The fleeing Orc Cavalry were horrified to discover that their escape route had been completely blocked.
The Ausser Army's light cavalry appeared like ghosts from behind, arranged in three ranks, carbines held level, the leading cavalry officer raising his blood-stained saber, his voice piercing the thin mist:
"Put down your weapons! Surrender and you will not be killed!"
The remaining Orc Cavalry looked at each other in bewilderment. Their warhorses panted wearily, and the riders' wounded bodies clung to their backs, their fighting spirit long since extinguished by the bloody massacre of the previous night.
A young orc warrior suddenly dropped his scimitar, dismounted, and knelt on the ground; then came the second, the third…
"Cowards! Rise, all of you!" Urkok roared, a mad fire burning in his single eye. He spurred his warhorse, raised his battle axe, and charged towards the human lines, "For the glory of the orcs—"
"Bang!"
A sharp gunshot shattered the final battle cry. Urkok abruptly stopped, slowly looking down at his chest—a gaping hole in his leather armor, gushing blood. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but only coughed up blood and slumped heavily off his horse.
Makarov set down the still-smoking firearm, staring expressionlessly at the orc chieftain's corpse. The surrounding orc prisoners whimpered in suppressed sobs, and several young warriors even began to tremble—they had never imagined that a warrior like Urkok could die so peacefully. There was no epic battle, no tragic final stand; just a distant gunshot ended the life of this old warrior.
"Clean up the battlefield." Makarov turned to the soldiers and ordered, his voice eerily calm. "We'll deal with the corpses tomorrow. Take the prisoners to the main camp."
The morning light pierced the sky, illuminating the ravaged battlefield. (Ausser Army) The soldiers dragged their weary bodies as they packed their belongings, many with dark circles under their eyes, cursing under their breath.
"Those damned beasts! They kept me up all night!" A young soldier kicked the orc arrows on the ground and yawned widely.
"Shut up, rookie," his squad leader said, rubbing his aching shoulders. "At least we're still alive—look at those guys." He pointed to the orc corpses entangled in barbed wire not far away, his expression complicated.
Company Commander Makarov stood in front of a twisted barbed wire fence, leaning on his rifle. The veteran showed no signs of fatigue, only the sternness characteristic of a soldier.
"Hurry up!" he yelled to his soldiers. "Every yard of barbed wire must be collected, and any with damaged barbs must be stored separately!"
The soldiers carefully used specially made hooks to roll up the blood-stained barbed wire. Due to insufficient transport capacity, the barbed wire that the Ausser Army brought to the grasslands had to be recycled and reused, and it could not be left here to benefit the metal-poor orc tribes.
Makarov squatted on the ground, his rough fingers stroking a roll of freshly recycled barbed wire, the barbs gleaming coldly in the morning light.
"So much wire," he shook his head, "how many blacksmith shops would it take to draw it all?"
"Ha! Company Commander, you're such a country bumpkin." Jos grinned from the side. This old subordinate of Makarov's during his first service had now been assigned to his company again.
Jos flashed a bright yellow smile. After retiring from the military, he was assigned to work at a metal products factory in Lakeheart Town, and now he looked every bit the industrial expert.
"Who still uses manual labor to draw iron ore these days?" Jos pulled a dark Coke from his pocket and started drawing on the ground. "Listen, iron ore is first smelted into pig iron ingots in a blast furnace, and then sent to the steel rolling mill—you know, those big factories that are belching red smoke."
His charcoal sketches outlined several simple diagrams: "The red-hot iron ingots first pass through a steam mill, where they are pressed into thick iron bars like a rolling pin. Then comes the wire drawing machine—" Jos drew a device with gears, "The steam engine drives a turntable, and the iron bars pass through the holes of a diamond mold, just like dough being squeezed out of a sieve, becoming iron wires of uniform thickness."
Makarov exclaimed in surprise, "Diamonds? How expensive are those?"
"Man-made! Glaeman's chemical plant made this stuff with coal tar." Jos proudly pointed to the barbs on the wire. "See these little hooks? When the wire goes through the final rolling die, spiral patterns are engraved on the surface, and then it is mechanically cut into barbs."
Jos squinted: "The batch we're using right now was just produced last month by Lakeheart Town Plant 3. I heard it can produce twenty miles a day, which is equivalent to five hundred blacksmiths working for half a year."
Makarov silently rolled up a piece of wire. He suddenly remembered a comrade who had boasted about his "fine steel dagger" ten years ago when he was in the army; it cost half a month's salary back then.
And now, these much more complex killing tools underfoot are being recycled and reused at will, just like wool yarn.
"Times have changed," Makarov murmured.
Jos patted him on the shoulder, pointing to the Cannon gleaming in the morning sun: "That's why we need to return to service, big brother. We need to see firsthand how wars are fought now."
What followed was several more days of marching.
During this period, the grassland orcs launched two more attacks, but both were easily repelled. What truly troubled the Aldor army was their lack of water.
Perhaps the map was not accurate enough, or perhaps the Ausser Army lacked experience in marching across the grasslands. In any case, they did not reach the marked target water source within the scheduled time. The soldiers ' lips were cracked and bleeding, and even their voices were hoarse and rough.
"Drink sparingly!" Makarov scolded the recruits who were secretly licking their water bottles, his own Adam's apple bobbing involuntarily. His water bottle had been empty long ago, and now he could only imitate the veterans, chewing on newly sprouted bitter grass stems to moisten his throat with the sour juice.
At noon, a troop of scout cavalry suddenly galloped back. The lead rider had even lost his hat, but he waved his arms and shouted hoarsely, "Water! There's a lake ahead!"
The shout was like a thunderclap, instantly igniting the exhausted ranks. Fortunately, the discipline passed down since the Alda army era prevented them from charging forward in a chaotic frenzy.
The soldiers instinctively quickened their pace, marching at twice the usual speed.
When a sapphire-blue lake came into view, Baron Andrew, showing compassion for the soldiers, assigned guards and ordered the rest to roam freely.
The first soldiers to reach the shore plunged into the shallow water, burying their faces in the water and drinking voraciously. Many more knelt on the bank, scooping water from their helmets and pouring it over their heads, letting out joyful groans.
A few overly excited young soldiers were shoving each other while playing in the water when one of them slipped and fell into the deep end. He couldn't swim and thrashed about, but luckily his teammates pulled him up by his belt.
"Are you out of your mind?!" The old sergeant cursed, patting the man's back as he fell into the water, but couldn't help himself drinking a full helmetful of water. "Cough...it's fucking sweet..."
"What kind of behavior is this..." Looking at the chaotic lakeside, the baron rubbed his temples, but he wasn't really angry.
This water source will belong to them from now on!