As the sun rises in the east, the vast grasslands awaken in the wind, with green waves of grass rolling to the horizon, meeting the leaden-gray clouds.
The distant horizon undulated gently, like the slumbering back of a colossal beast. In this vast expanse of land, a massive army was slowly advancing—
The 30,000-strong Aldor Expeditionary Force, like a long, steel serpent, snaked its way through the golden meadows. Leading the vanguard was Baron Andrew's light cavalry regiment, the red flag of the Northwest Legion fluttering in the wind. The riders scanned their surroundings warily, their carbines swaying gently with each step.
Closely following behind was the main infantry column. The soldiers marched with steady steps, their metallic jungle of bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The wooden wheels of the supply wagons rolled over the soft soil, leaving deep ruts.
Forest Orcs mercenaries roamed among them, dressed in uniforms similar to those of human soldiers, only several sizes larger. They carried bows and arrows, slung large swords over their shoulders, and their amber eyes constantly scanned the distant waves of grass.
Even more striking was the artillery column pulled by mules and horses. More than thirty cannons of various colors were covered with waterproof tarpaulins, and the heavy barrels made a dull thud as they were jolted along.
On both sides of the line, North Three Territories Militia's reconnaissance squads spread out like tentacles. Riding ponies, they would sometimes disappear into the waves of grass, and sometimes emerge unexpectedly, using flag signals to relay safety messages.
The wind blows the grass low, occasionally revealing skeletons buried in the grass—they may be prey of wolves, or the remains of those who died in battle years ago. High above, several steppe eagles circle, their sharp eyes looking down at this torrent that has broken the tranquility of the steppe.
As the army marched into the afternoon, Baron Andrew reined in his horse and stopped on a low hill, his binoculars scanning the boundless sea of grass.
At that moment, a scout cavalryman galloped up, his hooves kicking up a cloud of grass: "Report! Orc Cavalry spotted five miles to the northeast, about two thousand cavalry, approaching in battle formation!"
Baron Andrew squinted and adjusted the direction of his binoculars. On the distant horizon, a moving black dot could be vaguely seen—dust kicked up by Orc Cavalry.
He wasn't surprised; he simply calmly raised his hand and said, "All troops, halt your advance and deploy into the pre-determined defensive formation."
Even before the expeditionary force set off, the envoys of the North Three Territories had already issued an ultimatum to the orc tribes in the region—to submit to the Aldor or leave on their own.
But clearly, these steppe warriors chose the implicit third option—to respond to the human threat with scimitars and bows and arrows.
"It seems they want to test our strength."
Andrew sneered and turned to his adjutant, saying, "Have the artillery company set up positions immediately. The infantry phalanx should form a defensive line with the artillery at the center, and the cavalry should guard the flanks."
As the bugle sounded, the expeditionary force began to operate with mechanical precision. The infantrymen quickly unloaded their packs, drew their bayonets, and formed tight square formations at the officers' commands.
The artillerymen lifted the tarpaulin, and the heavy gun carriages were quickly fixed to the ground, the dark muzzles pointing towards the northeast sky.
Andrew raised his binoculars, and the Orc Cavalry could be clearly seen—they wore variegated leather armor, brandished scimitars, and charged with wild howls. The cavalry at the front waved banners with a ferocious wolf's head painted on them.
It's clear that these grassland orcs aren't well-equipped, far inferior to Abar's army. This isn't surprising, given the grasslands' scarcity of resources and underdeveloped technology. Abar, in their invasion of Aldor, amassed and took away most of the superior weaponry.
Andrew told the messenger, "Tell the artillery to wait until they are within 400 yards before firing."
The Orc Cavalry's charge swept in like a tidal wave, their iron hooves crushing the withered grass, their scimitars reflecting a blinding glint in the sunlight. Their deafening battle cries seemed intent on utterly crushing this human army that had invaded the grasslands—
Until the first cannon shot tore the sky apart.
"Fire!"
At the command of the officers, the human ranks instantly spewed forth tongues of fire, a deathly inferno. The twenty-four Cannons participating in the battle roared simultaneously, their shells tracing perfect parabolas through the air before exploding with a deafening roar in the densest area of the Orc Cavalry.
Shrapnel from the exploding bullets overturned warhorses, reaping lives like scythes, leaving the grassland littered with flying blood and flesh.
Before Orc Cavalry could recover from the shock of the explosion, the roar of volleys of gunfire followed. Three infantry squares took turns firing, and the white smoke from their flintlock muskets quickly formed a wall of mist in front of them.
Lead bullets rained down like a storm, piercing leather armor and shattering bones, abruptly halting the charge at a distance of one hundred yards.
Centurion, the most valiant orc, led dozens of riders through the barrage of fire, only to encounter a final death trap thirty yards away—a hail of shrapnel fired by the artillery. Hundreds of lead pellets sprayed in a fan shape, instantly turning the charging riders and their horses into sieves.
In just ten minutes, the first wave of attack was wiped out. The surviving Orc Cavalry scattered in terror, wandering around the human ranks like a wounded pack of wolves. Their warhorses, terrified by the smell of blood, dared not approach the steel jungle that spewed death.
Andrew lowered his binoculars, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Give the order: no pursuit. Let them take today's lesson back with them."
After a second, futile attempt, the Orc Cavalry retreated, taking their wounded comrades with them. Many looked back at the human ranks, their eyes no longer filled with disdain, but with deep fear.
The Forest Orcs, in reserve, stared wide-eyed, their rough fingers unconsciously loosening their bowstrings. They had never seen such a large-scale use of firearms—no clashing swords, no hand-to-hand combat, only the orderly roar of volleys of gunfire and the deadly tongues of fire spewed by the Cannon's roar.
"Mother Earth..." a Forest Orc murmured, looking at the vast expanse of fallen Orc Cavalry in the distance. Those grassland warriors who once instilled fear in the Forest Orcs were now as fragile as harvested wheat. The mud and severed limbs kicked up by the explosion flew into the sky and then fell like rain of blood.
"Fortunately…" his voice trembled slightly, "we are on Cannon's side."
His companions nodded silently, their rough faces filled with awe and lingering fear.
After the battlefield was cleaned up, it was nearly evening, and Andrew ordered the camp to be set up.
As he spread out a map inside the newly erected tent, a series of heavy footsteps approached—it was Gratam, the burly Forest Orcs now serving as the Militia Captain appointed by the Governor's Office of the North Three Territories, whose rugged face now appeared particularly solemn.
"Baron," Gratam's voice was low and husky, with the distinctive guttural quality of a Forest Orc, "I feel obligated to remind you." He gestured towards the dark depths of the plains, "Orcs' eyesight is excellent even in the dark."
"Are you worried they might launch a night attack?"
Andrew asked, but immediately smiled and said, "But we also have a secret weapon ready."