The pursuit lasted for two grueling hours.
Flames illuminated the snowy night, making it as bright as day.
The once-disciplined phalanx of orcs was no more. The towering, two-meter-tall elite orcs, once clad in black heavy armor, had tossed aside their cumbersome poleaxes. They even unfastened their chest plates, discarding their heavy gear into the blood-stained snow.
Anything to run just a little bit faster.
Leona led the heavy cavalry, driving the front line two kilometers north until the Blackstone Warband fled to the edge of the treacherous, trap-laden Misty Swamp.
A low, bleak horn echoed from the depths of the swamp. It was the signal: Abandon the stragglers. Full retreat.
The five hundred orcs forming the rearguard were ordered to hold their ground and block the cavalry until every last one of them was dead.
Realizing that pressing the pursuit would lead to unnecessary cavalry casualties, Sylvia spurred her horse forward. She caught up to her blood-drunk commander and forcefully yanked Leona's reins.
"Halt!"
"Commander, we've won!"
"We held the line!"
"That kid Soren is incredible!"
Leona's arms were coated in gore, her broadsword chipped and notched in several places. Panting heavily, she cast a glance back at the fortress walls, then looked down at the sea of corpses blanketing the ground.
The feral, god-of-death grimace on her face slowly melted away, replaced by a daze of sheer disbelief.
Just yesterday, she and Sylvia had agreed that if the city fell, they would fall on their swords in the Dawnwood Camp to atone for their failure.
But now.
The once-invincible Blackstone Warband had left over two thousand corpses piled before the fortress, fleeing back to the swamp with their tails between their legs like frightened rats. What’s more, six hundred of those corpses were highly prized heavy-armored elites, along with several orc shamans.
And all of this was thanks to Soren. Through his efforts alone, the tide of the entire battle had been completely turned!
"Haha." Leona laughed so hard she coughed up a speck of bloody phlegm.
Then, her striking eyes turned, gazing deeply in the direction where Soren stood.
……
"We won!"
The soldiers' cheers began to echo across the defensive line.
The heavy subterranean gates of the rear fortress slowly cranked open. Hundreds of able-bodied laborers from the Dawn Civilian District rushed out with torches to help. But as they emerged, they froze in their tracks, utterly stunned by the sheer scale of the carnage.
They were saved!
This was destined to be recorded as an epic, decisive victory!
Still mounted on her warhorse, Leona raised her broadsword toward the troops preparing to sweep the battlefield.
"Listen up, boys!"
"Everyone gets their fair share of the merit tonight! No one will be left out!"
"And as for the loot out here? Whatever you see, whatever you can carry—it's yours to keep!"
Roar!
The exhausted, battered soldiers—many of whom had been slumped in the snow—suddenly had eyes glowing greener with greed than the orcs themselves.
In the Silvermoon Kingdom, military merit could be exchanged for titles and land. Moreover, the raw metal salvaged from orc weaponry and armor could fetch a hefty sum of silver coins.
"This helmet is mine!"
"Look at these bracers! They’ve actually got dark-silver mixed in! Hahahaha!"
The grisly battlefield instantly transformed into a carnival.
Several infantrymen bickered until they were red in the face over a perfectly intact, two-handed orc battleaxe. A heavy knight forcibly pried open the jaws of a dead orc decurion, yanking out two gold-capped tusks and showing off his prize to a nearby comrade.
The clinking of scavenged iron, the rustling of flipped corpses, and bursts of boisterous laughter echoed non-stop.
But none of this festive frenzy concerned Soren.
He didn't join the looting mob. He remained alone.
The soldiers walking past him cast glances filled with absolute reverence. A few veterans who had been eyeing some high-end weapons suddenly noticed Soren standing nearby. Looking embarrassed, they hurriedly offered the twin blades they had just scrounged up.
"Lord Soren, these blades are top tier. Forged from black meteoric iron. Please, take the best of the lot!"
