87：Swept Clean
Save for the wind whistling through the bare branches and the mournful cawing of crows circling overhead, the entire camp was eerily silent.
Even the warhorses snorted uneasily, seemingly catching the scent of blood drifting on the wind.
Alaric’s brows knitted tightly together. His acute military intuition warned him that something was terribly wrong.
"Send two scout squads! Flank them and approach from the front!"
A dozen agile royal scouts instantly dismounted, slipping up the mountain path as stealthily as cats.
The wait felt agonizingly long. The bizarre atmosphere was suffocating.
Before long, frantic footsteps broke the silence. The scout captain, having investigated the situation, practically tumbled his way back to the front lines.
This veteran scout, a man who had executed countless perilous missions, was now as pale as a sheet. He didn't even bother to straighten his crooked helmet.
"C-Commander!" the scout captain stammered, dropping to one knee in the muck with a heavy thud.
"What is it? Did those greenskins flee in the night?!" Alaric demanded sharply.
"No, my lord. They are all still there." The scout gasped for air. "But... they've been completely wiped out!"
The scout gulped heavily. "The camp is littered with the corpses of those bandits! Over two hundred orcs... slaughtered like pigs and dogs!"
"What?" Alaric’s pupils violently contracted.
"There's more!" The scout captain wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his forehead. "The military longbows and standard-issue arrows you were looking for, my lord... gone! Even the gold coins, pig iron, and rations hoarded in the camp—even the battered shields with a scrap of iron on them—everything was looted! They stripped the place cleaner than a swarm of locusts!"
The muscles in Alaric’s cheek twitched violently.
Casting aside the dignified composure expected of a commander, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. "Cavalry Escort! Follow me. I need to see this for myself!"
When Alaric and his retinue of trusted officers passed through the main gates and stepped into the open courtyard of the camp, every single one of them drew a sharp breath.
The mud throughout the entire camp had been soaked a sickening dark green by orc blood.
Severed limbs and mangled bodies were strewn everywhere, viscera mixing with the muddy water. The sheer brutality of the scene resembled the darkest depths of the Abyss.
Yet, what sent a chill down Alaric’s spine was not the gruesome deaths of the orcs. Rather, it was the hidden traces he spotted with his razor-sharp military eye—details that utterly defied conventional logic.
Alaric swiftly dismounted and strode over to an orc corpse that had been pinned directly to the ground.
In his mind, Alaric began to reconstruct the events of the previous night:
First, he surveyed his surroundings. The camp’s wooden palisades, tents, and watchtowers showed almost no signs of structural damage. There were no scorched craters from magical explosions, nor debris torn apart by conjured tornadoes.
"Minimal collateral damage to the environment. That rules out an indiscriminate bombardment by a legion of high-tier mages," Alaric muttered, his expression growing increasingly solemn.
He carefully examined a clean, gaping hole through an orc’s chest.
"This penetrating wound... given the downward trajectory, it wasn't made by a ballista! This is an individual throwing weapon! And the thrower possessed monstrous, superhuman strength!"
He stood up and walked toward the center of the courtyard, stopping before a headless corpse.
It was Gul.
Alaric crouched down, his gaze locked onto the stump of Gul’s neck. The severed surface was as smooth as a mirror; there wasn't a single splinter or jagged edge where the bone had been cleaved.
"Decapitated with a single strike! To achieve such a flawless, sweeping cut, the wielder must not only possess terrifying physical strength, but their mastery of Military Swordsmanship has reached the absolute pinnacle of perfection."
Alaric abruptly stood up, pointing toward the camp's main gates.
"Look at the direction these corpses are facing as they fell!"
"Almost every single one of them was struck in the back. This proves that during the massacre, these so-called 'brave' orcs had completely lost their will to fight. It was a one-sided, unilateral slaughter as they fled!"
The accompanying knight adjutant swallowed hard, asking in disbelief, "Commander, are you implying this wasn't just other swamp bandits eliminating their rivals in a turf war?"
"Fool! Of course not!"
Alaric gritted his teeth. The usual arrogance on his face had long been replaced by profound dread.
"Look around you. Aside from the corpses, all the supplies were gathered and packed with absolute systematic efficiency. This was the work of a regular army with ironclad discipline!"
Alaric completed another patrol around the camp's perimeter. When he peered over the edge and saw the sheer, hundred-meter pitch-black cliff face below, he drew a sharp, chilling breath.
This mysterious force... they had used last night's torrential rain as cover to scale this very cliff. Once inside, they had formed an impenetrable phalanx, systematically grinding down and slaughtering over two hundred Black Iron Orcs, step by step!
