Chapter 183: Farewell Toast

To those who have never experienced war, any description of it feels hollow and empty.

Duke once naively believed that he could save everyone, but Lothar gently revised his plan.

A nearly cinematic magical image was presented.

The scorched earth bore no signs of life, with thick black smoke columns reaching the sky everywhere. The once-fertile fields lay abandoned, and only the ruins of broken gates and shattered tiles filled the horizon. The streets were littered with bodies in every direction.

There were strong farmers, gaunt elderly, pregnant women with swollen bellies, and children under the age of ten. Most of them were decapitated, and the dried, darkened blood bore witness to the desolation and horror of the scene.

Duke seemed to hear the screams, howls, and cries that lingered there at that moment.

No matter the age, gender, or combat ability, everyone had clearly been rounded up in the village square for a mass slaughter.

It was a genocide meant to exterminate the entire human race.

Games will always be games, and no depiction could adequately describe the soul-shattering impact.

Lothar walked over and gently patted Duke's shoulder, "Your plan is great, but you're still too young."

Duke's mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to argue, but in the end, he said, "At least let me accompany you to bid farewell to the departing soldiers!"

Lothar hesitated for a moment, then stared into Duke's eyes and said a single word, "Okay!"

The sun had set, and the moonlight was hazy, as if mourning the imminent fall of the thousand-year-old Stormwind City.

A large number of troops assembled outside Stormwind Fortress, with ten thousand soldiers standing solemnly in the shadow of the fortress, forming a massive, silent square.

The torches atop the city walls connecting the various districts of Stormwind had been lit. The dancing flames cast a long, wavering red glow on the square, reflecting off the armor and creating a brilliant sheen.

It was a gathering of iron and blood.

It was a reflection of hatred and rage.

It was a volcano of fury about to erupt.

The suicide squad had assembled, silently waiting for the attack order.

If one looked closely, they would notice that most of these suicide squad members were injured.

Some lightly, others severely.

The worst cases had lost arms, while others had exposed intestines, barely held in place by their hands.

The continuous battles had exhausted the mental strength of all the priests in the city, and medical supplies had run out ten days ago.

Left untreated, with the primitive medical technology of the era, most of these people would die.

But they were determined to die with purpose!

Suddenly, a clear order rang out, "King Llane arrives! Salute!"

A chorus of synchronized movements followed, as ten thousand soldiers stood at attention. Their injuries clearly affected their performance; under normal circumstances, these elite soldiers trained by Lothar would be perfectly in sync, as if they were one person.

Duke, trailing behind Varian, Anduin, and Bolvar, felt a lump in his throat.

Varian, clad in golden armor, stood at the entrance of Stormwind Fortress. His facial muscles twitched.

Anduin Lothar stood beside the king, his voice roaring like a lion, "Warriors of the kingdom! King Llane has come to bid farewell to the brave. Stand at attention!"

The nearly ten thousand soldiers simultaneously straightened up and stomped their feet.

Descending the slope, Varian, Duke, and the others walked slowly past the frontline troops.

What faces they saw!

Void of vitality, each face was pale, seemingly marching towards death.

Yet...

Every pair of eyes burned with an intense, fiery resolve, mixed with hatred and fury.

In each gaze, there flickered a fierce determination to face death generously.

Yes! Every warrior knew they were destined to die.

But before their lives burned out, they wanted to strike the invaders with the sharpest blow possible.

Duke's nose stung a little.

As King Llane surveyed the familiar and unfamiliar faces, he couldn't help but be moved. He walked by, patting the shoulder of every soldier in the front row. In the end, he managed to control himself and climbed onto the pre-arranged platform.

Varian raised a large bowl filled with wine, and the soldiers followed suit with their own brimming goblets.

King Llane's clear voice rang out:

"Azeroth has been invaded, and humans are being slaughtered like pigs and dogs. But we are fortunate! We have you, brave warriors, to stand with me and raise your swords against these cursed greenskins. Whether it be tonight or tomorrow, we all may die in this damned war. But it doesn't matter, because we die for our descendants."

"It's a pity that I, Llane Wrynn, cannot fight alongside you all tonight! But it doesn't matter. You go first, and when we meet again, either I will proudly tell you that I have reclaimed Stormwind, or I will tell you that, like you all, I died in the charge!"

"Now, with this wine, I toast to more orc heads taken!"

With that, Varian resolutely raised his head and downed the bowl of strong wine.

Watching Varian's throat move, Duke, Anduin, and Bolvar all raised their heads and drank.

It must be said that this dwarven Goldwine had an exceptionally fiery sensation. The burning torrent rushed down Duke's throat, and he instantly felt an intense heat throughout his body.

Duke, who didn't drink much, staggered but quickly steadied himself.

"Lord Marcus! I heard that this battle was proposed by you. So, I want to ask one last question." An old soldier with a bandaged head and missing left arm stepped out of the ranks, raising a bowl of wine in salute to Duke.

Low murmurs echoed among the soldiers.

Duke confidently stepped forward, his breath still fiery with alcohol, but his mind clear: "Ask, and I will answer!"

The old soldier grinned, revealing a mouthful of dirt-stained teeth: "I am a simple man! I don't understand magic or plans. All I know is that my wife and children died in this war, and I have nothing left. I just want to ask you, milord... Tonight, how many orc lives can my death take!?"

This was not only the old soldier's sentiment but also the sentiment of the ten thousand brave men about to face death.

They were not afraid of death!

The key was whether it was worth it!?

Duke shuddered and roared: "One for ten! And I will lay the foundation of our brothers' heroic spirits with the Warchief's head!"

The old soldier proudly laughed: "Hahaha! Originally, I thought killing one would break even, and killing two would be a gain! I never thought that I could watch the Warchief's head roll as I descend into hell! Hahaha! Even if I die, I am content!" He resolutely drank the wine from the bowl in his hand, and with a crisp snap, shattered it.

Behind him, ten thousand soldiers did the same, the sound of breaking bowls ringing out.

Llane's eyes filled with tears as he raised his hand: "Let's go!"