https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-571-Victoria-Harbor-Lower-District-Wilson-District-/13677351/
Chapter 572: The Battle of Blackstone Mountain
To enter Aivendeldan, one must first pass through a narrow valley before Blackstone Mountain—known to the dwarves as the Glory Path. The terrain here is treacherous: towering Rock Walls rise on either side, and in the center stretches a Stone Bridge Connecting Rift, flanked by imposing Stone Statues.
These statues depict the dwarven deities:
- Dumason, the God of Minerals and Gems
- Klendjin Silverbeard, the Dwarf God of Heroic Warfare
- Sade Hal, the Dwarf God of Hunting
- Gonde Guxin, the Dwarf God of Defense and Guarding
Deep within the valley rests a goddess with a thick, majestic Beard, considered by dwarves to be breathtakingly beautiful—Sylindor, the Dwarf Goddess of Love and Fertility.
As the gateway to Aivendeldan, this path is nearly impregnable. Along the sheer Rock Walls, the dwarves have carved countless Tunnels and built layered Fortifications, while the clifftops bear a line of Bastions. At the valley’s end stands an impossibly strong City Wall, which the dwarves proudly call “Orc Gravestone.”
For thousands of years, the Thirteen Southward Advances of the Northern Orcs have been blocked here—eight times by the Orc Gravestone. The wall is stained with old, weathered Bloodstains, patched over but never fully erased, a testament to the brutal Battles fought here and the Merits earned.
On the wall, Dwarf Warriors clad in Heavy Armor, wielding Fine Bows and Crossbows, and Short Spears, remain on High Alert. They lie hidden in the Tunnels along the cliffs, watching.
On the wall’s highest point, Toru Aaron, a dwarf general draped in Fur Heavy Armor and wearing a Horned Helmet, lifts a Wooden Barrel of strong alcohol to his lips and drains it in one go. He wipes the liquor from his beard, his cheeks flushed crimson, eyes blazing with fire. He roars at the warriors before him:
“Brothers! This time, we’ll keep them beyond the wall—let them never even glimpse Aivendeldan’s stone! Crush them flat!”
The thick scent of alcohol fills the air—but no dwarf flinches. For them, drinking before battle is not just customary; it is sacred. It fuels their spirit, and for warriors like Toru Aaron, a Berserk Drinking ritual only heightens their Battle Spirit.
With a thunderous cry, they raise their War Hammers, shouting in unison:
“King Aed—Long Live!”
“Crush them flat! Aivendeldan—Never Fall!”
“High Mountain Kingdom—Eternal Endurance!”
From the hills, from the tunnels, from the walls—dwarves stand vigilant, waiting for the Orc Army to appear.
The last orc invasion was four centuries past. Only the oldest Dwarf Priests had witnessed it. Most of today’s warriors were not even born then.
Yet, their confidence remains unshaken. They believe—without doubt—that the High Mountain Kingdom holds the finest Gear and the most Powerful Warriors in all of Feanso.
“Damned, Ghuush-worshipping filth,” grumbles Toru, climbing the Watchtower. He stares into the distance—and his blood runs cold at what he sees.
“Great Molradin…”
An endless tide of frenzied orcs floods the distant Wilderness, like a Mottled Tide. Among them: Hill Giants, Ogres, Goblins—all foul creatures. Ogre Cavalry gallops across the earth on Dire Wolves, while Vultures and Giant Eagles circle in the sky. And from the depths of Hell, Devil Mercenaries descend, their presence a curse upon the land.
The sight is terrifying. Toru’s hands tremble. His grip falters. The half-empty Wooden Barrel slips from his fingers and crashes to the ground below, shattering into splinters.
Though he calls himself the First Warrior of the High Mountain Kingdom, Toru has never imagined an Orc Army so vast, so Stature-defying.
Compared to the orcs, dwarves have unmatched Strength. Though shorter than common humans, their High-Density Musculature and Barrel-like Sturdy Build make them far heavier, far more resilient. Dwarves are born warriors—masters of Combat Techniques, with Unyielding Will, capable of enduring both physical and magical punishment. With their Heavy Hammers, they crush enemies flat. And the Shield Dwarves of the High Mountain Kingdom are the finest among them.
