219：The Machiavellian Warlord
The Crimson Moon Knights had previously signed a suicide mandate: within one year, without requesting a single soldier in reinforcements from the main legions, they were to completely route the Orcs and reclaim the thousands of miles of lost territory in the Misty Swamp!
For the high-ranking power brokers and nobles of the Silvermoon Kingdom, this was an absolute dead end. An impossible task.
They were merely sitting back, waiting for the Crimson Moon Knights to be annihilated so they could legitimately annex Leona's assets.
Soren rested both his hands on the heavy wooden desk, his eyes locked onto a glaring red circle on the map. It represented Warchief Blackstone's massive, hundred-thousand-strong main camp.
"Completely eradicate an army of a hundred thousand Orcs and reclaim the lost territory within a single year..."
Soren muttered to himself. Within his mind, his max-level talent, [Military Command Mastery], operated at a terrifyingly efficient speed. It flawlessly calculated countless data points, logistical strains, and troop strength comparisons, feeding them into a grand, overarching strategic blueprint.
Greywater Village's total population had already climbed to 1,183, and they were continuously absorbing a steady influx of exiled refugees.
The [Swamp Tubers] provided a massive, stable food supply, harvesting every sixty days.
The volcanic Black Steel forge in the rear mountains possessed a horrifying military-industrial capacity, capable of mass-producing pristine Black Steel heavy armor around the clock.
Not to mention, he held unit blueprints like the [Macedonian Phalanx] and the [Magic Ranger Battalion] right in the palm of his hand!
As long as I continue to accumulate strength, expand the army, and gradually encroach upon the Orc strongholds...
A fierce wave of absolute confidence surged in Soren's heart.
Yes. Combined with his modern special forces tactical command—which was more than enough to utterly crush the rigid warfare paradigms of this era—thoroughly defeating the arrogant Warchief Blackstone within a year was not empty talk. It was a highly viable, extremely realistic strategic objective!
He could actually pull it off!
But the very second this thought fully formed, Soren’s enthusiasm completely vanished.
"No."
Soren suddenly stood up straight and shook his head.
He had absolutely zero desire to fulfill Leona's suicide mandate!
Soren wasn't a naïve fool; he wouldn't let his head be clouded by hollow, worthless concepts like "loyalty to the Kingdom" or the "honor of expanding the borders." He had to coldly, ruthlessly analyze his future predicament.
Think about it. If he truly unleashed his military genius, chopped off Warchief Blackstone's head, completely purged every last Orc from the Misty Swamp, and thoroughly liberated this vast expanse of lost territory... what would be the result?
The result would be absolute peace!
And as the ancient proverb went: When the birds are hunted down, the good bow is hidden away; when the cunning hare is dead, the loyal hound is boiled!
Once this swamp—overflowing with endless silver veins, geothermal fire-lines, and incredibly fertile, arable land—was no longer a lethal hazard, those bloated, greedy high nobles of the Silvermoon Kingdom would swarm it like starving vultures.
Parasites like the insatiable Viscount Blake and the commanders of the main legions would impatiently stampede in under the banner of "Kingdom Reappropriation"!
They would arrogantly seize every ounce of resources and every inch of the defensive lines Greywater Village had bled into the mud to build. They would use the King's name to demand the absolute surrender of Greywater Village's military command.
When that time came, could Soren hand over his troops?
Could he stand by and watch his brothers—men who had entrusted their very lives to him because he had sworn a lifelong pension for their crippled and their widows—be dragged off to serve as cannon fodder and slaves for those corrupt aristocrats?
Absolutely impossible!
To Soren, political power grew out of the barrel of a gun. This army was his lifeblood. It was his one and only absolute capital for smashing through the oppression of this world's social classes.
And the moment Soren defied orders, refusing the Silvermoon Kingdom's forced reorganization and absorption?
The high-and-mighty Silvermoon King and his Cabinet would not hesitate for a single second. They would instantly brand Soren as a traitorous warlord plotting a violent rebellion to crown himself!
"When that happens, I wouldn't just be facing the subsequent, furious counterattacks from the Orc Alliance. I'd be staring down an annihilation crusade from hundreds of thousands of Silvermoon suppression troops hitting my rear."
Caught in such an absolute death-trap, flanked on both sides by two empire-level superpowers... Let alone his current status as a mere Lord over a thousand men, even if he truly commanded tens of thousands of troops, the sheer survival pressure of a two-front war would be suffocating!
Inside the stilted wooden cabin, the only sound was the sharp crackle of burning charcoal.
Soren sat back down in his chair. His face settled into a mask of absolute, icy calm. He had made his decision.
"Maintain the status quo."
Soren stared directly at the stronghold representing Warchief Blackstone, a calculating, Machiavellian smirk slithering onto his face.
"Fattening the enemy to elevate my own value... that is Greywater Village's only way out."
For the long-term, explosive development of Greywater Village, the high-and-mighty Warchief Blackstone absolutely could not be wiped out in the short term.
As long as this massive, terrifyingly lethal power remained entrenched within the Misty Swamp, boasting a hundred-thousand-strong horde, the cowardly heavy legions and pampered nobles of the Silvermoon Kingdom wouldn't dare take half a step into this toxic death zone, even if you lent them ten extra lives!
