Reforged Chapter 78: Heaven to the Left, Warriors to the Right (Part 1)

In the distance, the dark gray sky loomed over the peaks representing the horizon.

Under the heavy, oppressive clouds that seemed to weigh down the entire mountain range, countless green-skinned orcs charged over the peaks. The canyon was filled with the scattered limbs of human soldiers and dull, gleaming weapons and armor.

What began as a defensive battle had become a slaughter, a scene reminiscent of the apocalypse.

Aside from the heavy crossbow bolts and a small squad of mages that could inflict significant damage on the orcs, the human forces were helpless against them.

The orcs demolished one fortress after another like playing whack-a-mole, dragging the human soldiers out and torturing them to death one by one. The canyon echoed with the crude, arrogant laughter of the orcs.

In the command center at the mountain summit, Anduin Lothar's face was drained of blood. He turned to the leader of the Gryphon Legion, General Turalyon, and said solemnly, "Take your men and come with me. The Kingdom of Stormwind needs a rearguard."

As he spoke these words, Lothar's imposing figure seemed to grow even more formidable.

Every noble present bowed their heads in shame.

It was they who had pressured King Llane into a war with unknown enemies.

It was they who had forced Anduin and the entire Gryphon Legion into a death trap to protect their own lands.

Although the command center was bustling, every noble suddenly felt a wave of loneliness as if they had abandoned a comrade.

The named General Turalyon, a man in his thirties with blond hair and a square face, was a typical military man with no connection to the nobility. With coarse eyebrows raised in accordance with the tense muscles of his cheeks, he snapped to attention and smiled as he donned his helmet. Before putting it on, he made sure to adjust the red plume on his helmet that distinguished him from ordinary soldiers, as if fearing the orcs wouldn't recognize him as a general.

"If I am to journey with Lord Lothar, I expect no loneliness," he said, his words carrying a resolute determination that almost leaped out of the audible range.

Would they rather be a hero for a second or a coward for a lifetime?

Only when a man truly understands this phrase does he comprehend the weight of the sword in his hand and where that heaviness originates.

Turning to Lord Bolvar Fordragon, Lothar nodded firmly, "If I don't return, tell Llane that his friend Anduin Lothar fought for his kingdom until the last drop of blood."

Bolvar's facial muscles twitched, and he suddenly took a step forward, reaching for the sword in its scabbard, "I will accompany you..."

Suddenly, Anduin's hand pressed down on Bolvar's wrist, preventing him from drawing his sword.

"The war has just begun. The death of a mere knight is enough. Leave the retreat to you, Lord Fordragon!" Anduin's voice was so clear and resonant that one couldn't tell he was a man prepared to die.

Bolvar's mouth moved for a long time, but he couldn't say a word. Finally, he turned his head away, his face filled with unmasked pain.

"Listen up! I, Bolvar Fordragon, will command the retreat. Whoever dares to flee first will have their head cut off by me!"

Lothar had considered this as well. Without King Llane's support, Anduin was just a minor knight. However, even without Llane, Bolvar remained a high-ranking duke.

His lineage, his identity, served as a deterrent to those nobles who had lost much of their fighting spirit.

Soon, the nobles filed out of the command room one by one.

In the direction of the rear mountain, the shouts of the noble officers rang out. Except for the soldiers in the small bunkers in the front who could not retreat, more than seventy percent of the soldiers on the entire mountain began to withdraw in an orderly manner.

Watching the distant green tide, Lothar's eyes held a complexity that could not be described.

Was it loneliness?

Was it melancholy?

Was it resentment?

Or was it a generous embrace of death?

Bolvar Fordragon returned to Lothar's side, his voice firm and strong: "Five thousand soldiers of the Gryphon Legion are ready."

Truthfully, Lothar didn't need to personally cover the retreat. As the commander of this battle, he could easily push the responsibility onto those nobles who boasted of their prowess before the battle, but trembled with fear upon seeing the orcs. King Llane would surely protect him.

But Lothar didn't. He calmly donned his battle helm and stepped out of the command post with Bolvar Fordragon.

"Guard, sound our horn, and let those savage mongrels know that we are coming!" Lothar's resonant voice commanded respect from the guards at the door.

The deep and heavy horn sounded, causing the orcs, immersed in their bloodlust, to raise their green-skinned heads.

Higher up on the mountainside, before the orcs could reach them, the gates of several massive bunkers atop two peaks opened. Thousands of human soldiers clad in shining silver armor, like rivers merging into the sea, quickly formed into two phalanxes, each defending one side of the mountain.

At a thirty-degree slope, they slowly advanced down the mountain.

"Roar! Finally, some decent opponents have come to die!" A small clan chieftain laughed in the orcish tongue.

The Gryphon Legion warriors moved slowly down the smoothest side of the slope. A sea of shields and armor formed a flowing stream of steel.

The entire legion appeared like a dazzling, flowing mass of quicksilver. Through the gaps in the kite-shaped shields, larger than those of ordinary Stormwind soldiers, one could vaguely see these heavily armored infantry with only their faces exposed by the half-helms. Their eyes were filled with determination.

At the forefront were the sword and shield warriors, followed by the pikemen wielding nearly four-meter-long pikes from the third row onwards. They rested their pikes on the shoulders of the crouched soldiers in front, poking out through the gaps between the shields.

The fourth and fifth rows of pikemen did the same, only with each row holding their pikes at a slightly higher angle.

This was calculated. For the tall orcs, the lowest row of pikes would reach their waists.

The entire phalanx was like a massive steel porcupine, awe-inspiring.

A forest of pikes rose, their tips gleaming with a cold light.

If their opponents were human, this would likely be a battle of attrition between positions, as simple bows and arrows would be nearly powerless against this steel defense.

But the orcs were different. They laughed, roared, and swung their incredibly heavy weapons, fearlessly attacking uphill.

A massive battle-axe swept through, the sound of snapping pike shafts filling the air. The pikemen's shafts were specially selected, and even a heavy sword would need to strike the same spot several times to break them.

Yet, in the face of the orcs' immense strength, breaking the pike shafts was as easy as snapping chopsticks.