483  Chapter 483

The wind howled a mournful dirge across the ravaged landscape of the Lag’ranna Mountains. Dust, kicked up by the retreating tide of orcs, painted the air a rusty brown. The devastation wrought by the Thunder Makers – whatever unseen forces they were – was evident in the shattered crags, the toppled trees, and the earth itself, ripped and scarred as if by a giant’s careless hand. The once-proud peaks were now pockmarked, a testament to the raw power unleashed upon them.

From a relatively unscathed ridge, a contingent of Threian Marksmen took up their positions. Their faces were grim, etched with the weariness of prolonged conflict. They were seasoned warriors, their movements precise and economical, honed by years of skirmishes against the orcish tribes.

Each marksman carefully selected their target, the glint of iron catching the pale light filtering through the dust-choked sky. Their rifles, crafted from the finest iron steel available to the kingdom, were strung taut, ready to unleash a deadly rain of arrows.

Below them, the Threian infantry pressed their advantage. Clad in iron fine armor, they advanced methodically, their shields held high, a wall of steel against the panicked flight of the orcs. The orcs, their once-ferocious warpaint smudged and streaked with dirt and sweat, were a sorry sight.

Their armor, crude and poorly maintained, offered little protection against the Threian steel. Many were wounded, their ragged breaths rasping in the harsh mountain air. Fear, palpable and suffocating, hung heavy in the air.

A young Threian marksman, barely a man, adjusted the quiver strapped to his back, his fingers tracing the smooth surface of a recently-fletched arrow. His heart pounded in his chest, a counterpoint to the rhythmic thud of the infantry’s boots on the rocky ground. He was new to this kind of large-scale warfare, the raw, chaotic energy of the battlefield overwhelming. He focused on his breathing, trying to calm the tremors in his hands. His gaze swept across the fleeing orcs, his eyes settling on a large orc, its back turned, seemingly oblivious to the impending danger. He aimed carefully, the bullet finding its target, his breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.

The bullet loosed, singing through the air, a swift, deadly messenger. It found its mark with a sickening thud, piercing the orc’s shoulder. The orc stumbled, its guttural cry swallowed by the wind. A wave of satisfaction, followed by a cold knot of unease, settled in the young marksman’s stomach. The battle was a grim necessity, but the sight of the fleeing, wounded orcs, even those who were aggressors, brought a chilling realization of the cost of war.

Meanwhile, another Threian marksman, a veteran with a scarred face and eyes that held the weariness of countless battles, meticulously aimed his weapon. His movements were almost languid, a deceptive calm belied by the lethal precision of his shots. He wasn’t targeting fleeing orcs. Instead, his attention was fixed on a group of particularly heavily armored figures attempting to rally the retreating horde.

These were the orcish leaders, attempting to restore some semblance of order to the chaotic retreat. Their presence represented a dangerous threat; their continued organization could potentially lead to a resurgence of the attack.

He loosed a shot. It sailed true, striking the leader’s helmet with a sharp clang. The force of the impact sent the orc stumbling, momentarily breaking his concentration. The veteran marksman immediately followed with another shot, and another, aiming for the vulnerable gaps in the orc’s armor. The orc fell, his body crumpling to the ground, bringing with it a surge of panic amongst the remaining warriors.

The Threian infantry continued their relentless advance, their iron blades flashing in the dim light. The clash of steel on steel echoed through the mountains, a grim symphony of violence. Orcs fell, their cries cut short by the swift and efficient strikes of the Threian soldiers. The battle was a one-sided affair; the advantage in weaponry, training, and morale was too great for the disorganized orcs to overcome.

The retreat turned into a rout. The disciplined Threian army pressed their advantage, mercilessly pursuing the fleeing enemy. The dust cloud, once a rusty haze, thickened, obscuring the battlefield, a testament to the scale of the carnage. Only the relentless clank of iron and the occasional death rattle of a fallen warrior punctuated the silence between the bursts of violence.

The battle was drawing to a close. The young marksman, his ammo almost empty, lowered his weapon, his arms trembling with exhaustion. The weight of the day, the weight of the war, settled heavily upon his shoulders. He looked out across the devastated landscape, the once-majestic peaks now scarred and broken.

The victory was hard-won, brutal, and the taste of it was bitter. He knew that this wouldn’t be the last of the battle, that the shadow of the Thunder Makers, and the war that they unleashed, would continue to hang over the Lag’ranna mountains for a long time to come.

The grim silence that followed the battle was a heavy blanket, a stark reminder of the terrible price of conflict, a price paid in blood, in lives, and in the irreplaceable beauty of the mountains themselves.

