At dawn, the eastern horizon was swallowed by a moving shadow. Abar's golden chariot gleamed in the morning light, sixteen pure black warhorses pulling this moving palace, the earth trembling wherever the wheels rolled.
The main force of the orcs surged in like a black tide!
The central army formation was the most imposing. At the forefront was a phalanx of heavily armored infantry, these elite orc warriors clad in armor and wielding shields as tall as a man, forming a mobile metal wall. Their synchronized marching shook the ground slightly, and the steel jungle of battle axes and spears gleamed with a deathly light in the morning glow.
Closely following them were the cavalry—orc knights clad in heavy armor. Their mounts were carefully selected steppe warhorses, their armor adorned with trophies from past battles. The knights carried three-meter-long heavy lances, and the scimitars at their waists were inlaid with enemy skulls.
Amidst these elite troops, a large number of colossal horses slowly advanced, dragging siege equipment. These behemoths, twice the size of ordinary warhorses, were clad in iron armor, and each step they took caused the earth to tremble. They were dragging not only catapults, but also three siege towers, each fifteen meters high, covered with soaked raw cowhide to protect against fire attacks.
On the left flank were lightly armed cavalry, riding nimble steppe horses, carrying powerful bows on their backs, and scimitars at their waists. These scouts spread out like a dark cloud, ready to flank the enemy at any moment.
To the right are the surrendered human servants—rebel lords from Yellow Earth Land leading their own private armies. Leimoste's family banner is particularly conspicuous, beneath which are well-equipped Bradley Family heavy infantry, whose plate armor still retains the emblem of the Kingdom of Aldor —a golden coat of arms composed of the sun and moon, only crudely painted over with black paint.
Abar stood on the platform before the golden tent, his battle axe pointing towards Stone Bridge Town. With this gesture, the entire army suddenly erupted in a deafening battle roar. The sound waves startled birds within a ten-mile radius, and even the morning mist was dispersed by the sonic booms.
As the sun fully rose, a continuous chorus of horns echoed through the orcish ranks. Three hundred war drums beat simultaneously, their rhythm like the accelerating heartbeat of a giant. The central phalanx began to shift formation, the heavy infantry splitting into three attack echelons, while the cavalry spread out on the flanks. This was the rhythm of an ultimatum, every note telling Stone Bridge Town: the real storm has only just begun.
But as the sun fully rose, a messenger carrying a white flag suddenly emerged from the orc army. He rode a white horse without armor and slowly approached the city wall.
" Great Chieftain Abar requests a half-day truce," the messenger's voice was particularly clear in the morning breeze, "Let us collect the warrior's remains."
Major Hodgson stood behind the battlements for a moment, then ordered, "Cease fire and let them collect the bodies." He turned to the artillery commander and added, "But remain vigilant and open fire immediately if there is any unusual activity."
Soon, hundreds of unarmed humans emerged from the ranks. They silently carried the corpses of the orc soldiers, carefully wrapping each mutilated body in blankets. The defenders watched this scene in silence; their firearms remained loaded, but no one pulled the trigger.
On the open ground beneath the city walls, Abar personally received Keluge's body. The Great Chieftain knelt on one knee, his rough fingers tracing the vanguard general's blood-stained face, a rare look of grief flashing in his eyes.
"My claws." Abar's deep voice was like muffled thunder. "I swear that every human on this wall will pay with ten times the blood." He took off his scarlet cloak and gently covered Keluge's corpse.
As the last corpse was carried back to the camp, a somber dirge rose from the orc ranks. Thousands of rough voices, in sync with the rhythm of war drums, echoed across the plain. The lament quickly transformed into a battle cry, and Abar raised his battle axe high, his armor gleaming in the sunlight—the fury of vengeance would erupt fully in the siege.
At Abar's command, countless ragged human slaves were driven from the orc army. Most of them came from Yellow Earth Land. Although Abar presented himself as a benevolent conqueror, there were always those who committed "crimes," and this was the "punishment." Now, under the lash of whips, the "criminals" trembled as they carried sacks full of mud toward the trench.
"Fire! Fire now!" Major Hodgson's roar echoed across the city walls.
The guards' fingers froze on the triggers—those emaciated figures were humans like themselves, not slaves, but forced there by the orcs.
The major snatched the rifle from the soldier next to him and pointed it at the hesitant Firearm squad.
"I'll count to three," his voice was as cold as ice, "either you shoot, or I shoot." The click of the flintlock hammer being cocked was clearly audible.
The soldiers recalled the legend of the Battle of Blackstone Plain: Chief of Staff Schroder ordered the fleeing soldiers to line up in rows of ten and count off, executing one soldier for every ten counted. A moment of utter silence fell over the city walls.
"one!"
"two!"
Finally, the first gunshot shattered the silence. Then came the second, the third… A hail of bullets rained down, and the first few slaves fell to the ground. But many more slaves continued to advance under the pressure of the orcish overseers, crying out but forced to throw their sacks of dirt into the trenches.
Hodgson lowered the rifle he was holding, his eyes still gleaming with coldness. He roared at the men around him, "Mercy must be used wisely. If you're soft-hearted today, tomorrow the orcs will trample through the filled-in moats and storm into the city."
...
The trenches were eventually filled in at the cost of blood and tears. The orcs' massive siege engines began to slowly advance, their heavy wooden wheels creaking and grinding over the newly filled dirt road.
"Load solid shot!" The Northwest Army artillery commander's voice echoed across the city walls. The gunners quickly shoved 12-pound cast iron balls into the breech, the barrels gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
"600 yards, elevation 5 degrees!" the observer called out. The gunners skillfully adjusted the wedge blocks on the gun mounts, ensuring that each Cannon was pointing at the optimal angle.
"Fire!"
The deafening roar of artillery fire was deafening, and solid shells whistled out one after another.
Abar witnessed a cannonball strike the base of a siege tower, the immense impact snapping the entire wooden tower in half. Another cannonball ricocheted off the ground, piercing through three orc slaves pushing carts before embedding itself in the base of a catapult.
"Load the shot!"
As the ladder troops approached the city walls recklessly, close-range fire followed. Hundreds of lead bullets rained down on the orc siege force, instantly turning flesh and blood into carnage. Centurion, an orc pushing a ladder, was riddled with bullets, his breastplate covered in gruesome dents.
Abar stood atop the golden chariot, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had fought countless battles, and even the finest siege crossbows he had ever seen could only shoot two hundred yards, yet the enemy's metal tubes, spitting fire, could destroy targets from over seven hundred yards away!
"This..." Great Chieftain's rough fingers unconsciously rubbed the handle of his battle axe.
He recalled that during the first invasion, the defeated generals of the westward expedition had described a "fire-breathing magic wand," which he had dismissed as a mere excuse by the defeated army.
Now he finally understood that what those defeated soldiers said was the truth.