"This is a mysterious, elite unit. They move like ghosts, strike with ruthless precision, and possess terrifying combat prowess!"
Alaric clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles popped.
He had suffered a massive, unspoken loss, and it left a sickening taste in his mouth, like swallowing a dead fly!
Not only had he failed to recover the military supplies, but he hadn't even realized they had been snatched from right under his nose!
He had absolutely no idea who the enemy was, what sigil they bore on their banners, or even which direction they had retreated!
Worst of all, the deep, wide wagon ruts left by the heavy loot trails disappeared the moment they hit the muddy, treacherous swamp behind the camp. Someone had expertly swept the tracks away with branches, allowing the perpetrators to vanish seamlessly into the bottomless, fog-shrouded marsh.
Pursue them? Pursue them where?
"Commander, what are your orders?" the adjutant requested cautiously.
Taking two deep breaths, Alaric forcibly suppressed the raging inferno of his anger. As an exceptional commander, he knew perfectly well that leading heavy cavalry deep into the swamp under unknown circumstances was tantamount to ordering his entire army to commit mass suicide.
"Withdraw the troops!" Alaric ordered through gritted teeth.
"Send word to all scouts!" Alaric vaulted onto his horse. His sheer frustration caused the veins on the back of his hands to bulge as he yanked the reins.
"I don't care how much gold it costs or how many informants we have to use—find them!"
"I want a thorough investigation into the movements of every single faction in this Misty Swamp!"
"Even if you have to dig up the entire swamp, I want the identity of this mysterious elite force hiding in the fog! They swallowed an entire shipment of my superior armaments, and I want every last secret they have stripped completely bare!"
"The Lord has returned! Open the gates!"
The second-line spearman guarding the watchtower roared with overwhelming excitement.
Creeeeak.
The heavy gates, bound together from thick, sturdy logs, were slowly pulled open.
The first to pierce through the white mist and step into the settlement was the wolf cavalry squad, led by Buck.
Ninety-three direwolves, each the size of a sturdy calf, trotted forward. The fur on their backs was matted with thick mud, but their powerful hind legs drove them onward, effortlessly hauling over a dozen wagons overflowing with spoils of war.
Closely following the convoy of wagons was Soren, alongside Renn and sixty-four first-line elite infantrymen.
Their heavy black iron armor was still stained with the dark green residue of orc blood.
Even after enduring a grueling overnight cliff climb, a high-intensity massacre, and a rapid long-distance march, these warriors maintained an immaculate, rhythmic formation. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Their synchronized footsteps exuded the fearsome, blood-soaked aura of hundred-battle veterans.
Positioned securely in the very center of the formation was a group of women, huddled tightly together.
There were seventeen of them in total.
When their feet finally touched the solid earth of Greywater Village, they looked around. They saw the defensive barricades—crude, perhaps, but towering and tightly constructed. They saw the human civilians standing by the roadside, their faces flush with health and entirely devoid of the paralyzing terror that usually gripped commoners.
It was only then that these seventeen women, who had endured unspeakable, inhuman torture at the Withered Bone Heights, finally realized the truth. They had truly escaped from hell.
Kyle, the Head of Logistics, had received Gary's advance notice long before their arrival.
He immediately rushed forward to meet them, accompanied by dozens of the village women and children.
"Quickly! Bring out the thick meat stew we've had simmering in the kitchens all night!" Kyle directed loudly.
Large, steaming earthen bowls were gently pressed into the trembling hands of the seventeen rescued women.
The scalding heat radiating from the bowls made them flinch instinctively. But the rich, savory aroma of the tender, slow-cooked jerky instantly shattered the final remnants of their psychological defenses.
One young girl, her front teeth having been violently pulled out, gripped the earthen bowl with both hands. Ignoring the blistering heat, she guzzled the scalding, hearty stew, pouring it down her throat in massive gulps.
An elderly woman from Greywater Village stepped forward, her eyes red with unshed tears. She gently patted the young girl's back, using a piece of coarse linen to wipe the tears streaming down the girl's face.
"Drink slowly, child," the old woman cooed gently. "No one is going to take it from you. There's plenty more in the pot."
"You're safe now. The Lord has brought you home."
Triggered by that first stifled sob, the dam broke. The seventeen women clutched their bowls and began to wail—a heart-wrenching, agonizing cry. It was as if they were pouring out every ounce of suffering, grievance, and despair they had ever endured in a single, cathartic release.
Soren did not linger to watch the women. He swung himself onto his warhorse, parted the crowd, and rode straight toward the open square at the very heart of the village.