Inside the North Three Territories, Stanford leaned back in his large oak office chair, the smoke from his brass pipe swirling in the sunlight.
He squinted and looked out through the glass window into the distance—several orc laborers were learning how to plow the land with steel plows under the guidance of humans, and the heavy breathing of oxen could be faintly heard.
He exhaled a smoke ring, watching the smoke slowly dissipate in the air. Before the arrival of the Alda, the Forest Orcs of the North Three Territories were still practicing slash-and-burn agriculture; now, more than a dozen large farms have been established on the vast black soil plains.
Stanford's fingers gently traced the planning drawings on the table.
The first phase of the swamp drainage project in the Blackwater River Basin has been marked in red. The open-pit iron mine on the edge of Lucky Forest is marked "Under Development". The neatly arranged black squares on the tranquil plain represent the vast tracts of fertile land that are about to be reclaimed.
The crisp crack of a whip outside the window interrupted his thoughts. A caravan of four-wheeled wagons loaded with timber was heading towards the newly built processing plant, and the driver of the wagons was also an orc.
Stanford nodded in satisfaction. As long as the orcs were given enough reward, they worked very hard.
He picked up a pen and wrote in his notebook: "Next step: Establish a literacy class for orcs and offer basic skills training..."
The tobacco in the pipe gradually burned out.
Stanford got up and walked to the huge map on the wall, drawing a larger circle around the North Three Territories with a red pencil. From the coast to the inland, with the deepening of human footprints, this circle has expanded considerably since last year, almost covering the entire North Three Territories.
A smile played on his lips, as if he could already see caravans laden with grain and ore heading straight for the port along the newly paved road, where they would be loaded onto cargo ships bound for Northwest Bay.
"The next harvest season…" Stanford murmured to himself, his pipe casting a long, thin shadow on the map, like a ruler measuring the land that was being transformed.
Stanford had just put down his red pencil when there was a rapid knock on his office door. A clerk rushed in and whispered, "Your Excellency, an urgent messenger from Lakeheart Town has arrived."
Stanford frowned and immediately stubbed out his pipe: "Please come quickly."
The messenger entered the office, his boots still dusty with the black soil characteristic of the North Three Territories. He took out a wax-sealed letter bearing the Glyman Family crest from his pocket and presented it with both hands: "Your Excellency, an urgent order from the Marquis."
Stanford deftly tore open the envelope, and the concise and powerful handwriting on the letter immediately caught his eye. His gaze grew increasingly serious as he read.
But when he read the word "war," he trembled slightly, and a tiny crease appeared on the edge of the letter.
He looked up abruptly, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes: "So fast? How long has it been since the last agreement was signed..."
The sunlight outside the window suddenly became dazzling. Stanford vaguely recalled the intelligence from not long ago—the orc tribes on the grasslands were frequently making unusual movements, but he did not expect the situation to take such a sharp turn for the worse.
" That old fox Abar!" he muttered to himself, the letter rustling in his hands. "He won't stay still for long."
The attendant cleared his throat uneasily, and Stanford came to his senses. He took a deep breath; the aftertaste of tobacco still lingered in his mouth, but he could no longer taste the leisurely feeling from before.
He gently placed the letter on the map, which covered the territory of the grassland orcs.
"I will issue orders to all border posts," Stanford said in a steady, firm voice to the Lakeheart Town envoy, "to immediately enter a state of combat readiness."
"Your mission is to contain, not to engage in a decisive battle," the envoy added. "The Marquis has specifically emphasized that the achievements of the North Three Territories must be prioritized. You must fully assess the balance of power between the enemy and ourselves before taking any action. Do not take risks. You should know that once the area south of the Rocky Mountains is in chaos, it will be difficult to spare the resources to support you."
"Please accept my apologies, Lord Glaeman." Stanford nodded, gently stroking the North Three Territories area on the map, marked with countless small flags representing farms, mines, and forests—all the fruits of his labor.
" The North Three Territories will be his most secure rear." Stanford's voice was firm. "And whenever the opportunity arises, we will let Abar know that his backyard is not peaceful either."
After seeing the messenger off, Stanford immediately summoned Gratam, the naturalized orc leader who had helped Stanford destroy the most powerful Bloodhoof Tribe in the North Three Territories.
When he walked into the office, he still carried the scent of pine from the forest.
"Sit down." Stanford pushed a glass of mead toward him. "Tell me your thoughts on Abar."
Gratham's rough fingers rubbed the glass, the amber liquid reflecting his complex expression.
"That was a hungry wolf…" His deep voice seemed to come from the depths of his chest, "Before you came, every winter, entire tribes would flock to the Royal Tent on the grasslands."
Sunlight streamed through the glass window, casting dappled shadows on Gratam's face. He tilted his head back and downed the mead, his Adam's apple bobbing: " Abar will give them weapons, food, and a promise of glory."
The bottom of the glass clinked against the table. "My cousin led the entire Grayclaw tribe to the Golden Horde, and now..." He drew a line across his neck with his finger, making a throat-slitting gesture, "...he died in battle."
Stanford twirled his pipe thoughtfully.
He tapped lightly on the table, his gaze fixed on Gratham: "If war breaks out, and Abar summons the Forest Orcs, what will you choose?"
Gratham grinned, revealing jagged fangs: "Sir, I have no interest in changing bosses."
His thick fingers ran over his brand-new linen uniform, then pointed to the tall stone houses outside the window. " Abar can give warriors glory, but not these things. The Royal Tent may be powerful, but they are powerless against calamities from heaven, while you can solve many of our problems."
"To tell you the truth," the orc chieftain lowered his voice, with a touch of shrewdness, "with the governor's mansion, my people have warm houses to live in during the winter, the children have enough to eat, and they hunt with steel arrowheads." He shrugged. " The glory of Abar? That stuff can't be eaten."
A hint of satisfaction flashed in Gratam's eyes: "Besides, I don't want to go to the grasslands to eat sand with the mad wolf."
Stanford nodded slightly, a smile playing on his lips: "Very good, I appreciate your pragmatism."
He stood up, walked around the desk to Gratham, and handed him an exquisite brass pipe, exactly the same as his own.
"I will trust you, old friend." Stanford's voice was soft, but carried an undeniable weight.
"But please make sure you keep a close eye on your people." He flicked his finger lightly on his pipe, producing a crisp metallic sound. "If there's any disturbance, immediately notify the Governor's Office."