Year 450 of the Dark Age. Deep Winter.
The border of the Silvermoon Kingdom, Storm Rift Fortress.
The north wind howled, whipping heavy, goose-feather snow across the battlefield.
The moment the snowflakes touched the ground, they were melted by warm blood, turning into a glaring, reddish-black sludge.
The Blackstone Warband’s offensive had temporarily ceased.
From dawn until dusk, the slaughter hadn't paused for a single moment.
The fortress walls hadn't collapsed, but the ground outside had risen. Orc corpses lay piled in thick layers, their tough bodies crushed against one another, stacking and freezing together.
These bodies had completely filled the trenches and formed a gruesome ramp. The highest layer of corpses was now a mere half-meter below the battlements.
One more charge. That was all it would take. Those bloodthirsty orcs wouldn't even need siege ladders, they could simply step on the stiffened spines of their dead kin and bury their heavy axes straight into the defenders' helmets.
A grim, suffocating atmosphere hung over the wall.
The soldiers of the Crimson Moon Knights slumped against the stone bricks, gasping for air and exhaling thick plumes of white mist.
Two archers, faces smeared with black soot, leaned over the crenellations.
Trembling, they reached out, grabbed the fletching of arrows stuck in the corpses dangling outside the wall, and yanked hard.
Squelch. Black blood splattered.
One of them managed to salvage two arrows with snapped heads, shoving them into an otherwise empty quiver.
Behind him, three low-tier mages in tattered gray robes leaned against the wall.
Their faces were ghastly pale, utterly drained of color.
One of them opened a small glass vial with trembling hands. Inside sloshed a murky brown liquid.
It was a low-grade mana potion that demanded a heavy toll on the body. Drinking it would make their organs feel like they were being roasted alive, but it would allow them to squeeze out just one more meager fireball from their depleted mana pools.
He tilted his head back and chugged it.
The young mage smashed the empty vial on the ground, dropping to his knees as he clutched his stomach in agony.
"Fuck. Just how many of these monsters are there?" a nearby infantry sergeant cursed through gritted teeth, tying a bloody rag tight around a bone-deep gash on his arm.
A rookie stared blankly at the undulating black tide of enemies below the wall.
"That's the Blackstone Warband. The captain said they were the ones who smashed right through two thousand heavy infantry of the 4th Division last year."
"And the Griffon Knights of the Holy Halycon Empire. . . half of them were butchered mid-air by these beasts last time. How the hell are we supposed to hold them off?"
Nobody answered.
Because speaking only deepened their despair.
Just then, the rhythmic, metallic clanking of armored boots echoed from the direction of the tower.
Every eye on the wall was instinctively drawn toward the sound.
Leading the way was the Commander, Leona.
The wind whipped her blood-soaked crimson cape. She was clad in full heavy plate armor, the metal marred by countless white scratch marks from brutal cleaves and slashes.
Her helmet rested under her left arm. Her fiery golden-red hair was tied into a loose ponytail, burning like the sole spark of life in this bleak, dying world.
Several drops of wet, black blood dotted Leona’s strikingly beautiful face. A thin cut on her left cheek was still weeping crimson.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Vice Commander Sylvia followed half a pace behind her to the right.
She was an unusually tall and muscular woman, carrying a two-meter-tall heavy alloy tower shield strapped to her back that practically eclipsed her entire silhouette.
A scout jogged forward and dropped to one knee.
"Commander! The twenty thousand civilians in the Dawn Refuge Sector behind us have fully evacuated into the bunkers. The tunnel entrances have been sealed off!"
Hearing the report, Leona’s deeply furrowed brows didn’t relax. Instead, her eye twitched, and she reached back to draw the massive two-handed greatsword slung across her back.
"Sealed? Good. That means we’re done playing babysitter."
Leona raised her head, sweeping her gaze over her lifeless, exhausted subordinates.
Then, she stepped right up to the edge of the battlements, glaring down at the terrifying mountain of corpses and out toward the endless expanse of the orc encampment.
Taking a deep breath, she suddenly roared:"Herald!"
The soldier jolted in fright and snapped to attention."Here!"