In a world that worshipped strength, the divine archer who had sniped the enemy Warchief possessed the absolute right of first pick.
Soren waved his hand, declining the offer. He didn't care about a few spare coins.
"I'm going to check those goblin wagons over there. See if there's any unspoiled booze left."
Finding a reasonable excuse, Soren broke off from the rest of the troops. Overjoyed, the soldiers hugged the black meteoric blades to their chests and hurried off.
Soren's footsteps didn't falter. His gaze was locked onto a grotesque, bone-spiked high platform in the distance. His past instincts as a special forces operative drove him toward the enemy's makeshift command center. He needed to gather intelligence.
In war, intelligence was ten thousand times more valuable than gold.
Atop the command platform, the freezing wind howled. It offered an incredibly wide vantage point of the area. The gruesome human-skin battle banners that once flanked the platform had already been torn down by zealous Crimson Moon Knights, taken away as morbid war trophies.
A large puddle of dark, greenish-black blood stained the floorboards—the exact spot where Warchief Blackstone had collapsed. Sitting in the gore was a snapped arrowhead. It was the very same arrow Soren had shot into him.
A pity, he thought. Just a fraction of an inch more, and the Warchief would have died on the spot.
Soren lowered his head, systematically sifting through the scattered debris.
The handle of a snapped scepter? Trash. Worthless, aside from the cheap glass orb attached to it.
Pre-battle sacrificial rites scribbled in Goblin? Scrap paper.
A medicinal pouch left by an army shaman? Worth pennies.
Soren filtered through the Warchief's personal effects one by one, discarding the junk. As he flipped over a fifth piece of heavy tarp, his fingers brushed against an object.
It was strangely cold to the touch.
A sealed, foot-long cylinder.
It bore no decorative patterns. It was made of simple, tanned, scaly hard-leather. The surface had a slight greasy sheen—the telltale sign of a fireproofing treatment—and the ends were sealed with red wax. Pitch-black and unassuming, it had rolled into a blind spot directly behind the commander's chair.
It was easy to see why the previous waves of soldiers who looted the platform had overlooked it entirely.
Soren picked it up. The wax seal bore an incredibly faint runic imprint. He applied a bit of pressure.
Crack.
The dry wax seal chipped off under his thumbnail. He pulled out the stopper inside and tilted the leather tube. A tightly rolled piece of dark, yellowish-brown parchment slid out into his palm.
Rustle.
He unrolled the parchment. It was a map.
To the far north lay the Misty Swamp, the primary territory of the Orc Alliance. At the bottom of the map lay their current location—the bloody battlefield on the border of the Silvermoon Kingdom.
But across the kingdom’s borderlands, the map was covered in a dense web of solid red lines and dotted markers. Three glaring red dots were marked deep behind the Stormrift Fortress. They were positioned well past the Dawn Civilian District, stretching all the way back toward the [Silent Forest] and [Whitestream City].
Dotted lines connected several deep, subterranean cavern systems beneath Stormrift, forming a direct, underground highway right back to the Misty Swamp.
In the bottom-left corner of the map, two lines of text were hastily scribbled in the Human Common Tongue:
[Tunnel No. 2. Final inspection scheduled for the end of the month.]
[Liaison: Viscount Orson Blake, Silvermoon Kingdom]
A sudden, biting chill ran down Soren's spine.
The feather-light map in his hands suddenly felt as heavy as a mountain. If this information went public, it would shake the kingdom to its very core.
The red markers meant the Orc Alliance had already established three hidden subterranean garrisons behind the kingdom's primary defensive line. Through these tunnels, they were seamlessly linked to the orc strongholds north of the fortress in the Misty Swamp.
In other words, while the orcs were tirelessly digging an invasion network for an all-out war, a high-ranking noble within the Silvermoon Kingdom was acting as their inside man!
This entire siege by the Blackstone Warband? It was highly likely just a massive feint—a bloody distraction to trick the humans into focusing all their defensive power on the front lines!
