Chapter 674: Counterattack and Betrayal
In this era of turmoil, the world's political landscape surged with undercurrents. The orcs, Abyss, Nine Hells, and the Three Gods of Death—forces once hidden beneath the sun's brilliance—were all beginning to stir.
In such a climate, the Ember Empire's ambition to become the true hegemon of Feanso—even to surpass the once-holy Fadland and claim ownership of the continent—was no easy feat.
Especially since the Ember Empire had no patron deity, only Cassius, a patchwork figure barely qualifying as a "demigod," as its sole pillar. He often had to mediate between various divine powers.
Yet even so, when facing a chosen target, Cassius would never hesitate or retreat.
Cassius grinned wickedly, flexing his dragon wings as he rose to his feet. "I want to see if, once I wipe out these green-skin orcs, you lot can still stay your hands.
The world-ending 'Orc Catastrophe' of my past life ends here!"
Whoosh—
His dragon wings beat, stirring a scorching storm. His mighty draconic presence surged skyward, making all tremble.
In an instant, all the half-dragon soldiers, bipedal wyverns, and rock drakes stationed around Dragonblood Summit looked up, gazing at the towering figure high above.
"Th-that's a dragon wing! Only bigshots like Duke Langpu and Duke Dolo have that trait!"
"By Cassius! Commander George has become a half-dragon!"
"Look at that massive corpse—he even killed the orc! No wonder he's Lord George!"
"Commander George!"
Seeing George, now with dragon wings and the orc slain, the Imperial soldiers burst into cheers, waving their weapons with fervent excitement.
"Riiip—"
With a sharp pull, George finally wrenched the longsword from the orc's skull and raised the blood-soaked blade high, its tip pointing to the heavens.
George smiled mysteriously: "Everyone—this mutated orc wasn't slain by my hand alone. It was His Majesty!
The great Ember Emperor! He watches us like the sun, shields us, and bathes all Imperial citizens in the light of victory!"
Under the sun's rays, blood trickled down the blade, forming droplets that fell like ruby beads.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live Emperor Cassius!"
The soldiers around erupted in thunderous cheers, waves of sound rolling across the battlefield.
In the distance, the orcs surged forward again. Though Giant Mountain was gone, they were still fearless, desperate to vent their lust for war and clash with the Imperials.
"Everyone—"
George spread his wings and rose, gazing down at the green tide, then raised his sword and pointed toward the oncoming orcs.
"Crush them!"
Imperial officers and soldiers surged with morale, bullets raining down like a storm. Explosions erupted among the orcs, toppling them in droves.
Soon, George's long-awaited reinforcements finally arrived—
"Boom—"
The ground shook with thunderous roars. Steel beasts charged across the battlefield, treads grinding over piles of orc corpses, splashing green blood everywhere.
From the skies came piercing screeches. Armored wyverns glided from the horizon like blades ripping through the air.
George was briefly surprised, then heard Drol's powerful voice over the communicator: "All units, attack! Begin the counteroffensive!
These damned green-skin filth think numbers alone can break our lines? What a joke!
Everyone, show them the power of the Empire—baptize them in blood and fire! Eradicate these lowly, insolent green-skins!"
At Drol's command, both sky and earth quaked. Dragons, wyverns blanketed the heavens; infantry, steam tanks, and drakes surged across the ground.
Even the orcs' flanks and rear were swarmed by Imperial forces. A full encirclement had clearly been laid.
The entire Imperial army was now in motion, launching a full-scale assault!
This was the moment Drol had been waiting for!
First, he used landmines, traps, and bunkers to build an impenetrable defense, grinding down the orcs like a giant meat grinder.
Then, once they weakened, he launched a decisive counterattack, aiming to annihilate the millions of orcs on the front lines!
As for the landmines and traps?
The green-skins had already triggered them. Corpses covered the ground so densely they formed a new layer of terrain.
"Boom!"
Imperial artillery unleashed in full force. Shells streaked through the air, forming a deadly web.
Bombardment rained down like hail, shaking the earth. Under such overwhelming firepower, even the fearless orcs struggled to maintain their fury.
They loved war, not dying—especially not dying in confusion, incinerated before they even saw the enemy.
"We can't even see our enemies!"
"Dying like this is bullshit! I haven't had a proper kill yet!"
"Shit, those old bastards just want us as cannon fodder! Waiting in the back to enjoy the slaughter themselves!" an orc shouted after slapping his own head in realization.
His name was Barn, a green-skin known for his rare "cleverness."
The so-called "old bastards" were what green-skins called the pure-blood orcs.
The two sides looked down on each other: pure-bloods saw green-skins as lowly scum; green-skins thought pure-bloods were cowardly, afraid of death.
But under the dual-blooded chieftain Soro, the green-skins had temporarily submitted to the pure-bloods' power, lured by promises of plundering Avenderdan.
Now realizing the truth, some orcs thought it better to fight the "old bastards" than die meaninglessly on the front lines.
