Chapter 669: Artillery and Spores
"Boom!"
A thunderous explosion erupted. Another bomb burst in midair, and the resulting flames devoured and scorched everything nearby.
The air reeked of acrid smoke and blood.
The land was ravaged—craters from the blasts, shattered shrapnel, and mountains of charred orc corpses were scattered everywhere.
However, the intensity of the bombardment had lessened compared to before.
After all, the Wyverns needed to reload their munitions. In this brief lull, the orcs trampled over the corpses of their kin, charging madly through seas of fire.
Even when their fur ignited or their feet scorched on glowing hot rocks, the orcs paid no mind, rushing forward with single-minded frenzy.
Many orcs stepped on landmines and died instantly. The lucky ones merely lost their legs.
One orc even picked up his mangled legs after stepping on a mine. Crawling across the ground, he snarled in a low voice, "It's not over... I can still charge."
"Waaaagh!"
War cries rose behind him. The orcs surged forward, stepping over their fallen comrades. The crippled orc was trampled into paste.
The death of their kin only made them more frenzied—the spores thick in the air were the best catalyst for their rage.
"Let's go! Those big birds are out of eggs!"
"I'll rip them apart! Turn 'em into stew! My little bros died in the fire!"
"For Gruumsh!"
Fanatical battle cries echoed across the wasteland as the orcs regrouped and marched in a massive wave toward Avenderdan—or rather, the Wyvern Capital.
After losing nearly a hundred thousand troops, the orcs finally approached Blackstone Mountain, coming within several kilometers of the fortress walls.
But the poor green-skinned orcs had no idea—the bombardment so far was just the beginning. The real trial was yet to come.
Nor did they know just how much preparation the Ember Empire had made to exterminate them, how many military researchers had toiled day and night for this war.
Hundreds of heavy cannons stood ready in the distant Imperial lines, their black barrels aimed skyward.
"Heh, this time we'll blast 'em real good." The ogre artillery commander, Bighead, clenched a cigarette between yellowed teeth and grinned with a twisted, grotesque expression.
"Commander, the orcs are within range!" came the scout's voice through the radio.
Wyvern riders often served as scouts for the Empire, surveying the battlefield from above and uncovering enemy positions.
Bighead spat out his cigarette and stomped it out. Then, slowly, he asked, "How many are there?"
One wyvern rider peered through his telescope at the dense sea of orcs and muttered, "Commander, their numbers are beyond belief."
"How many exactly? Spit it out, damn it!" the ogre commander snapped impatiently.
The scout looked over the endless orc horde and reported, "A conservative estimate says about 300,000 orcs are already in range, with countless more behind them."
"Three hundred thousand?"
Even Bighead's eyes widened in shock. Then he burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Perfect! So many—just what I wanted!"
Bighead waved his massive hand and roared, "Open fire! No need to aim—just blast away! Hit as many as you can! Ammo's unlimited!"
"Long live the Commander!"
"Long live the Empire!"
"For His Majesty Cassius!"
The encampment erupted in cheers. The artillerymen, overjoyed, began frantically loading shells.
Most artillery troops in the Empire had a certain... taste—for watching things get blown to pieces.
The player artillerymen were even more delighted. In war missions like this, they racked up the most experience without risking their lives.
"Boom—"
With a thunderous order, hundreds of cannons fired at once. Shells traced elegant arcs through the sky before crashing into the orc horde.
Hearing the shelling, the orcs were confused and alarmed.
"What's that?"
"Wait, that sound again... I know it—it's those fire eggs! Ow! Why'd you hit me?"
"You idiot, only those flying freaks drop eggs like that! There ain't no freaks in the sky now, so where'd the eggs come from—"
At that moment, a rain of shells came crashing down and exploded midair, instantly killing dozens of orcs.
Shrapnel flew like burning blades, slicing off half the head of the orc who had just been speaking.
The orc, still fuming, forced out his last words, "I told you they're those eggs..."
"Boom!"
Another massive blast swallowed everything nearby.
The Imperial artillery lines were a flurry of activity. Cannons fired nonstop until their barrels glowed red, unleashing a torrent of shells upon the orcs.
In many ways, the shelling was even more devastating than the aerial bombing—more intense, longer lasting.
Shells fell into crowds, their fragments and force killing dozens of orcs at a time—but they didn't create the firestorms that incendiary bombs did.
Yet the orcs charged on, wielding bone clubs and stone spears, braving the rain of shells without hesitation.
"Waaaagh!"
"Charge!"
"Those exploding eggs are made of iron! If we steal their big birds, we'll have endless iron!"
The orcs' minds were still as bizarre as ever. They thought the shells and bombs were eggs laid by the "monster birds."
But with a one-month lifespan, any orc who could come up with that was already a "wise one" among greenskins.
"Waaaagh!"
"I'm gonna take everything they got!"