The name scribbled at the bottom only cemented the horrifying gravity of the situation. The Blake Family. They held the legal monopoly on mining and logging rights throughout this entire sector of the Silvermoon Kingdom.
They were doing business with the enemy's upper echelon? And selling out the kingdom's vulnerable heartland as part of the deal?
Soren finally understood. It explained why the orcs—despite having inferior gear and far less sophisticated tactical command than humans—managed to continuously capture human territories, leaving the human nations gasping for survival.
This wasn't just a map of the Orc Alliance's tunnel network. It was concrete evidence of high treason. Behind that name stood a powerful noble house with its own private army. And within this map lay the fates of millions of civilians living in the kingdom’s interior.
Should he hand this crucial intelligence over to Leona?
No.
If he did, he would die a swift, mysterious death. The Blake family would undoubtedly silence him to cover their tracks.
But looking at it from another angle. . . this was a weapon. A handle on the throats of powerful nobles. If played right, this could be his ultimate stepping stone. A golden ticket straight into the kingdom's core of power.
Suddenly, voices drifted up from below.
"Hurry! Check up top! Warchief Blackstone might have dropped some premium loot up there!"
Soren's expression remained neutral as he rapidly rolled the parchment back into a tight scroll. He tore a strip from his wool inner-lining. Pressing the leather cylinder horizontally against his bare skin just below his ribs, he tied it tightly, strapping it fast before pulling his hardened leather breastplate down over it.
Aside from his midsection looking slightly bulkier, nothing seemed out of place.
That done, he nonchalantly snatched a sheathed dagger from the pile of discarded junk. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it up, caught it backhand, and smoothly slid it into the side sheath of his military boot.
It was just a bone-hilted dagger accented with a few cheap pearls.
A soldier crested the stairs, coming face-to-face with Soren. Panting heavily, the soldier paused when he recognized the legendary sharpshooter. Seeing Soren turning around empty-handed, the man blinked in surprise, his gaze subconsciously sweeping over Soren’s body.
No large weapons in his hands. His belt was empty. Only a deflated coin pouch at his hip and a flashy, freshly looted dagger tucked into his boot.
Looks like he didn’t find anything good either, the soldier thought.
"Lord Soren, any decent loot left up here?" the soldier asked, his eyes gleaming with greed.
Soren shrugged impatiently."Just a half-empty potion flask left behind by a shaman. Tastes like absolute shit."
He drew the bone-hilted dagger from his boot and flashed it, adding disdainfully, "That bastard Warchief took all the prime gear when he ran. Only the hilt on this thing is worth anything. Barely enough to cover a few rounds of ale. Climbed all the way up here for nothing."
Hearing this, the soldier dropped his suspicions entirely and joined in the complaining."Damn shame! Down below, they're pulling shields that can fetch three gold marks apiece."
Soren sidestepped him, heading straight for the iron ladder at the edge of the platform."It's freezing out here. Commander Sylvia called for me to regroup anyway."
A flawless exit. No suspicion whatsoever.
More soldiers squeezed past him onto the platform. By the time Soren reached the bottom of the ladder, he could already hear the men cursing from above:
"Bah! What is this busted bottle?! Absolute trash! The platform's been picked clean. There ain’t shit up here!"
……
The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and fresh blood. The roaring songs of the Crimson Moon Knights and the clanking of tankards and weapons rang out across the camp. The glow of the bonfires flickered in the eyes of the surviving soldiers.
Soren firmly pressed a hand against his chest. The hard, cold cylinder dug uncomfortably into his ribs, a physical reminder of the world-shaking secret strapped against his flesh.
He walked past his cheering comrades, who were currently busy celebrating over a few silver coins' worth of loot.
"Soren!"
Surrounded by a bustling crowd, Vice-Commander Sylvia spotted the battle's greatest hero returning. She waved at him enthusiastically.
"Get over here! The Commander is waiting to tally up your battle merits!"