Abar closed his eyes in pain, and the battle axe in his hand slowly drooped.
He glanced one last time at the light cavalrymen still fighting in the distance. Those loyal warriors were like antelopes surrounded by wolves, with nowhere to escape.
"The entire army must retreat," his voice was terribly hoarse, "Sound the bugle."
Woo-woo-woo
A mournful horn call echoed across the battlefield—the orcs' highest-level retreat signal. The light cavalry still fighting heard it, their faces contorted in disbelief. Their Great Chieftain had abandoned them.
The Northwest Legion's cavalry keenly sensed the movement of the main orc force, but for now, they had to focus on the battle at hand. Earl Hal, raising his blood-stained longsword, shouted, "Don't get distracted! Deal with the enemy in front of us first!"
The sentry on the observation balloon quickly signaled with flags: "The main enemy force is retreating north."
Paul, seeing the signal, finally breathed a sigh of relief. "Strike at their main force, cut off the remaining enemy's retreat, and annihilate this cavalry force completely."
As the main human forces closed in, the remaining orc light cavalry were compressed into an ever-shrinking encirclement.
Some soldiers roared in despair, tore open their armor to expose their chests, and launched a suicidal charge. They would rather die in battle than be taken prisoner by humanity.
"For the glory of the Steppe Royal Tent!" shouted an orc officer, leading the last few dozen cavalrymen toward the artillery position, where they finally fell amidst a hail of bullets.
The vast majority of Orc Cavalry who died in battle were from the Zhaerge Clan, Abar's direct descendants.
Other orcs threw down their weapons, dismounted, and knelt on the ground. Their faces were ashen, their eyes vacant, unable to believe that they had been abandoned by the Royal Tent.
Abar once promised to lead them in the pursuit of glory and wealth in the human world, but now the Great Chieftain's promise has become empty words.
When the last wisp of smoke cleared, the wilderness outside Stone Bridge Town was littered with corpses and broken weapons.
The soldiers of the Northwest Legion began cleaning up the battlefield, with medics moving among them searching for survivors.
Paul stood on high ground, watching the dust raised by the retreating orc forces in the distance, knowing that this victory had not come easily.
"Take stock of casualties and bring in prisoners," he told his staff officer, his voice weary yet relieved. " We won the Battle of Stone Bridge Town."
As the sun set, its afterglow stained the battlefield crimson. A tattered white wolf banner lay fallen in the mud, trampled by countless hooves.
...
On the desolate northern road, the royal new army's marching column left trails of dust stretching for miles.
Harrison Abbott reined in his horse, his iron gloves squeaking against the reins. The resolute-faced general pulled out his pocket watch for the third time—the hour hand had deviated by fifteen degrees, yet the column had advanced less than five miles.
"Messenger!" he said, his voice trembling with anger. "Go ask the Guardian Knight Order if their gilded saddles need to be repolished."
Not far away, a silk tent adorned with family crests stood by the roadside. Yuriko Rodney leaned against a cushion, letting her servants pour aged wine into crystal glasses.
He casually flicked his gold-embroidered cuff: "Tell General Abbott that a forced march will wear out the Knights' precious armor."
A soft laugh came from the shadows of the tent.
Emerson Wilde toyed with his jewel-encrusted dagger, the tip of which intentionally or unintentionally grazed the words "Yellow Earth Land" on the marching map.
"Let those country soldiers go first." He squinted his gray eyes. "I heard Glaeman's troops are stationed in this godforsaken place and have already clashed with the orcs! Heh, isn't your brother the one who trusts that 'genius strategist' the most?"
The tent was filled with the rich aroma of wine. Yuriko Rodney swirled her crystal glass, a mocking smile playing on her lips.
"Hmph, that country bumpkin from Alda, now he's the savior of the kingdom?" He scoffed. "He just got lucky and picked up a few novelties, and now he thinks he's some kind of genius."
Emerson Wilde leaned lazily against the cushions, his fingertips lightly tapping the rim of his wine glass, a cold glint in his eyes.
"Your Highness is right. Glaeman is nothing but an opportunistic scoundrel," he said slowly. "Who knows if those so-called inventions were stolen from some wandering scholar? After all, how could a country nobleman who hasn't even spent a few years at Crystal Radiance suddenly know so much?"
Yuriko laughed heartily, nearly spilling the wine on his luxurious embroidered coat.
"Absolutely! My brother treats him like a treasure, calling it a ' miracle of the Northwest,' it's laughable." He curled his lip. "If you ask me, all his steam engines and firearms are just for show. When it comes to the battlefield, we'll have to rely on us, the true knights!"
Yuriko still harbors resentment towards her brother for refusing to let her serve in the new army.
He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, an exaggerated expression of pity appearing on his face.
"Poor Catherine," he sighed, shaking his head. "My proud cousin, once the most dazzling rose of Crystal Radiance, is now forced to marry a country lord whose coat of arms smells of fish."
Emerson then gave a timely look of sympathy and refilled Yuriko's glass.
"It is truly heartbreaking," he echoed in a low voice. " The Gleiman family has lived in the Northwest for generations; they probably don't even know the most basic court etiquette."
Yuriko slammed her hand on the table, splashing the wine from her glass.
"Do you know what's most ridiculous?" he slurred, raising his voice. "My cousin used to look down on even the eldest son of the Duke! And now? For my brother's political marriage, she has to put up with a weirdo who spends all day fiddling with gears and steam engines!"
He exaggeratedly clutched his chest, as if he were acting out a poorly executed tragedy.
"Just imagine, Catherine would have to live in one of those… towns that reek of engine oil." Yuriko wrinkled her nose in disgust. "No operas, no balls, just the smell of coal smoke and the roar of machinery all day long—it's torture for a beautiful princess!"
A calculating glint flashed in Emerson's eyes as he added softly, "And I've heard that Glaeman has an ambiguous relationship with that female scholar from Horn Bay."
Yuriko immediately displayed an exaggerated expression of shock.
"What? That green-haired woman?" He gasped. "Gods above, Catherine has to endure such humiliation? My brother is sacrificing his own cousin for short-term gain!"
His voice grew louder and louder, drawing the attention of the attendants outside the tent.
"If you ask me, the royal bloodline has been tainted!"
Yuriko waved her arms indignantly.
"Just you wait. Once this war is over, I will definitely protest to the King. Catherine deserves a better match, perhaps from a truly noble family."