"Everybody on your feet! Fall in formation, immediately! In three minutes, we open the main gates!"
"We ride out and charge straight into their center!"
Dead silence fell over the wall.
Sylvia’s expression warped in shock. She grabbed Leona’s shoulder.
"Are you insane?!"
"The Council's orders were to use Storm Rift Fortress to hold the line and await reinforcements!"
"This is blatant insubordination! It's treason! The Blackstone Warband is right outside, overseen by their One-Eyed Warchief himself! With this numbers disparity, marching out there is pure suicide. None of us will survive!"
The soldiers and mages on the wall didn't dare speak out, but their eyes echoed the exact same sentiment: That is a suicide mission.
They could barely hold the line behind thick fortress walls. Leaving it to fight the ferociously savage Blackstone orcs in open combat?
Leona violently swatted Sylvia's hand away.
"Look at you all, acting like a bunch of cowards waiting for the slaughter!"
Leona slammed her two-meter greatsword into the crack between the stone bricks. Sparks flew.
She pointed toward a section of the wall on the left side of the fortress.
"The defensive runes over there are completely shattered. If that three-meter-tall orc bastard rams it one more time, the wall comes down."
The soldiers followed her finger. The spiderweb cracks on the stone were horrifying.
Leona spun around, the tip of her sword now pointing into the distance.
"See those wooden frames they’re erecting? Those are goblin-engineered alchemical heavy trebuchets. In fifteen minutes, six-hundred-pound alchemical high-explosive fireballs are going to rain down on this wall."
"This place is going to be a crematorium! Every coward hiding behind these walls will be roasted like a pig!"
Her gaze snapped back, scraping over every face.
"Reinforcements? I'll change my family name if reinforcements show up within three days! Hold the fort? You want to just sit here and wait to die?!"
Sylvia pressed her lips into a thin line, staring fiercely at her.
Leona suddenly grinned, her smile radiating a dangerous, feral edge.
"Open your damn eyes and look at the battlefield!"
Everyone’s eyes shifted back to the enemy lines.
Leona began a cold, clinical analysis:
"Their Warlord is a greedy, glory-hungry idiot. He thinks we're already dead."
"That's why their most ornate Blackstone war banner is pushing forward so aggressively, completely ignoring formation."
"Those sons of bitches are fighting for merit. They’re fighting for their share of the loot, and for the privilege of chopping off our heads first!"
Leona’s armored boot stomped heavily on the battlement.
"The vanguard elites have lost their patience. They’re pushing and trampling the slave fodder in front of them. Look at the mountain pass—aren't they bottlenecking themselves?"
The crowd peered closely.
It was true. At the narrow entrance to the valley, the towering black orcs and the stunted goblin slaves were mashed together in a chaotic jumble.
Sylvia paused, realization dawning on her.
The orc formation had broken apart. It was a perfect tactical window.
Furthermore, the orcs would absolutely never expect the exhausted humans to actually open the gates and counter-charge at a time like this.
If they struck now, they might actually pull out a victory!
"The 'Annihilators of the 4th Division'? So-called elites?!"
Leona yanked her greatsword free, her roar deafening.
"Elites are exactly what I’m here to butcher!"
Her raw, savage roar struck like thunder, shattering the heavy cloud of despair.
In that instant, the fear of waiting for death was mutated by her arrogant, violently inflammatory words into a surging, bloodthirsty drive.
Right. We're dead either way. Why not smash a few of the orcs' teeth out before we go down?
"Cast Lighten Burden on all the soldiers! We need speed! Cast Berserk on the frontline knights! Even if you have to wring every last drop of your mana dry, cast it!"
Leona raised her greatsword high:
"Blackstone?! I’m crossing their name out tonight!"
"YES, COMMANDER!!!"
The previously half-dead gray-robed mages suddenly found renewed strength. Their eyes bloodshot, mana surged around them.
Every sword hilt was gripped tightly by the warriors.
Killing intent boiled over!
. . .
At the entrance of the gatehouse tunnel, within the ranks preparing to sortie.
