The Goblin War (1)

The moment Gorn's command fell, nine figures shot out simultaneously from the shadows on the northern side of the mine shaft.

The veteran at the front was the first to slip into the perimeter of the supply station, keeping his footsteps extremely quiet. His dagger slashed horizontally, slitting the throat of the goblin guard by the fire from behind.

The guard didn't even have time to make a sound before plunging forward into the fire. Sparks flew, crackling in the air.

Another guard whipped his head around, but before he could open his mouth to sound the alarm, Gorn lunged in from the side. His short sword remained sheathed as his right hand, gripping the hilt, slammed hard into the guard's temple, knocking him unconscious instantly.

“Charge!” Gorn shouted, leading the rush into the supply station.

The two guards at the entrance of the northern wooden shed had just recovered from their shock. One of them tried to sweep his spear horizontally, but an archer behind Gorn shot him down.

“Push forward!” the veteran roared. Having already dealt with the last guard by the central fire, he leaped over the corpse and dashed toward the eastern wooden shed.

The three guards at the entrance of the eastern wooden shed finally reacted. One of them screamed at the top of his lungs, “Enemy attack—!”

Gorn did not pause for a second. Now that they were exposed, there was no longer any need for stealth. His blade flashed coldly in the lantern light, heading straight for the shouting guard.

The guard clearly hadn't expected the enemy to close the distance so quickly. He reflexively raised his spear to block, but Gorn flicked his wrist, sliding the tip of his blade down the spear shaft to sever the guard's wrist.

Gorn did not deliver a fatal blow. Instead, he raised the hilt of his weapon once more and struck the guard heavily on the neck, sending him unconscious to the ground.

“The enemies from the south are falling back to defend!” the veteran yelled.

About seven or eight guards were retreating from the south. The one in the lead held a sheet-metal shield, followed closely by two spearmen.

“Raise shields! Advance!” The enemy squad leader was clearly well-trained. The shield-bearer pressed forward, while spears thrust out from the sides of the shield.

Gorn did not retreat. He sidestepped a thrust, only to be blocked by the shield-bearer.

“Don't let them form up!” Gorn shouted.

The veteran had already rushed to his side, his dagger slashing horizontally to force back another guard trying to flank them.

The remaining Bronzebeard warriors surged forward right behind them. The formation of the seven or eight defending guards was shattered, splitting them into small groups fighting individually.

Gorn sidestepped to avoid a spear thrust, then immediately thrust his sword forward, stabbing hard into the opponent's thigh.

Only scattered sounds of clashing weapons and shouting remained in the supply station. The last guard threw down his weapon and turned to flee deeper into the mine shaft. Before he could take three steps, Gorn's hilt caught up from behind, striking him precisely on the back of his head.

“All clear,” the veteran said, kicking a comatose guard on the ground.

Gorn stood in the center of the supply station, his chest heaving. He looked down at his blade, shook off the blood, and sheathed it.

“Yune,” he called out toward the south.

Yune ran back with two of his men. The sleeve of his left arm was slashed open, seeping blood.

“There were five guards over by the southern ventilation shaft. We took them all down,” Yune panted. “But they sent someone to report to their main force.”

“Very well. Everything is going according to plan.” Gorn took a sip of water, then casually tossed the canteen plug to his subordinate. “Next, we head back to the command camp. We must resolve all incoming enemies within two weeks if possible.”

Gorn's judgment was correct—the main force of the Greystone Alliance was indeed resting two miles to the northeast.

But more accurately, they had been resting.

When the news of the attack on the supply station reached the main camp, a new face was sitting in the temporary command tent of the Greystone Alliance.

His name was Barrow, the new Third Legion Commander appointed directly by the Greystone Alliance's Council of Elders to replace the dismissed Krag.

“Commander, the supply station has been taken out,” the messenger stood before him, his voice panicked. “The enemy had about ten men. They moved very fast, and the guards couldn't hold them off.”

“Ten men?” His voice was unexpectedly calm. “It seems they don't think much of me. Did they come from the north?”