Battle cries echoed across the battlefield, only to be drowned out by the explosions. Still, the greenskins pushed forward, advancing the frontlines.
Those at the front either stepped on mines, were blown up by falling shells, or were burned alive by incendiary flames—death came in many gruesome forms.
But regardless of how their kin died, the greenskins charged onward, trampling over their corpses.
Their simple brains couldn't grasp concepts like courage or conviction, let alone complex magical circuits, but they understood one thing—they had a war to fight!
"So this is it... This is the kind of power the Ember Empire used to conquer Northern Aether and seize Avenderdan?"
Atop a hill behind the orc lines, Soro gritted his teeth, his face dark as ink.
Even with orcs as numerous as weeds, this attrition was unbearable! In just half a day, the green skins had lost over 200,000!
From his observations, every blast had the power of a Tier 3 spell. And the Ember Empire had launched tens of thousands of such attacks!
What, did they have dozens of Legendary mages or clerics casting low-tier spells nonstop to kill hundreds of thousands of orcs?
What a joke!
The Crimsonblood Tribe had long been isolated in the remote Ugo Grasslands, cut off from Feanso by the Highland Kingdom and the Blackstone Mountains.
Like the former Northern Kingdom, they had remained in seclusion, unaware of the world's changes. Their only enemy was the Dwarven Kingdom.
Months ago, strange humans appeared on the Ugo Plains, calling themselves "Stardwellers from beyond the sky," claiming to help defeat the Highland Kingdom.
But the orcs didn't trust these outsiders. They greedily eyed them—in the barren grasslands, all resources were precious. Even human corpses.
So, they killed those humans, chopped off their heads, skinned them, and even tried turning their meat into stew.
Strangely, those human corpses soon vanished without a trace, leaving the hungry orcs bitterly disappointed.
Of course, these orcs had no idea—the Ember Empire's arrival had reshaped the world, bringing a revolution in the art of war.
Soro growled, "This can't go on. We must intervene, or those lesser orcs will all be wiped out."
"Damn Ember Empire. Their spells flow like water—endless and free."
"Mok!"
He shouted loudly.
Mok, the current shaman of the Crimsonblood Tribe, had also received Blackwater's blessing, becoming a half-greenskin "New Orc," wielding powerful divine spells.
Whether these powers came from the Orc God or some unspeakable being was unclear.
"Chieftain, what are your orders?"
A deep, raspy voice answered. A hunched orc appeared before them.
He wore a thick black robe. His exposed green skin was covered in patches of moss, dense and grotesque, exuding a foul stench.
Soro sighed and asked, "Shaman Mok, how do we break through the Ember Empire's fierce spellcraft?"
Mok gave a sinister smile: "It's simple. Let the Great Father and Mother protect us. Then orcs can break through the flames and reclaim our rightful land."
Soro frowned but didn't question who Mok meant by "Mother." He simply ordered:
"Then do as you say. Cast your divine spells so our brave Warriors—not lesser orcs—can breach their defenses."
"As you wish, Great Chieftain."
Mok looked up. His moss-covered face, like gnarled roots, twisted into a terrifying smile.
Under guard by several burly orc warriors, Mok stepped onto the front lines. He looked up at the sky filled with shells, then at the charging green skins.
Raising his trembling hand, he gripped his dark green, slime-coated staff and whispered, "Ignorant children, you do not yet know the power you hold!"
"You will be saved. You will be the start of ruin. You will be the destroyers of the old world!"
Mok's voice grew louder and more impassioned. By the end, strange lights glimmered in his cloudy eyes.
He raised the staff high. Invisible spore threads spread into the soil, trees, and rocks around him.
These threads, mist-like, drifted across the battlefield, linking the green skins together into a massive web of tens of thousands of nodes—making them as one.
Every orc "pondered," yearning for bloodshed, for ecstatic warfare, each aching to release their primal desires.
Linked in this web, the greenskins developed a vague "hive mind."
Their eyes glowed red, mouths dripped with mucus, and breath grew ragged. In unison, they raised their heads and unleashed a deafening war cry.
"Waaaagh!"
Spores surged upward, forming translucent networks in the air. A powerful force field enveloped the orcs.
At the center, a massive orc named "Giant Mountain" hurled a boulder, shattering a falling shell. He roared, "Waaaagh! Follow me! These things are nothing! Kill them all!"
Giant Mountain was gigantic—three meters tall, muscles like mountain rock, veins bulging, radiating immense force.
"He's a boss!"
"Yeah, he looks strong. Let's charge with him!"
"Waaaagh! For Gruumsh!"
In an instant, the green skins followed Giant Mountain's lead, charging through the heavy bombardment toward the fortress.
Thanks to the mysterious force field, many shells turned into duds or were destroyed midair. The furious orcs even salvaged them, tearing them apart to craft crude weapons.
Of course, some failed and blew themselves up in the process.