordinary wisdom of a farsighted prophet, have even calculated her entry into the command room?
"Do not be alarmed!" Blazkowicz maintained his dignified expression, but his voice softened considerably to soothe her panicked heart: "For the victory of the war, I intend to create an Orc legend!"
Blazkowicz, having consumed Orcs, knew much about the Orc race and made many bold assumptions.
Orcs possessed a psychic energy field, and the more Orcs gathered, and the more consensus they reached on a certain matter, the more apparent this mysterious energy manifested.
Their war machines were the best proof.
By human standards, the junk cars cobbled together by Orcs shouldn't even move, but under Orc control, they could run, and war machines painted red ran even longer and faster.
The Argentum's underground core furnace, the forge academy training technical personnel, confidently delved into researching Orc machinery, ultimately yielding meager results.
However, they did discover an unexpected phenomenon.
Orcs could construct war weapons from any junk, even mimicking the Sentinels to piece together junk power armor.
There was only one thing they couldn't utilize—null crystal.
In the eyes of Orcs, null crystal was a worthless stone.
Even seeing humans use it, they wouldn't imitate it, as if in their perception, null crystal simply didn't exist.
Their unique psychic field also found it difficult to power null crystal; the guards' spears and swords were, to the Orcs, not even as good as a rusty junk blade.
In Blazkowicz's plan, the Orcs' psychic field was very valuable, perfect for eliminating Orcs themselves.
"Create an Orc legend?" Erica's slender eyebrows furrowed as she softly murmured Blazkowicz's words, carefully pondering their meaning.
Suddenly, her expression changed, and her sexy voice trembled with suppression: "What you are doing is too dangerous!"
"Dangerous?"
"What do you think this place is? Is there anything on a battlefield that isn't dangerous?" Blazkowicz's gentle voice suddenly turned sharp, his piercing gaze directly into Erica's blue eyes. The inherent oppressive force from the Primarch made her break out in a cold sweat:
"Our warriors are in danger. To end the war as quickly as possible, I have many methods, but this is the fastest!"
"Or do you have a better method, Madam?"
Blazkowicz's tone suddenly filled with anticipation, and he raised a hand to point at his ear: "I am all ears!"
"I do not possess your talent." Erica turned her face away, not daring to look directly at Blazkowicz.
"Then follow my arrangements! Execute the tactical orders I require."
Blazkowicz's gaze stretched into the distance, continuing to plan details in his mind, preparing to complete a crucial step.
The massive War Fortress moved with the battlefield and stopped in a low-lying area far from the Orc gathering place to avoid being discovered and becoming a target.
Blazkowicz climbed a small hill alone; he didn't need any long-range viewing equipment, his extraordinary vision taking in the scene over ten kilometers away.
The Orcs, lured by the anti-gravity motorcycles ridden by the Rangers, gradually gathered together.
The savage creatures roared, pushing and fighting each other. Their twisted features were hateful and ugly, their grotesque mouths opening and closing, revealing rotten, jagged fangs.
As Blazkowicz expected, he clearly felt it.
When a large number of Orcs gathered, they would fight each other, and then under the effect of the psychic field, the one who gained the most worship would become their boss.
Blazkowicz smiled slightly; now he would interrupt this process and then artificially orchestrate the birth of a boss.
As the Orcs gathered, the Sentinels also converged from all directions.
At the War Lord's instruction, a thousand-strong unit of the Sentinels launched a surprise attack from the rear flank, instantly drawing the Orcs' attention.
They grinned, emitting joyful roars, and charged forward en masse.
The Sentinels, holding large shields, advanced in a defensive formation, continuously firing at the swarming Orcs with spears and swords.
The splashing blood further stimulated the Orcs' frenzy; their eyes bloodshot, they screamed excitedly, brandishing their weapons and charging the Sentinels's line.
"Rangers, enter the field."
