Black Blood

On November 18th, the legendary Battle of Southshore, officially dubbed the Battle of Hillsbrad Foothills, exploded onto the scene.

Unlike the previous human-orc skirmishes, where every field battle was a lost cause and every large-scale defense felt like a desperate, passive stand, this time, the Alliance had pulled a fast one. They had successfully lured the green-skinned brutes into a meticulously crafted trap. As they surveyed the carefully selected battlefield of Southshore, every Alliance general felt a surge of electrifying excitement, like a warrior on the eve of a glorious feast.

The intelligence had come back, hot off the presses.

The Horde army had assembled, packed onto their ships like sardines in a can, and according to their plotted course, their target was Southshore.

There was no pulling the wool over anyone's eyes this time.

It was impossible for Duke's Nagas to guard the hundreds of kilometers of winding coastline across the wetlands without any holes in the net. In this era, with its primitive surveillance, keeping tabs on every inch of that vast expanse was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. It simply couldn't be done.

But this wasn't some sneaky infiltration. This was a massive army on the move.

It was impossible to hide it from anyone. When a veritable armada of ships was pushed into the sea from the beach, the Alliance generals knew, with a chilling certainty, that the war was coming. And it was coming fast.

In one day, the orcs would be knocking on their door!

Duke, with a dramatic flourish, slapped the huge map in the headquarters, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. He declared, his voice ringing with conviction:

"The name of this operation is 'Black Blood,' referring to the Orcs!"

Orc Blood? A simple, straightforward name, blunt as an orcish axe.

The proud soldiers and generals from the seven kingdoms all fell into a collective, almost trance-like muttering, as if possessed by some ancient spirit.

Soon, an indescribable feeling of horror, of primal dread, spread throughout their bodies, shaking the deepest part of their spirits. It resonated with the clank of the armor on their bodies and the subtle hum of the long swords in the scabbards at their waists.

These battle-hardened warriors, veterans of countless bloody encounters, all had a strange, almost prophetic feeling. A magnificent, terrifying illusion seemed to appear before their eyes – countless green-skinned corpses, twisted and broken, lay in a grotesque mess on a battlefield burned by cleansing flames. Each corpse was so hideous, so cruel in its death throes, but their unwilling souls could only continue to vent their anger by roaring in the desperate hell they now inhabited.

When Duke uttered the name of the operation "Black Blood," the generals could no longer think of any other name that would be more suitable for this operation. It was perfect. It was chilling. It was inevitable.

Even if this wasn't the final, climactic battle between the Alliance and the Horde, it was still an incredibly exciting thing to drain the enemy's blood, to watch them bleed dry.

No! They even felt that the success of the operation was inevitable, sealed by the very creation of this name. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, a guarantee of victory.

Of course, this was just a momentary illusion. A fleeting burst of adrenaline.

Not to mention the Stormwind Kingdom's troops who had experienced the brutal, soul-crushing Battle of Stormwind City, just from seeing with their own eyes that even the corpses of the orc laborers had the physique of the strongest human soldiers, the generals of the Alliance knew that the road ahead would be extremely difficult. It was going to be a tough nut to crack.

There was no such thing as a casual victory, no easy win. Every triumph, even with such a meticulously planned advantage, had to be achieved through several life-and-death trials, through blood, sweat, and tears.

The expressions on their faces quickly changed from wild excitement to grim seriousness, a hardened resolve settling over their features.

But it was undeniable that as warriors who were useless in peacetime, who chafed under the boredom of peace, hearing such a battle name in the sudden chaos of war would inevitably stir up the indomitable passion lurking in their bodies, the fire in their bellies.

The light in their sharp eyes was still full of excitement, a hungry gleam. What excited them most was taking the first step towards a strategic victory before even gaining a tactical advantage. They were playing chess, not checkers, and Duke was a grandmaster.

This was a great achievement made by a super talented deputy commander who looked 19 years old but was actually only 15 years old. A wunderkind, a prodigy.

In a sense, they were standing on the shoulders of giants, riding the coattails of a genius.

"Please let my Haas's Mountain Eagle Knights take the lead!" General Haas boomed, eager for glory.

"Don't be ridiculous, Haas! This is a defensive battle. Are your knights going to charge into the sea? Are you planning to drown them all?" another general retorted, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Let my Stromgarde Mountain Infantry come! We'll hold the line!"