But they have one fatal Deficiency: Few in Number, Low Reproductive Capacity.
Even as the most populous dwarf kingdom in Feanso, the High Mountain Kingdom has fewer than 100,000 souls—most scattered through the mountains. In the capital, Aivendeldan, only around 20,000 dwarves live. After removing the Elderly, Weak, Sick, Disabled, only about 12,000 warriors remain to defend.
Meanwhile, on the Barren Ugo Plains, orcs breed without restraint, tearing up the grass in search of food. For centuries, dozens of Orc Tribes have slaughtered each other in a bloody Tradition, fighting for the favor of Ghuush—their god.
Now, Batu Skullcrusher, the mighty Chieftain of the Redfang Clan, has conquered 23 major Clans and 114 minor ones. He has united over a million orcs from the Ugo Plains, gathering their full Strength, obeying the Decree of the Father God Ghuush, and launching a new Southward Advance.
Add the Devil Mercenaries, Goblins, Ogres, and Hill Giants—the Slave Races—and the Orc Army’s size dwarfs the Garrisoned Dwarves in Aivendeldan by dozens of times.
This is a terrifying number. Most dwarves have never seen so many orcs in their lives.
Among the horde, a Steppe Land Drake rumbles, its back thick with Yellow-Green Weeds, resembling a Hill on the Grassland. Upon its spine, bound in bone, sits a Throne made of Skeletal Remains. On it, a towering, monstrous orc—Batu Skullcrusher—sits, his Dragon Scale Shoulder Plate glinting in the sun. His bare torso is covered in bloody Runes.
His face is a nightmare: massive Dark Yellow Fangs jut from his jaws, one Eye filled with Killing Intent, the other Covered by Leather, though a Fearsome Scar remains visible.
It is said that during a battle with a Titan Divine Offspring, he did not flinch as a longsword pierced his cheek. Instead, he Axe-Crushed the titan’s head. That act earned him the name “Skullcrusher”—and cost him his left eye. Like his Father God, the One-Eyed God Ghuush, he now walks with one eye open to the world.
After that battle, the orcs revered him as an Envoy Sent by the Father God, a destined leader who would Conquer the World.
Now, as the Majestic Fortress of Aivendeldan emerges on the horizon, Batu slowly rises from his Bony Throne, gripping his Chromed Great Axe. He grins—a maniacal, bloodthirsty smile.
“Hahaha… Finally. Aivendeldan… will soon belong to us, the Orcs!”
Beside him, an Old Shaman, bent and withered, chokes out in Excitement, his voice low and rasping:
“Oh, blessed! The Father God watches us! The dream of a thousand years is coming true! I hear His Voice of Joy! He has Armor Classcepted You! Batu, you are His Chosen Hero—He will lead us to conquer this land and show the world the Strength of Ghuush!”
The old shaman steps forward, pulls out a Crimson Powder, and smears it across Batu’s forehead, drawing the Sigil of Ghuush—the Unblinking Eye—right between his brows.
At that moment, a Frenzied Strength surges through Batu. His blood burns bright beneath his skin.
“Aaah—!”
Desire for Slaughter, Ambition for Conquest, Flame of Vengeance—all ignite within him. He Raises High his Great Axe, and blood-red light seems to Split Open the Sky.
“The Father God has appeared!”
“Praise the Great One-Eyed God! Praise Ghuush!”
The orcs look up at the Bloodlight in the sky. Their dull, clouded eyes now burn with Frenzy and Faith.
Their Focused Gaze locks onto Batu. He gasps, struggling to breathe as the Powerful Strength floods his body.
Soon, every Rune on his body pulses with crimson light. The one remaining Eye, bloodshot and wild, blazes with Battle Intensity. An Aura erupts from him—violent, like a Hurricane.
Standing tall, he Sweeps his gaze over the Tens of Thousands of orcs below. With one arm, he lifts his Battle Axe.
“Warriors! Shout your Cheers! I have received the Divine Edict of the Father God!”
“If you wish to die early, show weakness. Those weak enough to not fight for their clan should be Pierced with Spears! The One-Eyed God Ghuush has granted us the Greatest Gift—Survival Where Weaker Races Perish. Build your power here. Use it to crush your enemies!”