A young soldier named Soren leaned against the damp wall, his head throbbing as if it were about to split open.
He had transmigrated from Earth. A massive flood of unfamiliar memories had pierced his brain.
The routed regular army of the Silvermoon Kingdom. His brutally murdered family. Volunteering for the military. The cold. The hunger. And finally, this place: the inescapable death trap that was Storm Rift Fortress.
Soren took a deep breath of the freezing air.
His instincts as an elite Special Forces operative on Earth instantly awakened.
Calm down.
Assess the environment.
Analyze the equipment.
He lifted the longsword in his hand.
A standard-issue iron sword. The edge was chipped and dull.
He twirled the blade with one hand. The center of gravity was too far forward, and the craftsmanship was atrocious, but it was barely usable.
He looked up at the heavy, cast-iron portcullis.
The winches were groaning and screeching. From above came the high-pitched, savage roars of the female Commander, while the ground beneath his feet vibrated with the footsteps of countless orcs.
The gates were opening.
Through the widening crack of the main gates, the rancid, foul-smelling roars of the orcs spilled in.
Soren didn't step back. Having survived countless hails of gunfire in his past life, he was already used to this.
His current physique was weak, and he knew no magic, but he knew exactly how to kill a man—even with nothing but a broken sword.
His gaze focused. He pivoted his left foot forty-five degrees, gathering power.
Just then.
[Ding!]
[Warlord System formally activated.]
[Binding. . . Binding successful!]
[Congratulations. Novice Rewards have been distributed.]
[Detected host’s extreme physical weakness. Automatically fusing a trace amount of Titan Bloodline.]
[Fusing Military Swordsmanship (Grandmaster Level).]
[Fusing Eagle-Eye Perception (Passive - Activated).]
A scorching heat erupted from Soren’s heart, violently surging through his limbs and bones.
His muscle fibers frantically tore apart and knitted back together. In an instant, he felt as if he possessed boundless, inexhaustible energy.
The chipped iron sword in his hand, which had felt a bit heavy a moment ago, was now as light as a feather.
With just a single glance, he could calculate a hundred different striking angles for the blade.
Right at that moment.
[Real-time System Quest Issued: Break the Deadlock]
[Description: Commander Leona is attempting a frontal charge. The probability of complete annihilation is extremely high. The host must sow chaos and tear open a tactical window.]
[Distributing Quest Item: Windwhisper Bow]
[Item Description: A masterpiece crafted by the artisans of the Elven Royal Court. Blessed with a triple-layer Wind Rune. Effective range up to 2,000 meters. Innate powerful armor-piercing effect.]
The air rippled slightly.
A longbow, tracing with flowing cyan runes, materialized silently into Soren's grasp.
As Soren gripped the bow, an innate sense of familiarity welled up within him.
This was exactly the sniper weapon he needed.
The special operations experience he had honed through countless firefights allowed him to see through the battlefield's flow at a glance.
He had to admit, this crazy female Commander possessed top-tier tactical intuition.
Staying put was a guaranteed dead end.
And while a counter-charge seemed completely mad, it was the absolute only glimmer of survival left in this unwinnable situation.
She was betting on the instability of the orcs' formation. Betting on a fleeting window of opportunity.
But a gamble like this still used the total annihilation of the Crimson Moon Knights as its wager.
That didn’t align with Soren's aesthetics of war.
Now that he had power, he was going to pursue a victory with minimal casualties.
[Eagle-Eye Perception]- Activated.
The world slowed down in Soren's eyes.
The blowing snow seemed to freeze in mid-air. The endless ocean of orcs in the distance zoomed in, pulled right before his face.
Soren bypassed the hideous, snarling faces of the frontline soldiers, his gaze piercing hungrily into the depths of the enemy's rear lines.
He was hunting for the enemy's vitals.
Until his vision locked onto a single point.
The corner of Soren’s mouth curled up into a faint smile.
He had found a much better way to break the deadlock.
From ahead came the thunderous grinding of the gate winches.
The light from outside gradually widened.
Carrying the magnificent longbow that starkly contrasted with his tattered equipment, Soren took a sharp, decisive step out of the formation.