Every general enthusiastically recommended himself to Duke, practically tripping over each other in their eagerness to prove their worth.

Originally, the commander-in-chief Lothar was supposed to arrange the army, but Lothar, with a shrewd grin, temporarily handed over the command of the army to Duke, saying, "No one knows the defense of Southshore better than Duke himself, so it is best to let him arrange it. He built the damn thing, after all."

Duke was the man of the hour! He was holding all the cards.

He knew very well that this might very well be a turning point between the Alliance and the Horde, a moment that would shift the tides of war. Every legion that took part might go down in history as a result, their names etched into the annals of Azeroth.

Duke was extremely cautious, weighing every decision. As a time traveler, he knew exactly what cards the Horde had up their sleeve, what aces they might pull. Even though the Horde had changed a lot, those historical wild cards were unlikely to disappear entirely.

"First, Admiral Proudmoore." Duke called out the military rank, a subtle nod to the Admiral's status as a king.

"Here!" King Daelin Proudmoore, a man who rarely stood at attention for anyone, snapped to attention with surprising alacrity.

"Except for the Fourth Fleet cruising in the waters off the western beach, all fleets will set up pocket formations in the waters off Southshore. All light transport ships must be released. Before receiving the signal, sixty percent of the large transport ships covered with iron sheets must be released. After receiving the signal, strangle them with all your strength at all costs. Give 'em hell."

"No problem," Admiral Daelin said proudly, a glint in his eye. "Consider it done."

Duke turned his head and glanced at the Alliance Army generals from left to right, his gaze sweeping over their eager faces, finally setting his eyes on the grim, determined visages of Mograine and Abendis.

"General Mograine, General Abendis, can I trust your men? Can they hold the line when the chips are down?"

"The paladins will fight to the death!" Mograine roared, his voice a booming declaration of unwavering loyalty, a lion's roar.

In this face that was obviously much younger than the one Duke remembered, Duke seemed to see his heroic figure in the future, wielding the domineering semi-artifact Ashebringer, a blade of holy fire, to cleave through the enemy.

Duke drew a line on the map, a stark, decisive stroke, and said, "From the hilltop in the west of Southshore to the area of five kilometers to the west, it is all your army's. I require you to defend the hilltop to the death. No counterattack is allowed without a signal. Hold the line, no matter what."

"Clear," Mograine and Abendis responded in unison, their voices firm.

In this era, "legion" was a very general concept. A smaller legion might have only 5,000 or 6,000 people, barely a strong brigade. A larger legion, such as Mograine's Scarlet Crusade, boasted nearly 30,000 people, a formidable fighting force.

The current Scarlet Crusade was far less crazy and twisted than the later generations, before it descended into fanaticism. It had excellent discipline and high morale, and was definitely the cream of the crop, the essence of the Lordaeron army!

Duke sent them out as the main force of defense, placing his trust in their unwavering faith. And King Terenas, who had been silent all the time, observing with a keen eye, also had a smug look on his face. His best troops were being put to good use.

Next, Duke set his sights on King Llane, a man who carried the weight of a shattered kingdom on his shoulders.

"Admiral Wrynn." Duke's address was definitely weird, blurring the lines of rank and title, but it had to be this way in order to maintain the Alliance's military system, to keep the kings in line.

"Here!" Llane, wearing a golden helmet and armor that gleamed in the flickering light, was also eager to prove himself, to show he was more than just a figurehead.

"You and General Seamus will lead the Griffin Legion and the First and Second Storm Infantry Regiments to guard the hill east of the town until the end of the eastern coast."

"I know," Llane said, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. To be honest, it sounded the same as Mograine's orders, just on the left and right sides of Southshore. But in fact, Stormwind Kingdom had an advantage in terms of geographical location. There was a relatively turbulent river to the east of Southshore. If an attack was launched from the mountain, it would be like having an extra moat, a natural barrier.

Llane also knew that Duke was letting him attack while also preserving the vitality of the Stormwind Kingdom. It was a strategic move, a way to keep Stormwind in the fight without bleeding them dry. Considering the overall situation, this was the safest arrangement. Llane didn't say anything, swallowing his pride.

"Captain Lothar, you lead all the cavalry and prepare to charge along the designated route. Drive all the enemies that enter the town into the sea to feed the fish. Don't leave a single one standing!"

"No problem!" Lothar, ever the eager warrior, was also excited, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of a glorious charge. He was chomping at the bit.