The wind carried the acrid scent of burning rubber, a grim precursor to the devastation about to unfold. High on the slopes of the Khao’khen mountain range, Khao’khen himself, a wiry warrior with eyes that held the weight of countless battles, watched the scene below with grim satisfaction.

For days, weeks even, the Verakhs had been relentlessly trying to locate the Threian forces, their advance hampered by the Threian’s mastery of camouflage and subterfuge. Now, finally, thanks to the intelligence gleaned from their previous, costly attack, they had located the heart of the Threian lines – the positions of three Thunder Makers, the enemy’s most potent artillery.

Khao’khen’s gaze swept across the landscape. Below, nestled in a narrow valley, lay the Threian position. Thousands of soldiers, their camp a sprawling tapestry of muted greens and browns, were oblivious to the impending doom.

Their confidence, born of past successes, was a dangerous delusion. Khao’khen knew that the element of surprise, bought with such sacrifice, was their most potent weapon. He had personally overseen the meticulous preparation, the slow, painstaking process of positioning the Bufas fruits – the volatile, fire-producing orbs harvested from the slopes of the Lag’ranna Mountains.

The three Thunder Maker positions were the primary targets, carefully chosen and painstakingly mapped. The initial impact was devastating; two of the positions were immediately overwhelmed, the artillery silenced beneath a mountain of fire. The third, more heavily fortified, managed to withstand the first wave, but even that was proving untenable against the relentless assault. Explosions rocked the valley, a symphony of destruction punctuating the screams of the dying.

09:23

The command, a single guttural word – “Unleash!” – ripped through the silent anticipation. The signal was relayed down the mountainside, a chain of Verakh warriors echoing the order, their voices a low, rumbling wave that barely disturbed the wind. Then, the earth itself seemed to shudder.

A torrent of flaming rock and scorched earth cascaded down the mountain, a pyroclastic flow of terrifying beauty and destructive power. The Bufas fruits, ignited in a carefully choreographed sequence, tumbled down the slopes, each one leaving a trail of fiery destruction.

They weren’t merely rocks; they were bombs, imbued with the concentrated heat of a volcano, carrying a wave of superheated air that incinerated everything in its path. The smell intensified, a choking mix of burning rubber and pulverized rock, the stench of war hanging heavy in the air.

The Threian encampment erupted in chaos. The initial surprise gave way to a desperate scramble for survival. Soldiers ran, their organized ranks dissolving into a panicked mob. The thunderous roar of the cascading fire was accompanied by screams, the cries of men facing sudden, fiery death. The tents, once symbols of order and security, became funeral pyres, consumed by the relentless inferno.

Khao’khen observed the scene with a stoic expression, his face betraying no emotion. He was not unmoved by the carnage, but he held himself rigidly to the duty imposed upon him. The death and destruction were a grim necessity, a sacrifice on the altar of survival. The Verakhs, outnumbered and outmatched in conventional warfare, relied on this brutal effectiveness to compensate for their relative weakness.

The three Thunder Maker positions were the primary targets, carefully chosen and painstakingly mapped. The initial impact was devastating; two of the positions were immediately overwhelmed, the artillery silenced beneath a mountain of fire. The third, more heavily fortified, managed to withstand the first wave, but even that was proving untenable against the relentless assault. Explosions rocked the valley, a symphony of destruction punctuating the screams of the dying.

As the firestorm raged, Khao’khen’s gaze drifted to the horizon. He saw the smoke rise, a dark plume against the pale sky, a testament to the devastating might of the Bufas fruits, and a chilling reminder of the cost of war.

The victory, while undoubtedly significant, came at a heavy price. Many Verakh warriors, tasked with setting off the Bufas fruits, had perished in the initial cascade. Their sacrifice, however, had secured the Verakh’s position, weakened the Threian army irrevocably, and provided a much-needed opportunity for the survival of their people.

The battle was far from over. The surviving Threian soldiers, though demoralized and scattered, were sure to regroup. The smell of burning rubber would linger for weeks, a constant reminder of the violent eruption and the bloody victory. But for now, Khao’khen could afford a brief moment of grim satisfaction.

He had successfully located the enemy’s most potent weapons, and decisively disabled them. The Verakhs had inflicted a crippling blow, buying themselves precious time, the necessary respite to regroup and prepare for the next, inevitable phase of the conflict.

The war was far from over, but for today, the orcs had prevailed. The heavy silence that followed the firestorm held a promise of grim triumph. The future remained uncertain, but for now, under the ashen sky, a grim peace settled upon the battlefield, a fragile testament to the harsh realities of war and the unforgiving nature of survival. The bitter victory tasted of ash and smoke.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep