45：A Gift from the Gods
They had barely taken two steps.
"Halt," Soren's cold voice rang out.
The five overseers stopped in their tracks and turned around.
"I stated earlier that the prerequisite for those two options was that you hadn't spilled the blood of my kin."
Soren raised his right hand and thrust his fingers sharply downward.
"Kill."
Kyle and the twelve halberdiers beside him glared ruthlessly, not hesitating for a split second.
Twelve heavy armor-piercing halberds swept down in a deadly arc of cold steel, plunging straight down!
Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!
There was no chance to beg for mercy, no time to even struggle.
The tips of the halberds precisely pierced and shattered the ribcages of the five overseers, brutally severing their spines.
Blood surged up the gleaming blood grooves of the halberds, spraying violently across the faces of the goblin craftsmen who had just sworn their allegiance.
The goblin crowd, which had just begun to stir restlessly, instantly went dead silent, like ducks suddenly grabbed by the throat.
The goblin craftsmen pressed their faces tightly back against the cold, hard stone floor, their scalps tingling with absolute dread.
This human meant exactly what he said.
He kept his promises and was willing to let people go, but when it came to punishment, he was even more ruthless than the orcs.
Soren didn't spare another glance at the goblin corpses on the ground. Instead, he casually patted the old goblin, Cook, on the head.
"Get to work. Start moving the equipment and supplies."
With the addition of over eighty obedient goblin laborers, the speed of clearing the inner keep's battlefield increased dramatically.
Old goblin Cook cracked a leather whip, barking orders at his kin.
Stripped black iron breastplates and hide warboots were sorted into categories and piled near the entrance of the inner keep's corridor for easy transport.
Soren strode out of the inner keep's gates, marching outward toward the granite road laid by the orcs.
The thick fog had yet to lift.
This section of the granite road was a gentle downward slope stretching for nearly a kilometer. Both sides of the road were overgrown with waist-high mist-thorns and poisonous vines.
Soren parted a cluster of reeds and slipped into the muddy swamp position alongside the road.
Gary was crouching behind a dead tree, his leather armor plastered with thick black mud.
Hearing the approach, he turned and lowered his voice. "My Lord, the preparations are complete."
Soren peeked out to scan the road.
At first glance, the pale gray granite-paved road looked no different than usual. But under the sweep of Soren's [Eagle Eye Perception], he could see dozens of hidden, wrist-thick ropes pulled taut in a chaotic crisscross pattern, concealed beneath the surface layer of dead leaves and gravel.
Utilizing his [Trap Intuition], Gary had uprooted a type of tough-barked poisonous vine native to the deep swamp. He had woven the vines into three-strand cables. One end was tightly anchored to the deep-rooted ironwood trees lining the road, while the other end stretched across the path, wedged firmly into the gaps between the paving stones.
A total of twenty-seven tripwires formed an irregular, interwoven net, all positioned precisely at the critical acceleration point of the downhill slope.
"Fall back into the mud. Conceal your breathing," Soren ordered, sitting back against a tree trunk.
Gary and the twenty-seven soldiers accompanying them had already smeared muck over their cheeks and necks, perfectly blending themselves into the foul, decaying backdrop of the swamp.
Then, they waited.
Mist condensed into heavy droplets on dead branches, falling into puddles with a monotonous plop, plop.
Time trickled on until eight in the morning.
Deep within the earth, a muffled, rhythmic tremor suddenly began.
"They're here," Soren said, opening his eyes.
Coin-sized ripples began to form on the surface of the swamp water. The tremors grew from distant vibrations into heavy, resounding drumbeats.
It was the sound of massive beasts' legs slamming against the ground.
Deep within the fog, silhouettes began to emerge.
Three giant Kodo beasts—massive creatures resembling armored rhinoceroses—panted heavily as they lumbered onto the paved granite road one after another. Chainmail was draped over their broad backs, and thick white steam jetted from their nostrils.
Each behemoth was towing a massive, seven-meter-long blackwood flatbed cart.
Flanking the convoy were over thirty fully armed, elite Black Iron Orcs. Wielding heavy warhammers, they jogged alongside the cart axles on guard duty.
Soren's gaze locked onto the convoy like a vice.
This supply train, dispatched directly from the [Bloodfang Fortress] by Warchief Blackstone himself, was likely hauling strategic-grade provisions meant for the high warlords on the frontlines.
The escorts were noticeably relaxed. In their minds, they were still deep within the secure rear territory of the Blackstone tribe. The orc guards hadn't even bothered to lower the visors on their helmets.
The lead Kodo beast stepped onto the downhill section. Borne forward by its immense momentum, its massive body began to accelerate.
Its heavy, pillar-like hooves slammed down, crunching through the camouflaging layer of dead leaves.
Snap.
The vine net buried in the stone crevices instantly constricted, digging viciously into the joints of the Kodo beast's forelegs.
The high-speed descent, combined with a body weight exceeding five tons, transformed into a devastating catastrophe the moment it was violently arrested by the incredibly resilient vines.
