Chapter 219: Skullcrusher

"Counterattack!" Balin roared, his eyes instantly bloodshot as countless crimson veins spread across them—Tier Three Skill: Berserk! Activated!

"Hah!" The dwarves bellowed in unison, raising their shields with their left hands while their right hands instinctively reached for the throwing axes at their waists!

"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!" The air filled with the dull sound of over a hundred heavy dwarven throwing axes soaring through the battlefield.

"Hrk—" The gurgling of severed throats filled the air, as blood spurted from their torn windpipes, replacing any last words they might have uttered.

"Aargh!" The trolls that barely survived let out piercing howls, drawing the attention of warriors from all directions.

...

"Whoa! What an intense battle!" Omsk exclaimed. "It seems these dark-skinned brutes aren't gaining any ground against our dwarven friends!"

"Stay alert! Don't let your guard down!" Omsk exhaled deeply, his breath turning misty in the cold night air. "The night is still long…"

...

"Fight! Fight! Crush their skulls! Let them know—we are the descendants of Durin! We hail from Khazad-dûm! And we shall return there! No! One! Can! Stop us!" Balin roared, pulling his double-edged axe from the dirt and charging forward.

"For Khazad-dûm!"

"For the honor of the Longbeard Clan!"

"For Durin's descendants! For our homeland!"

The dwarves, spurred on by Balin's battle cry, charged madly at the trolls in a relentless counteroffensive.

"Crack! Boom!" To the dwarves, the towering three-meter trolls were like towering giants, but they had their ways of dealing with them. Most wielded the unique dwarven war-pick battle axes, which featured a traditional axe blade on one side and a four-pronged, hammer-like war pick on the other.

They hacked at the trolls' knee joints, the axe blades cutting through like a hot knife through butter, severing their legs. As the trolls collapsed, unable to support themselves, the dwarves swung the hammer side of their axes down, smashing the trolls' skulls with a brutal efficiency that flowed like a well-rehearsed dance.

"Pop!" The crisp sound of skulls shattering echoed across the battlefield, so loud it could be heard from a hundred meters away. Even Caslow, hearing the sickening crunch, grinned in satisfaction.

"Listen to that! What a beautiful sound!" Caslow joked. "Our dwarven friends are doing great work—smashing those bastards' heads like they're cracking walnuts!"

His amusement didn't last long. Soon, the rangers he had sent scouting returned, bringing grim news. Caslow's face darkened with frost—if there was one thing worse than a frontal assault, it was being surrounded.

"Shield wall!" Caslow commanded.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" The ground shook as shields slammed down in unison. The Royal Guard infantry tower shields, now infused with auras of battle energy, interlocked into an impenetrable steel fortress, sealing off the camp entrance completely.

"Watch out for stray arrows! Prepare for melee combat!" Caslow abandoned any thoughts of counterattacking with throwing spears. Although the Royal Guard's javelins had formidable penetration, their accuracy paled compared to the trolls' deadly throws. Better to conserve strength and cut down some trolls up close.

"Dragon God, those javelins hit hard!"

"Can't believe they can generate that much force with wooden spears!"

"Thank the Dragon God they lack metallurgy… or else even this shield wall wouldn't feel safe."

The Zaltarion Royal Guards crouched behind their shields, dodging the incoming wooden javelins hurled by the trolls. The shield wall swayed slightly under impact, but it stood firm like a seawall against raging waves.

"Kill!" From behind the shield wall, sharp spears shot forward, twisting as they punctured troll flesh. Blood splattered into the air as the guards immediately retracted their weapons, their precision unmatched.

"Hold the line! Don't hesitate after a hit—withdraw your spear immediately! Don't let it get stuck!" Caslow barked as he dashed across the defense, cutting down trolls wherever the pressure was greatest. The blade of his wind-infused sword sliced through the unarmored trolls with lethal precision, sending severed limbs flying and painting the battlefield in carnage.

...

"Caslow's engaged as well! Now only Ori's side and ours remain untouched!" Omsk muttered, shaking his head. Though the Lordaeron rangers had warned them of an impending attack, the dense shadows of the forest made it impossible to tell how many enemies lurked in the darkness.

"Rangers! I need your eyes! Watch every shadow—we're at risk of ambush at any moment!" Omsk's expression was grim. A direct battle was one thing, but facing an unseen enemy was the worst kind of fight.

...

"Fight! Sons of Durin!" Balin swung his double-headed axe in a devastating arc, effortlessly severing a troll's legs. As it fell, its head landed right within reach of Balin's returning strike.

"Crack!" A sickening squelch followed as shattered skull fragments and brain matter splattered across the battlefield. A grotesquely dislodged eyeball, squeezed out by sheer pressure, bounced several meters away.

"Roar!" Balin pounded his chest and howled triumphantly. He was a son of Durin! The future Lord of Moria! The commander of the Dwarven Expeditionary Force! He stood tall at the front lines, hacking down any troll foolish enough to challenge him.

The dwarven warriors, emboldened by Balin's fearless charge, surged forward like an unstoppable tide. Their war-pick battle axes became the very harbingers of death for the trolls—severing limbs, shattering skulls, and crushing spines! What the world did not yet know was that on this night, the legendary Skullcrusher Legion of Moria was born—rivaling even the Ironfoot Army!

...

"Advance five, retreat three! Stab!" Though Caslow's Royal Guards were few, their quality was unmatched. Moving like a steel fortress, they took five measured steps forward, thrusting their spears in a synchronized strike. As the trolls shrieked in agony, they swiftly pulled back three steps, resetting their stance. One charge, one retreat—leaving thirty troll corpses in their wake.

"Shield bash!" Caslow ordered as the enemy forces swelled before him.

Shield bashing wasn't just a simple strike—it was a specialized Royal Guard technique. The elite warriors took a controlled step back, bracing themselves as they channeled their battle energy into their shields…

"BOOM!" The shields slammed forward in unison, unleashing a shockwave of violent energy. The three-meter radius in front of them turned into a kill zone—any trolls caught in the blast were sent flying, blood spurting from their mouths and noses. Those unfortunate enough to take a direct hit were crushed into a mist of blood and gore, their limbs scattering through the air.

"His Highness is right behind us! Show them what it means to be Zaltarion's finest! Show them why we are the Royal Guard!" Caslow roared, cutting down a wooden javelin mid-air before driving his sword deep into a troll's chest.

"Die!" He twisted his blade, unleashing a burst of azure energy that extended his sword's reach by several feet. The three trolls surrounding him were instantly cleaved in half, their bisected bodies collapsing in agony.

"Hold the line! Protect His Highness!" Caslow, drenched in blood, raised his sword high, a fearsome sight akin to a demon returning from the depths of hell.