For them, who they fought didn't matter. What mattered was fighting, bleeding, killing.
So, in a logic incomprehensible to normal beings, tens of thousands of green-skins turned and charged the rear—toward the pure-blood orcs' position.
"Old bastards! We can't get past those Imperials, so we'll fight you instead!"
"Brothers! One last thrill before we die! Follow me!"
"Waaagh! Old bastards! We'll kill you for making us cannon fodder! And for lying to us!"
The mutinous green-skins roared, swinging bone clubs and stone axes, charging their own side.
The ground shook. Rocks tumbled down slopes.
"By Gruumsh..."
"Get back! Do you want to be deserters?!"
"Damn inferior orcs! What do you think you're doing?! Rebellion?!"
"No—no, they really have turned on us! These scum are rebelling!" shouted a panicked orc guard.
Barn smashed his club into the guard's skull, spraying blood and brains. Then he bellowed righteously, "You old bastards tricked us into dying! You should've been dead already!"
The defending orcs were completely unprepared. After only a few shouts, they were drowned by the tide of green-skin fury.
Even as they died, they couldn't believe these so-called kin had turned traitor just because they weren't allowed to fight.
But on a battlefield of millions, such mutiny caused barely a ripple.
"Chieftain! Bad news! The front-line inferior orcs have rebelled!"
"Chieftain, the Empire's magic is too strong! Our front-line inferiors are all dead, not one remains!"
"The Empire's steel beasts are closing in!"
Orc scouts on direwolves raced in from all directions, shouting reports—all of them bad.
Soro sat on his bone throne, face grim, right hand gripping his blood spear so tightly his knuckles cracked.
"Damn Imperials..."
He stood abruptly and snarled at his subordinates: "You worthless fools! Idiots! You couldn't even control a bunch of low-tier orcs!
We had three million troops! Three million attacking a fortress, and we got slaughtered!"
He turned to glare at the robed shaman in the distance, blood vessels bursting in his eyes. "Mok! This is your plan?!
Your great plan was getting tens of thousands of inferior orcs to rebel against us?!"
Mok bowed respectfully, voice hoarse and emotionless: "Chieftain, I planted a 'seed' among them—one that could nurture a powerful orc.
But... our enemy was too powerful. A being above legendary level intervened. Even I could do nothing."
Hearing this, Soro exploded with rage, wanting to hurl his spear.
He strode forward and grabbed Mok by the neck, lifting him, roaring into his withered face, "That's your incompetence! Incompetence!"
Choked, Mok still croaked out, "This changes nothing, Chieftain."
"Boom!"
A shell struck outside the camp, erupting in fire, killing several orc soldiers and clan leaders, blowing a blackened crater near their tents.
"The Blackbird Clan chieftain was killed!" someone shouted.
All the orcs turned, gasping in horror. Their faces twisted with panic.
The Empire's weapons were so terrifying they could now strike even deep behind enemy lines!
Seeing this, Soro dropped Mok, but his eyes still blazed with anger—and now, fear. Sweat streamed down his brow.
"Huff... huff... huff..."
Soro panted heavily, taking time to calm down. Then he looked around and asked, "Everyone, what do we do now?"
"Fight them! Even now we still have over two million!"
"Yeah! Even if they were pigs, two million of them could overwhelm the Imperials!"
"But the Empire's weapons can kill from kilometers away!"
"Exactly. Those inferior orcs were useless. Numbers mean nothing."
"We should retreat to the Ugo Grasslands, scatter to our pastures. The Imperials won't chase us."
But most chieftains shook their heads, whispering. After Batu's Redblood Tribe fell, they'd become more cautious.
—Because those passionate hotheads all died in battle, at Avenderdan's walls.
Hearing the chatter, Soro's face darkened. He had dreamed of surpassing Batu and fulfilling the orcs' thousand-year dream.
Now, that dream was shattered.
The brutal truth: under his leadership, the orcs never even reached Avenderdan's walls before being massacred. Their corpses covered half the ground.
Mok stepped forward and said, "Let us leave, Chieftain. Let's return to that valley.
He pointed to the green-skin hordes still surging like waves. "These inferiors are like weeds. Burn one patch, another grows. They can't be wiped out.
We just need to lie low on the Ugo Grasslands, keep breeding them. One day, the Empire will slip. That day will be our chance."
At his words, the clan chiefs nodded. After all, it was only inferior orcs who died this time. They could regrow like weeds.
Even millions dead was just a number.
But if their elite warriors were bombed to death, it would take years, even decades, to replace them. That would be a terrible loss.
Besides, these chiefs had their own plans—if the Redblood Tribe broke again, they'd need strong warriors to seize grazing and hunting grounds.
"Bang!"
After a long silence, Soro clenched his fist and slammed the table, growling in frustration: "Fine, we'll do it your way.
We'll retreat to Redblood Valley, breed more orcs, and wait for our next chance. One day, Avenderdan will be ours.
As for the inferior orcs—leave them all here."