Southsore in sight!

Every vital point of every orc was often pierced by two or three elven arrows. It was overkill, but in the best possible way.

The most miserable orc had four arrows in his throat, each one a tiny, green-fletched death, and three arrows in each eye socket, leaving him with almost no room to put more arrows. He looked less like a warrior and more like a particularly spiky pincushion.

Suddenly, a burst of extremely shrill death howls broke out on the beach. The sound was so dense, so utterly overwhelming, that it almost made people suspect it was just one huge, collective shriek of agony.

A few seconds later, the sounds of wind and waves were still there on the beach, a natural symphony, but there was no human voice. No orcish roar. Nothing but the whisper of the tide.

Only the green shadows on the beach under the last rays of the setting sun and the large area of discolored seawater that appeared black under the dim light were attracting the reconnaissance ship behind. The orcs attacking the beach were completely destroyed at first sight.

Quiet!

Dead silence! The kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

Not only were the orcs terrified – those still alive on the reconnaissance ships, that is – but the Kul Tiras navy stationed on the island was also dumbfounded. Their jaws were practically on the deck. The navy originally planned to get as close to the shore as possible and support the defenders on the shore with artillery fire, ready for a bloody, drawn-out fight.

Originally, the rear admiral was prepared to accept severe punishment from King Daelin, a tongue-lashing that would peel paint, as the price for having his defenses breached right under his nose. But what was the result?

The orcs attacking the beach were killed instantly!? What in the blazes just happened?

What kind of nonsense was this, that everyone died when the navy ship just untied the ropes and was preparing to go to sea? It was like bringing a cannon to a knife fight, only to find the knife fight was over before you even showed up.

But it didn't matter. Even if all the orcs on the shore were dead as doornails, there were still those on the sea.

Looking at the orc reconnaissance ships that turned around and wanted to leave, clearly having seen enough, the Kul Tiras Fourth Fleet tried its best to chase them, their sails snapping in the wind.

Duke, who was hiding on the shore and watching the battle silently, like a kid at a particularly violent puppet show, was once worried that the orcs might be in such a miserable situation, with their entire army wiped out and not even a messenger left to tell the tale. He needed them to spread the word, after all.

Finally, after seeing that two reconnaissance ships had escaped, limping back to sea like wounded dogs, Duke breathed a sigh of relief. Phew. At least someone will live to tell the tale. The propaganda machine needs fuel.

"Hmph! Little scoundrel, are you satisfied?" On the top floor of the bunker, Alleria, with her bow on her back and her hands on her hips, looked at Duke, who was visibly relieved. Her tone was smug, triumphant.

"I'm satisfied, how about you?" Duke asked casually, trying to match her nonchalance.

"Hehe! It doesn't even count as a warm-up. A ranger from our Windrunner family who doesn't have the arm strength to fire a hundred arrows in a row is not even qualified to polish my boots." She tossed her golden hair, a challenge in her eyes.

Duke was stunned. Are all the high elves monsters? What kind of super-soldiers are these people?

Drawing the bow and drawing the arrow looks easy. It's all grace and fluid motion.

But if you want to shoot far, you must use a strong bow. A truly strong bow cannot be pulled open without a tensile force of over 100 kilograms. Lady Alleria's arrows could fly farther due to the mountain terrain, but the range of the Elf Ranger Team's bow and arrow sniping was mostly over 100 meters.

At this distance, if a professional human archer used a strong bow of this level, he would only be able to pull the bow 10 times at most before his arms became so sore and swollen that he couldn't even lift a pint of ale.

Alleria actually said one hundred arrows... without breaking a sweat.

Looking at those arms and legs that are thinner than humans, it is hard to imagine that the muscles under the white skin have such endurance. But on Alleria's smooth arms, there isn't even a single "mouse" muscle, no bulging biceps, just completely standard, streamlined muscles, like something sculpted from marble.

Duke spread his hands in a gesture of utter defeat: "Okay, okay, you win. I throw in the towel. I give up."

Seeing that there were no outsiders around, Alleria came up and put her arm around Duke's shoulder affectionately, pulling him close.

"Look, I heard from my sister last night that you gave her a special seat. And my sister was in the doghouse for three months because of you! You can't be so partial, can you? It's not fair, Duke. You're playing favorites!"

When Duke heard this, he was absolutely gobsmacked. Are you kidding me?

It was also strange that two sisters would compete over something like this. It was like arguing over who got the last piece of pie, only the pie was a fortified bunker and the "favor" was three months in a military brig.