“Y-Yes. From the direction of the northern main mine shaft. They are suspected to be an elite squad from the Bronzebeard Tribe.”

Barrow sat in the command tent. Hearing the messenger's words, his expression remained blank as he looked down at the map spread out on the table.

“Those useless trash, completely unreliable as expected.”

He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the adjutants standing in the tent. “What is the status of the main force right now?”

“They have just finished resting and are ready to deploy at any time,” an adjutant stepped forward.

“Then we march.” Barrow stood up, grabbed his cloak hanging on the back of his chair, and fastened it to his shoulder with one hand. “Have the scouts probe forward along the main mine shaft. Those ten men won't just wait around after taking out the supply station. They'll either retreat or have their main army ambush my main force.”

“Then we...”

“No need to rush. Order the vanguard to bring heavy weapons. With our supply line cut, the front line won't last long. We might as well take this opportunity to wage a decisive battle against their main force.”

Barrow's orders quickly spread through the temporary camp. In less than fifteen minutes, the main force of the Greystone Alliance's Third Legion was fully packed and on the move. Over seven hundred soldiers advanced north along the main mine shaft.

On the other side, just as Gorn returned to his camp, his adjutant rushed over in a hurry.

“Patriarch, the Greystone Alliance's main force is on the move,” the adjutant greeted him. “The scouts two miles to the northeast just sent back word. They have broken camp and are advancing north at a rapid pace.”

“Moving so quickly?” Gorn walked to the table, his gaze falling on the marked points to the northeast. “Their supply station was taken out, yet instead of sending people to figure out our troop deployment, they are pushing their main force directly north?”

“Is their newly appointed commander not afraid of death?” a general laughed.

Gorn's finger slowly traced across the map, stopping on the line marking the main mine shaft.

“No, this is very wrong.” According to Gorn's original plan, the enemy should have dispatched a portion of their main force as reinforcements, allowing him to swallow them up with superior numbers.

But the current situation was off. The enemy seemed to have realized his intentions and was fully prepared for a decisive battle on the spot.

“What is the name of their new commander?”

“Barrow. He was appointed directly by the Greystone Alliance's Council of Elders. He was rumored to be a civil official before this.”

“A civil official?” Gorn finally raised his eyes. “A civil official?”

The veteran stood by his side, frowning. “Patriarch, do you think there's a problem?”

“A massive one.” Gorn straightened up. “If it were me, with the supply station taken out, I would first send scouts two miles ahead to assess the enemy situation before deciding whether to fight or retreat.”

“But Barrow didn't. He pushed straight forward. What does that tell us?”

“It means he is already prepared for a decisive battle.” Gorn looked up from the map, his gaze falling toward the entrance of the tent. “He is no civil official; he is clearly a gambler—a reckless gambler!”

The veteran was the first to speak. “Then how do we respond? Retreat? Or fight?”

Gorn did not answer immediately. He looked back down at the map, his brows knit tightly.

“...We fight,” he finally said. “But our strategy must change.”

He straightened up, his gaze sweeping across the faces in the tent. “Barrow is pushing his main force north because he is certain we will set an ambush in the main mine shaft.”

“You all remember that old ventilation shaft, right?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“Since the enemy's main force is concentrated on the main mine shaft, they will surely neglect that small path.” Gorn smiled.

“Therefore, we will plan a pincer attack from the front and rear. What are your thoughts?”

The veteran was the first to grin. “Patriarch, I like this idea of yours. A pincer attack from both sides will certainly give him a run for his money.”

“But we aren't familiar with that old ventilation shaft,” Yune spoke up. “And with it being partially collapsed, our movement speed won't be fast.”

“It doesn't need to be fast,” Gorn said. “On the contrary, you need to strike when the enemy is exhausted to achieve the maximum effect of a surprise attack.”

He pointed his hand toward the marked line of the old ventilation shaft on the map. “Yune, take seventy men and flank the Greystone Alliance's main force from behind through that path.”

“Understood,” Yune nodded.

“The rest of you will follow me and line up for a frontal assault.” Gorn straightened his back. “Since Barrow wants a decisive battle, we'll give him one!”