He swings the Great Axe again. The Bloodlight tears open the heavy clouds, carving a Crimson Scar across the sky. His voice grows fiercer—like a Battle Cry from the Wilds.
“Seek endless war against your foes! Kill them, enslave those who resist! Claim Territory! Secure Survival Space! Destroy the Elves! Destroy their Homelands! Ravage their lands! Crush the Dwarves! Seize their Caves and Fortresses!”
Finally, Batu spits a stream of sickly White Smoke, raises his axe high, and Roars at the top of his lungs:
“Destroy the High Mountain Kingdom! Conquer Aivendeldan!”
“Destroy the High Mountain Kingdom! Conquer Aivendeldan!”
The entire horde howls in unison. Their Sound shakes the sky, trembles the earth—far more savage than the dwarves.
“Attack!”
“Crush Them!”
On the outermost City Wall, and behind the Hill Rock, the dwarf soldiers scramble into Hasty Defense, firing arrows down.
“Hurry! Hold them!”
“Too many! The orcs are too many!”
“Molradin above! These Ugly Scum are like Rabbits on the Grassland—countless!”
“Swoosh—swoosh-swoosh—”
Arrows fly, piercing orcs, even Impaling them on the ground. But the dead are trampled. The living March Forward over their kin’s corpses.
Only a few hundred dwarves defend the outer Defensive Line. But tens of thousands of orcs press against the wall.
The arrows are like pebbles dropped into a river—Tiny Ripples, barely noticed.
The orc chieftains now Command the Hill Giants and half-giant warriors to carry Heavy Logs and Ram against the wooden Front Door.
“Heave!”
“Boom—Boom—Boom—”
Muffled thuds echo. Dwarves on the wall pour arrows down—useless.
A dwarf warrior, strong and grim, heaves a Barrel from a narrow Tunnel, hurling it into the orc horde.
“Boom!”
The barrel explodes. A Massive Explosion engulfs the area—Flame Light consumes a dozen orcs. The offensive slows, just for a moment.
But the warrior is struck by an Orc Longbow Archer’s Arrow. He tries to retaliate—then is Crushed Flat by debris hurled by a Hill Giant.
Above, Giant Eagles and Vultures hover, guided by the Bone Whistles of the orc Taming Division. They dive from the sky, Pecking out the eyes of dwarves.
One eagle even circles a single dwarf, Wings flapping, blocking his vision—until the dwarf, overwhelmed, Falls from the Wall.
“Rend this dwarf!”
“His Head is mine!”
Instantly, dozens of orcs Swarm Forward, tearing the dwarf apart.
Blood Splatters, Shattered Flesh Flies. In the chaos, not a single intact limb remains.
Under the Frenzied Offensive of Tens of Thousands, the Frontline dwarves suffer Severe Casualties. Many retreat into the Tunnels.
Batu Skullcrusher stands atop the Drake’s back, Great Axe raised, pointing toward Aivendeldan. His Heavy, rasping Voice echoes across the land:
“Destroy their City Wall! Break the dwarves’ spirit! Hahahaha! They only fear us! Fear the very existence of Orcs!”
The Hill Giants and half-giants take up the charge, slamming into the Oak Gate with their logs.
Boom—Crack—Crack—
The gate Splits further. The dwarves behind it grow pale with fear.
“Crack!”
A sharp, final sound. The thick Oak Gate collapses—revealing the hundreds of dwarves waiting behind.
“Hahahaha! Charge!”
“Crush these dwarves! Let their Blood Sacrifice the Father God!”
Hundreds of Heavy Armor dwarves rush forward, swinging Heavy Hammers. They Crush the first wave—Meat Pies of orc flesh. Hundreds fall.
But the orcs keep coming—endless, relentless. They Engulf the hundred dwarves in a heartbeat.
“Molradin’s children! My brothers! Never Submission!”
The last dwarf roars, swinging his hammer with fury—Crushing an orc’s head. But then, Spines pierce him from multiple directions. He falls.
And so, the Fervent War Cry echoes through the Glory Path.
The orcs flood through like a Floodgate Released—Frenzied Infiltration into the High Mountain Kingdom.
Their Objective? The Capital—Aeldenvand.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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