Chapter 108 – War (3)
The vanguard of the Allied Forces reached the hilly region before Tiriel Valley.
"Damn it—where the hell are they?" A Knight on horseback squinted into the distance. He saw no sign of the Monsters, yet the valley ahead was littered with traps—pitfalls, poison arrows, lassos, tripwires. Though only dozens had died so far, the constant danger had paralyzed the front lines, forcing the troops to advance at a crawl.
After all, they weren’t warriors by trade. Before the war, they were mere timid civilian laborers—some even bound by the chains of unfree peasant laborers, stripped of personal liberty.
The commander of the "Honor Legion" was Joseph, a mere Baron. Yet he held no fief of his own. His title was little more than a ceremonial honor. Once the son of a lowly carpenter, Joseph had been chosen by the Lakanman Family purely by luck. He underwent the most rigorous training in Knightly Virtue, ascending from obscurity to noble status—earning him the rank of commander and the name of "Honor Legion."
He owed everything to the Lakanman Family, and every day he dreamed of dying heroically on the battlefield, a noble end worthy of their grace.
But now, watching his troops cower like frightened animals, a furious flame surged within him.
These vermin—how dare they stand beside me!
I am a Knight!
A noble of high birth!
Without hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, breaking through the ranks to the front.
"Crack!"
The whip lashed across the backs of the frozen soldiers, tearing skin and exposing raw flesh. Their screams of agony ripped through the air.
"Forward!" Joseph roared, voice thundering. "Move forward! No one hides behind! Lord Duke has shown mercy—feeding you, giving you pensions—was this to waste time here?!"
"If mere traps can stop you, where is your courage? How do you honor the name Honor Legion he bestowed upon you?!"
Under Joseph’s stern command, the hundred or so military overseers followed suit, using violence to drive the troops forward. At last, the "Honor Legion" began moving—slowly, chaotically, but moving.
Though the entire force of ten thousand often threatened to panic and stampede, at least now it wouldn’t halt for a single trap.
At last, the terrain opened up. The land stretched flat and wide—Tiriel Valley had been entered at last.
"Finally," Joseph exhaled, relief washing over him.
The winding hills had been a nightmare—traps everywhere, endless dangers. More than a hundred of the peasant conscripts had already fallen, and the survivors were shaken by the bloodshed. He’d executed several deserters on the spot just to keep morale from collapsing.
These wretched beasts… they don’t deserve to be called the “Honor Legion.”
They have no sense of noble honor—let them starve to death, that’s all they deserve.
Joseph muttered under his breath, gripping the reins tightly.
"Sir…" A Summon soldier’s voice trembled.
"What is it?"
"Something’s wrong—another deserter? Another stampede? Or another trap?"
"Stop burdening me with every little thing! I’m here to fight for honor, not to babysit your incompetence!"
Joseph snapped, near breaking point.
"No… none of those, sir."
"Then what?"
"Please… please come and see for yourself."
The Summon soldier’s voice cracked with fear.
Joseph spurred his horse forward, peering ahead—then froze.
His breath caught.
Before him, across the vast, barren plain, surged a patchwork tide of Goblins and Goblinoids.
They advanced in a storm of dust, a relentless wave rolling in from every direction. The sheer number was staggering—thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. Their eyes glowed with eerie light, and a deep, guttural roar rose from the horde.
Among them, many bore sparse scales—descendants of dragon blood, their veins pulsing with a hunger for slaughter and destruction.
Dozens of winged Goblins darted through the air, weaving erratically in chaotic flight.
"This… this can’t be real."
Joseph’s hands trembled on the reins.
He had dreamed countless times of charging into battle on horseback, sword high, meeting his end in glorious combat—dying with honor, a noble sacrifice for his family.
He’d wept at the thought, swearing to himself that one day, he would live up to such a fate.
But he had never imagined the real battlefield would be this.
To charge into this maelstrom would mean being torn apart—no honor, no dignity, only death in pieces.
"No… it shouldn’t be like this," he whispered.
For a fleeting moment, he considered turning his horse and fleeing back to camp.
But the Monsters were already closing in—swarming the front lines, clashing with the first wave of peasants.
Shaken from his daze, Joseph snapped back to reality, voice trembling.
"Engage! Engage and fight!"
In truth, the strategy chosen by Dolo, Lanpu, and other leaders of Ashen Hollow matched Robert’s plan from the Allied Forces perfectly—use the cannon fodder army to open the way, then send in elite forces.
This Goblinoid and Goblin horde numbered over twenty thousand, conscripted from every corner of Storm Ridge. Only about a third carried even a faint trace of Red Dragon bloodline.
Though small and weak—less formidable than ordinary human farmers—their bodies had been tainted by dragon aura, turning them cruel, fanatical, and fiercely aggressive. Their fighting spirit far surpassed that of the peasant conscripts forming the “Honor Legion.”
"For Ashen Hollow!"
"For the Great Red Dragon!"
Roars erupted from the Monster ranks like waves crashing against the shore.
On the other side, under Joseph’s command, the horns sounded—blaring the charge.
And so, two vast cannon fodder armies collided—clashing, writhing, entangled.
War had begun.
The Goblinoids and Goblins attacked with reckless fury, charging headlong into the enemy, indifferent to their own lives. Their targets? Farmers with crude leather armor and rusted blades.
A group of Goblinoids surrounded one human soldier, tearing at his rough leather armor with their claws, smashing his skull with stones, stabbing again and again with crude daggers.
"For Ashen Hollow!"
A dragon-veined gnome hurled a short spear into a soldier’s body, then, weaponless, clawed at him, finally leaping onto his chest and biting deep—ripping flesh, tearing open skin, blood splattering across the dirt.
Goblinoids in mid-air spat flaming arrows. The cotton garments of the soldiers ignited instantly—men became living torches, screaming as fire consumed them.
Fire. Blood. Smoke.
There was no strategy here—only raw, primal slaughter. Chaos reigned.
In just minutes of combat, the "Honor Legion" had already lost over a hundred men. Panic filled the air—shrieks, wails, cries of terror. The cannon fodder army was already doomed—on the path to complete collapse.
(End of Chapter)
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