Multiple Ranger detachments on anti-gravity motorcycles entered the field, activating their protective force fields and opening their cutting blades, repeatedly crashing along several paths marked by the War Lord, slicing through the Orc formations.
"Long-range fire strike!"
Shells and plasma precisely landed at their designated points, not aiming for large-scale casualties, but under Blazkowicz's precise control, creating enough chaos to disorient the Orcs.
"Erica, you can have your subordinates snipe!"
All of the Stealth Master's subordinates wore stealth cloaks. They lurked in hidden positions, using long-range sniper rifles to hunt important targets.
Following Blazkowicz's command, within the visibly chaotic Orc crowd, many large Orcs were repeatedly hit in the head and then fell unwillingly.
Blazkowicz observed the battlefield with satisfaction; everything was proceeding systematically, exactly as he had planned.
"It's your turn to enter, Harlan!"
"I am Harlan Ogilvy!" The motorcycle's amplified array carried the Champion Swordsman's defiant roar across the entire battlefield: "Greenskin cowards! Send out your boss to fight me!"
A white figure wielding two light swords leaped from a motorcycle, crashing into the very center of the Orc crowd, his deafening roar even drowning out the battle cries.
All the Orcs' attention was drawn to him. Under Blazkowicz's orchestration, the Sentinels's offensive gradually slowed, even slowly retreating to the edge of the battlefield.
The stage was set; it was time for the protagonist to begin his performance!
Who was the Orc boss? There was no boss now, but all ambitious Orc Kids wanted to be the boss.
Harlan Ogilvy!
The Orc Kids had heard his name, a powerful human big shot who had killed many powerful Orc Kids.
"Kill him! Kill him! The Kid who kills him will be the boss!"
A shout came from an unknown source, quickly spreading among the Orcs—kill Harlan Ogilvy! And you'll be the boss!
"Well done, Erica!"
Blazkowicz praised the Stealth Master; she had used her stealth cloak to infiltrate the Orc crowd and shouted that phrase.
For professionally trained assassins and infiltrators, mimicking Orc voices and accents was not difficult.
"Continue to wait; your mission is not complete."
In the center of the stage, watched by all, the duel began. Some Orcs, larger than average Kids, challenged Harlan.
They spontaneously formed a circle, a surging green tide of heads, the greenskins craning their necks, waiting for the birth of their boss.
Orcs had no rules in any aspect, but they were surprisingly disciplined when it came to fighting.
The Champion Swordsman lived up to his name; a tall Kid charged into the duel circle, couldn't last a single round, and was decapitated by Harlan.
Another Orc charged, and another corpse lay on the ground.
For a full ten minutes, the duel circle expanded, Harlan fought with increasing ferocity, his longswords dancing wildly, gradually silencing the greenskins.
"Is there no one left? Is this all the greenskins are capable of?"
The Orcs' psychic field now had an adverse effect; tens of thousands of greenskins felt Harlan was invincible, gradually losing the courage to challenge him.
Just then, a timid voice came: "I'll challenge you!"
Among the Orcs, who had been suppressed into silence, a timid voice emerged. Though small and lacking confidence, it was still clearly audible in the quiet dueling circle.
The Orcs looked in the direction of the voice, naturally making way for its owner.
It was a scrawny, malnourished Orc Kid. His skin was shriveled, and his fur was matted. The skin on his face sagged due to looseness, his teeth were covered in deep cracks, his emaciated limbs were like dry kindling, and he held a crude wooden stick in his hand.
Blazkowicz had been observing the battlefield for a long time and discovered this anomaly in the green ocean. He was not as belligerent as the other Orcs; his frail body was always retreating, seeking a way to survive.
A cowardly Orc Kid, stepping forward at a crucial moment to defeat a powerful enemy and become a hero who turns the tide, is an unyielding 'legend'!
This was the script Blazkowicz had written for him.
The scrawny Orc had a bewildered look on his face. He didn't understand how his arm had lifted, and though he hadn't spoken, his voice had appeared, declaring that he wanted to challenge that human!
His wrist felt as if it was clamped by pliers, lifted by a great force. Before he could react, he received a kick to his backside, stumbling forward a few steps.
"Instead of running away, you're coming towards me?"
At this moment, the human spoke. His voice still carried disdain, but also a hint of interest.
Harlan's face beneath his helmet was grim. The Champion Swordsman's undefeated honor was about to end here today, ruined by an underdeveloped Orc.
"Orc! What is your name?"
There was no chance for the Orc to retreat; there was no reason to go back once he had stepped out.
Like the director of a play, Harlan naturally, like a villain awaiting the protagonist, asked for the protagonist's name.
"Guzzka! It's Guzzka! That snot-nosed brat! The weak-kneed coward who always retreats!"
Some Orcs recognized the scrawny Orc Kid. His name was "Guzzka," and his Orc brethren disparagingly called him "snot-nosed brat" and "weak-kneed coward."
In Orc society, a snot-nosed brat is at the very bottom, a symbol of cowardice and timidity.
Orcs are a very strange race, born from spores like mushrooms. The first units to appear are the snot-nosed brats.
Snot-nosed brats' timidity and cowardice are etched into their DNA. They naturally stay away from other intelligent species, avoiding detection while gathering resources.
When Orc Kids appear, they attach themselves to the Orc Kids, living at the lowest rung of Orc society.
And because of the Orcs' warlike nature, the hardworking and resentful snot-nosed brats are deeply despised by other Orcs.
Among Orcs, there is no more contemptuous insult than 'snot-nosed brat'; if there is, it's 'weak-kneed coward.'
Both appearing on a single Orc, one can imagine his situation in Orc society.
"Boo!"
Boos were incessant. After learning about Guzzka's situation, some Orc Kids even covered their eyes, avoiding defilement and not wanting to see his humiliating appearance.
Guzzka's sagging, drooping eyes were filled with extreme terror. He didn't understand what was happening; he had inexplicably stepped into the dueling circle.
In the invisible air behind him, Erica had turned her adaptive camouflage device to maximum, carefully concealing herself, and pressed the precious conversion device on her belt.
The dimensional rift of the Nur crystal was propped open, creating an independent space for a person to enter. Although it could only last for a few seconds, it was enough for her to enter or leave the crowded Orc throng.
"Come! Guzzka! Fight me to the death!"
The impassioned challenge woke Guzzka from his terror. He wanted to cry, to wail like a snot-nosed brat, and then scramble away from here.
His height was less than half that of the human Champion, how could the wooden stick in his hand penetrate the armor?
And there was that glowing weapon, which the tech boy couldn't decipher or understand, that killed Orcs without a trace.
He was doomed! This time there was nowhere to run!
As things stood, under the gaze of thousands, Guzzka still grabbed his wooden stick and charged at the human Champion.
The Orcs covering their faces, though disdainful, secretly peeked through their fingers, eager to see the weak-kneed coward's blood splatter on the spot.
Guzzka's desperate charge was a messy scramble, the crude wooden stick in his hand flailing wildly and without any technique, as he rushed forward with his eyes closed.
Harlan lowered his stance, carefully observing every trajectory of the wild swings of the stick in his hand, calculating when to intercept it.
Finally, at the opportune moment, the Champion Swordsman sighed deeply and swung the light saber in his hand.
The swing of the sword was extremely fast, too fast for the green-skins to see clearly.
At the moment of contact between the wooden stick and the key point, something incredible happened that made the green-skins' eyes widen in disbelief.
As the wooden stick swung and touched the light saber, the human's unstoppable, iron-cutting sword was parried!
Basic Swordsmanship!
At the moment the two weapons touched, Harlan perfectly stopped his blade, then suddenly tensed his muscles, making it appear as if he had been parried.