“RRROOOAAAR!”
The lead Kodo beast let out an earth-shattering bellow of agony as its front legs snapped completely backward.
Its colossal body crashed to the earth like a collapsing mountain of flesh. It face-planted into the paving stones and violently skidded forward for seven or eight meters, plowing a gruesome, bloody trench across the road.
The tremendous force instantly shredded the wooden yoke attached to its rear, sending deadly splinters flying in all directions.
The second Kodo beast behind it couldn't halt its momentum. With a thunderous crash, it slammed headlong into the frame of the first cart.
Under the immense crushing force, the second flatbed cart flipped entirely. The heavy carriage was catapulted into the air before slamming violently into the ribs of the third Kodo beast.
A catastrophic pile-up!
Seven-meter carriages flipped, iron axles snapped, and massive logs rolled chaotically.
Amidst the deafening roar of collisions and splintering timber, the entire convoy was twisted into a mangled wreck on the narrow downhill slope.
The thirty elite Black Iron Orcs didn't even have time to reach for the hilts of their weapons.
The vanguard orcs were instantly crushed into meat paste by the capsizing carts.
Two Decurions were struck dead in the chest by the wildly flailing hind hooves of a tumbling Kodo. Their steel breastplates caved in instantly, and a fountain of internal organs and shredded flesh erupted from their mouths.
In the center of the carnage, tens of tons of bestial flesh crushed everything in their path. The surviving orcs were either pinned helplessly beneath the cartbeds or lying in the ditches with their heads busted open. Disoriented and mangled, they had lost all capacity to resist.
"Go!" Soren barked.
Twenty-seven figures lunged out of the muck.
Soren's soldiers maintained a disciplined, three-man combat formation. Their leveled armor-piercing halberds thrust out in deadly straight lines through the dense fog.
A blood-soaked Black Iron Orc had barely managed to lift a piece of shattered timber off his body when three halberd blades simultaneously punched through his throat, his heart, and his gut.
"Pull."
Blood sprayed into the air as the orc slumped to the ground lifeless.
A split second later, a fourth spear thrust precisely into the orc's eye socket, shattering its skull completely.
This was the discipline Soren had etched into their very bones: always confirm the kill.
The twenty-seven men worked with mechanical efficiency.
Advance. Thrust. Pull. Confirm.
In less than five minutes, all thirty-plus Black Iron elites were turned into pincushions. Not a single one had managed to mount an effective counterattack.
Zero survivors. Zero allied casualties.
The granite-paved road fell back into a deathly silence, broken only by the ragged, heavy panting of the Kodo beasts with their shattered legs.
"Sweep the battlefield! Search the carts!"
Soren vaulted onto the first overturned flatbed. With a flick of his bone-hilted dagger, he severed the waterproof leather straps securing a wooden crate.
He threw off the oilcloth and pried open the lid.
A fresh scent of pine wafted out.
The bottom of the crate was lined with waterproof resin. Snugly secured into wooden grooves were over a dozen rows of firmly bound crystal vials. Sloshing inside them was a thick, crimson liquid—Minor Life Recovery Potions.
It was the most common healing draft utilized by the orc armies.
At the very bottom of the crate lay five leather scrolls, each sealed with red wax.
Soren picked one up, his thumb tracing the fine texture of the parchment.
[Scroll of Healing].
He let out a long, heavy exhale.
With these potions and magical scrolls, he finally had some leverage against the lingering unease caused by that High Priest escaping in soul form. These items were crucial magical assets—effectively a second life for his soldiers.
"My Lord! You need to see this!" Ein’s trembling voice rang out from between the carcasses of two Kodos up ahead.
Soren leaped down and approached the second flatbed, half of which had completely shattered.
Bolted to its long base with thick steel spikes was a massive winch system attached to a crudely forged, long black-iron throwing arm. Strapped to either side of the cartbed were three metal counterweight boxes and two large netting bags filled with perfectly spherical redstone boulders.
In addition to the siege mechanism, dozens of black iron barrels sealed tightly with wooden stoppers were lashed to the rear of the cart.
Approaching a half-step closer, a dangerously potent stench of sulfur stung his nose. Alchemical Fire Oil.
Soren’s gaze froze.
Loaded on this flatbed was a catapult!
Although the roll-over had smashed a few of the wooden casing parts, it could absolutely be repaired and reassembled.
It was the ultimate, undisputed weapon for breaking sieges.
In the past, his most glaring weakness had been that while his infantry phalanxes excelled at defense, they lacked the offensive power required for storming fortifications. Every time a stronghold needed taking, he had to infiltrate it personally—a tactic he knew wouldn't work forever.
Now, this glaring gap in his siege capabilities had been filled by this very catapult.
"This is a gift from the gods..." Gary muttered, staring dumbfoundedly at the catapult's throwing arm. "My Lord, if this fire oil ignites, it could burn down half the inner keep of the Shattered Bone Pass!"