Warchief Blackstone's existence acted as a natural, impenetrable buffer. He perfectly isolated Soren from the meddling, greedy politicians of the Silvermoon Kingdom.
Under the cover of the Warchief's terrifying deterrence, Soren could legitimately hide behind enemy lines, completely immune to any Kingdom laws and aristocratic oversight.
He could forge his weapons, absorb refugees, and massively expand his army exactly as he pleased. Right in the absolute blind spot of the entire world, he would calmly incubate a private, fiercely loyal vanguard that answered to him and him alone!
At this thought, Soren couldn't hold back a low, dark chuckle.
And the most brilliant part...
Soren shifted his gaze to the Ironwood Fortress defensive line in the north of the map.
As long as the hundred-thousand-strong Orc army remained massed on the edge of the swamp, he, Soren, would forever be the lone human hero holding the line against the apocalyptic horde!
He could proudly hoist the banner of "fighting the Orcs to the death and bleeding to the last drop for the Kingdom," while continuously bombarding that highly principled old veteran, General Rodman, at the northern front with desperate pleas for aid.
"General Rodman, the Orc offensive is far too fierce! Greywater Village has suffered catastrophic casualties! We urgently require three hundred sets of fine iron armor to survive the winter!"
"The Kingdom is in imminent peril, and Greywater Village's rations have been entirely depleted! Please authorize a grant of five thousand pounds of premium grain..."
As long as the Orcs weren't driven to extinction, the terrified human lords and old General Rodman—fearing the horde would spill over the borders—would have no choice but to obediently meet Soren’s exorbitant demands. They would continuously funnel war supplies and gold coins directly into Greywater Village under the guise of "military aid."
Slaughtering Orcs yielded massive loot drops from the front, and stretching out his hand allowed him to freely leech off the Silvermoon Kingdom’s treasury from the rear!
Playing both sides of the board.
This was the absolute core development strategy. It guaranteed that Greywater Village would quietly and explosively amass staggering wealth!
"Forgive me, Leona..."
Soren downed the last of the spicy, burning rum in his mug, fully committing to his ruthless path of a warlord.
"For the sake of my brothers' lives in Greywater Village, your little military mandate is going to have to be delayed for a few more years."
Meanwhile...
Freezing, bone-chilling rain mercilessly washed over the cursed lands of the Misty Swamp.
The narrow path returning to the Crimson Moon Knights' headquarters was treacherous and muddy. Every time the horses' hooves pulled free from the muck, a thick, sucking sound echoed in the gloom. Pale grey miasma swirled eerily around Leona’s fiery red cape.
The historically hot-tempered Commander of the Crimson Moon Knights—a woman accustomed to solving all her problems with her massive broadsword—was currently biting her lip, her brow locked in a deep frown.
Having just witnessed the unbelievable wealth, pristine armaments, and shocking military might of Greywater Village, a severe sense of cognitive dissonance lingered heavily in her mind.
Soren had undoubtedly waged a series of utterly brilliant annihilation campaigns behind enemy lines, slaughtering those arrogant Orcs with terrifying ease.
But...
A sudden sheen of cold sweat broke out across Leona's back. Stung by the freezing rain, she couldn't stop an involuntary, violent shudder from wracking her frame.
Leona violently yanked on her reins. Her warhorse let out a long whinny and skidded to a halt.
The military cleric, Elena, looked confused as she spurred her mount closer. "Commander? What's wrong?"
"The military mandate!" Leona's eyes were filled with a rare, burning anxiety. "Elena, have you forgotten?! Back then, to preserve the Crimson Moon Knights' unit designation and prevent the greedy capital nobles from dismantling and absorbing us, I bit the bullet and swore a blood-oath to Supreme Command: Within one year, we would reclaim the entirety of the Misty Swamp!"
Hearing this, the lingering relief from Greywater Village's massive victory instantly drained from Elena's face, leaving her deadly pale.
Sitting on horseback, the two women immediately began running the rapid calculations.
Yes, Soren had slaughtered countless enemies on the frontlines, drastically weakening the forces of the Blood Province and even crushing the Orcs' decapitation strike.
But the fatal flaw was this: the military mandate stated in black and white—"Reclaim the entire territory!"
The Misty Swamp spanned thousands of miles. Even if Soren managed to physically chop off Warchief Blackstone's head, given the currently pathetic total troop count of the Crimson Moon Knights, they absolutely could not spare enough manpower to garrison and patrol the sprawling baobab forests and toxic mud pits one by one!
"We can't possibly meet the on-paper requirements..."
Leona grabbed a handful of her soaking wet red hair in sheer frustration.
"We’ve fought world-shaking, miraculous battles on the frontlines, but if the bastards at Supreme Command strictly audit us based on controlled territorial borders, we will still be in breach of contract! According to Kingdom military law, not only will I be stripped of my noble title, but the Crimson Moon Knights will still be forcibly disbanded!"
"We can't just sit here and wait to die!" Leona violently slapped her saddle, her fierce fighting spirit reigniting. "That kid Soren is out there bleeding to earn absolute glory for humanity! As his Commander, I absolutely refuse to let him be stabbed in the back by petty schemers in the rear!"
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