"This must be the great power of Gork and Mork!"
At the opportune moment, the roaring sound rang out again, instantly attributing that incredible moment to the divine power of Gork and Mork!
"Waaaaaagh!!!!!!!!!!"
The brains of the Orcs in the arena instantly boiled, letting out extremely excited roars!
Such a miracle! There was no other explanation except the blessing of Gork and Mork!
Gork and Mork above, allowing a scrawny kid to open the big human's sword with a wooden stick!
"Guzzka! Guzzka!"
Tens of thousands of Orcs shouted out the same name, calling for a bewildered Guzzka in the dueling circle.
He didn't understand why the big human's sword was so fragile. He also wondered if he had some unknown talent.
Under the gaze of thousands, he foolishly scratched his head and smiled.
Blazkowicz, more than ten kilometers away, also smiled. He felt that energy unifying amidst the cheers of the Orcs.
Guzzka felt a strength that made him gradually stronger.
He cautiously moved forward, just like before, swinging the wooden stick at the big human.
Under Harlan's helmet, his mouth twitched imperceptibly. He once again performed his sword technique, allowing his sword to precisely meet the wooden stick, and then be parried away.
A miracle happened again!
The Orcs were hysterical! Their grotesque faces twisted together, so excited they could only clutch their heads and scream madly.
Several times in a row, the two disproportionate beings clashed weapons, and the small green-skin repeatedly repelled the big human.
Harlan was panting; the continuous basic swordsmanship had made his muscles sore and his physical strength greatly depleted.
In the Orcs' eyes, the big human was running out of stamina and was about to be defeated.
"Guzzka! Guzzka! Boss! Boss!"
Orcs stood shoulder to shoulder, their shouts coming in waves, their short, thick legs stomping on the ground, eagerly anticipating Guzzka defeating the human and becoming the Boss!
Guzzka remained clueless. Amidst the anticipation of thousands, he took a short run and accelerated, leaping high and swinging his stick at the big human's head.
In Harlan's helmet, a look of relief appeared in his eyes. This performance had utterly humiliated him; playing make-believe with a green-skin was truly too sad.
The light saber guarded his head, and under precise control, it appeared to be suppressed by the wooden stick. His body erupted with power at extremely close range, his head colliding with the wooden stick, producing a fierce impact.
Then he forcefully pushed off with his legs, creating the illusion of being knocked flying.
In the Orcs' eyes, Guzzka leaped high and swung his stick, and the big human's sword couldn't withstand his strength, then he was hit in the head and violently knocked away.
"The Champion Swordsman has been defeated!"
This time it was the humans' shouts, hurried screams filled with terror, as the humans launched a despicable attack!
In the dueling arena, Erica's "Specters," the stealthers, suddenly appeared, throwing smoke bombs to create chaos and cover Harlan's swift departure.
The Sentinels quickly retreated, leaving the dueling circle to the Orcs; they still had things to do.
"Guzzka! Guzzka! Boss! Boss!"
The humans retreated without a trace, and the Orcs did not pursue. They tossed Guzzka high into the air, calling his name, calling him "Boss."
With the weakest body, he defeated a powerful enemy that even the strong lads couldn't conquer. Watched over by Gork and Mork, he was destined to be the Orc Boss!
With each rise and fall, Guzzka's gaunt body visibly expanded, eventually far surpassing that of an ordinary Orc Kid.
The concept of a Boss had already been planted, and his size would continue to grow.
"Respected War Lord, as you predicted, the Orcs spread across the southern hemisphere seem to be guided by something, changing their original routes and slowly advancing towards your position."
Reconnaissance patrols from multiple directions sent back messages, finally converging in the command center.
Blazkowicz nodded with satisfaction, his inner suspicions confirmed.
The birth of an Orc Boss would generate a reaction that would spread through the psychic field. Orcs would sense it and gather around the Boss.
This was precisely what Blazkowicz had been expecting.