Alleria went to jail for him for three months, which was definitely a huge favor, a debt he couldn't easily repay. Duke had been in Azeroth for a long time, and apart from this, he really didn't feel that he owed anyone a big favor. Alleria was unique. She held a special, inconvenient place in his mental ledger.

Well, after resolving the grudge in her heart, Alleria didn't take it seriously. As a result, such a big favor was casually used by Alleria to ask for a return. And it was such an unbelievable return. Duke was really angry with Alleria and laughed and cried at the same time.

Yes, laugh and cry! He was so exasperated he wanted to tear his hair out, but also found the whole situation utterly hilarious.

"Well, actually I built a very solid hill behind the former mayor's house in Southshore, and there is a bunker on top..." Duke started, trying to sound enticing.

"Yeah, I know that my little brother treats me well. Come, sister, give me a kiss." Alleria leaned in, her eyes sparkling.

Where to kiss? Of course, the forehead! Where else could it be? She was a lady, after all.

But this time, there were no outsiders, so Duke could fully enjoy the deep gully between the two... meat mountain demons... that were her chest.

Duke was shamefully shaken. His mind, for a brief, glorious moment, went completely blank.

At the same time, there were orc scouts at the middle bunker guarded by Sylvanas. The position was slightly off from the pre-arranged one, and it was unknown whether it was due to the tide or the current. Sylvanas, like a blur of green and gold, led her rangers to sprint for half a kilometer, a furious dash, and finally caught up with the orcs just as they landed, giving them a head-on blow that sent them packing to the spirit world.

It was also an instant kill, a swift, brutal slaughter. But unfortunately, there were only two small boats landing here. Sylvanas was not satisfied with the killing at all. She looked like a cat who'd only caught two mice when she'd been promised a whole barn full.

It was not until late at night the next day that Orgrim Doomhammer, the Warchief himself, received the grim report from the returning reconnaissance ship.

"What?! Humans have deployed large numbers of artillery, crossbows, and archers along the entire coast?!" Orgrim could hardly believe his ears. He slammed his fist on the rough table, making the map jump. "You're pulling my leg, scout! Tell me you're lying!"

Orgrim did not give up and carefully questioned every scout, his eyes burning with suspicion.

"Great Chief, it's true, I swear on the flag of our clan! We were shot by many arrows at a distance of less than a hundred men. Probably forty or fifty bundles!" The orc scout's statement was the orc version, which means that the distance was about three hundred meters, and they were shot by five thousand arrows. Or perhaps ten thousand. Orcs weren't great at counting.

Where do humans get so many archers?! Orgrim's mind reeled.

If this was true, then the human kingdoms in the northern continent were obviously much stronger than those in the southern continent. In fact, the intelligence obtained showed that there were indeed six human kingdoms in the northern continent. Six!

Orgrim felt terrible. A knot of dread tightened in his gut.

If the Horde gave up landing in the Hillsbrad Foothills, it would have to bypass the long sea route without any naval advantage, which would be suicidal. It was like trying to cross a raging river without a bridge.

But the Horde couldn't wait. Time was a luxury they didn't have.

After the main force left Stormwind Kingdom, the Horde discovered that most parts of the southern continent did not have enough food to supply the army. They had devoured everything in their path.

The dwarven kingdom of Azmodan was cold, its lands barren, and many plants in the wetlands were inedible, tasting like dirt and regret. A large number of crocodiles and ferocious monsters had caused considerable trouble to the Horde, gnawing at their numbers and their morale.

The only hope was the richer northern continent. It was their last, desperate gamble.

Orgrim really hated Gul'dan's warlocks. Under his instigation, the Horde was like a plague of locusts, quickly consuming all the resources wherever they went. They left nothing but scorched earth and empty bellies.

All the trees were cut down and the grass was pulled out, some for their own use, some simply burned for fun. This was no joke; the orcs now simply could not suppress the urge to destroy in their hearts. When there were no enemies to fight, more orcs took pleasure in destroying the environment, tearing down anything that stood.

Without the pressure from human mages, perhaps Orgrim would really kill all those damn warlocks. He'd string them up by their entrails.

Now, Orgrim was helpless. He was between a rock and a hard place.

The Horde was like a wheel that starts rolling down a mountain. It either keeps rolling, gathering speed and destruction, or it flips over and perishes halfway up the mountain, a broken mess. It simply couldn't stop.

Orgrim bared his teeth, a feral snarl twisting his lips, and pressed his thick brown-red fingers on the rough cowhide map. His gaze was fixed, unblinking.

"Since humans have defenses all along the way, let's pick the best place to land. The place they'd least expect."

The place where his finger was pressing, a stark, terrifying declaration, was actually Southshore.