Firefight

In this glorious, yet technologically challenged, era, the hit rate of fleet bombardment was less a science and more a roll of the dice, a matter of pure metaphysics.

Regardless, it was a night battle, fought under the shroud of darkness, where even the most skilled gunner was essentially shooting blind.

These early breech-loading cannons were crude, temperamental beasts, utterly devoid of any means to improve the stability of their shells. There was no rifling to spin the projectile, no sophisticated sights to guide the aim, and not even a stable base for firing. Every shot fired was a chaotic event, affected by the monstrous recoil of the next-door gun, which caused the entire ship to tilt and groan like a drunken sailor.

There was no recoil mechanism, no fancy return system. After firing a shot, the heavy wheels under the barrel would clatter backward to absorb some of the monstrous kick, and then the cannon had to be laboriously pushed back to its original position by hand, a Herculean task for the gun crews.

No matter how skilled a gunner, no matter how many years he'd spent at sea, his hit rate was still worrying, a source of constant frustration. It was like trying to hit a gnat with a rock from a mile away.

And then there were the orcs' utterly bizarre transport ships. No sails, no decks, just a giant, armored turtle shell bobbing on the waves. This gave Daelin a monumental headache.

Hinge bullets, designed to shred masts, and grapeshot, meant to scythe down enemy deck crews, were all utterly useless against these monstrosities. The only thing they could do was rely on the most primitive cannons to fire large iron balls, hoping, praying, that they could hit the enemy's critical parts and cause fatal damage. It was a shot in the dark, literally.

Daelin peered through his telescope, his eye pressed against the brass. He saw several shells slam into the enemy ships, but nothing happened. They were either bounced off by the thick iron plating above the transport ship, like pebbles off a mountain, or simply stuck directly on the top of the ship, embedded harmlessly. The orc laborers inside, oblivious to the chaos, were still rowing like mad, driving the boats forward at an alarming speed.

"Damn it! Forget about the remaining sixty percent... I won't even be able to keep ten percent at this rate!" Daelin roared, his frustration boiling over.

The artillery fire was fierce, a continuous roar, and the water columns thrown up by near misses were high, geysers of spray in the darkness. But only a paltry few orc transport ships were actually sunk. It was like trying to empty a bucket with a spoon.

At this critical moment, the Nagas took action.

A large number of male Nagas, their serpentine forms rippling with muscle, leaped onto the water under the heavy fire, utterly fearless. They brandished their huge tridents, their three-pronged weapons glinting in the dim light, and fiercely slashed at the exposed oars. Often, after a single, powerful leap, more than ten oars would be cut off with a sickening crackling sound, sending splinters flying.

The orc laborers responsible for rowing the boat inside, trapped in their wooden coffins, didn't know what was happening. Often they could only see that the boat had already started to spin wildly, but the laborers inside were still rowing hard, their efforts futile, causing the broken oars outside to paddle nothing but air. It was a comical, yet tragic, sight.

"Good! Well done!" Admiral Daelin waved his arms excitedly, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Send the signal! Have the Third Fleet disperse and approach the enemy to attack! Get in close and personal!"

The high elf mage, Gina Goldensword, frowned, a flicker of concern in her golden eyes. "Be careful of the opponent's counterattack, Daelin. Don't get cocky."

"What are you afraid of, Gina? Can a transport ship without a tower and with such low sides really launch a hand-to-hand combat against our ship? Why should I be afraid of a transport ship that doesn't even have a ram?" Daelin waved his hand nonchalantly, dismissing her concerns with a flick of his wrist. He was feeling invincible.

So the Third Fleet, eager for glory, moved closer, their massive hulls cutting through the waves.

As the distance closed, the power and accuracy of the artillery fire increased exponentially. Every shot now carried a far greater punch.

The iron ball shells, shot out with immense force, collided violently with the orc transport ships! The impact was deafening, sickening.

The iron shells shattered under the huge impact, exploding into deadly shrapnel, and so did the transport ships, splintering into a thousand pieces of wood and metal.

At this precise moment, as if on cue, the moon suddenly emerged from behind the dark clouds, bathing the chaotic scene in a ghostly, silver light.

Under the bright moonlight, you could clearly see the explosions sending iron and wood chips flying high into the air, a deadly confetti. The dazzling light produced by the explosions announced, with a brutal finality, that death was approaching, swift and merciless.

The shells aimed at the waterline of the transport ship were the most dangerous and brutal. Even if they did not hit the target directly, the near misses, the concussive force near the waterline of the ship, could easily cause the hull of the orcs' inferior transport ship to crack, to groan, to ultimately give way.

One after another, huge iron transport ships began to sink, slowly, inexorably, into the depths. From the noisy, desperate sounds that reached the sky, it could be known that each iron transport ship was filled to the brim with orc warriors, packed like sardines.

Perhaps on land, these warriors were omnipotent, unstoppable, capable of still charging bravely after being hit by dozens of arrows, like enraged bulls. But in the unforgiving ocean, they were no different from weak babies, utterly helpless.

When the ship tilted, most of the entrances and exits would be blocked, jammed shut by the shifting cargo and the pressure of the water. The deck was originally covered with iron sheets to improve protection, which greatly improved the survival rate of the people inside when the ship was not sinking. However, when the ship sank, it became a huge, inescapable coffin, a watery tomb.

Carrying nearly a thousand orc warriors, each one a potential hero on land, the ships slowly sank into the shallow seabed, swallowed by the cold embrace of the ocean.

"Hahahaha! Hahahaha! Want to play a naval battle with us Kul Tiras? You greenskins are not qualified! You're barking up the wrong tree!" Daelin laughed heartily, a booming, triumphant sound that echoed across the waves. He even pulled Gina Goldensword over, a joyful, spontaneous gesture, and took a celebratory sip from her goblet.

Within the field of vision, at least a dozen giant iron-clad orc transport ships began to sink, their demise swift and brutal. And more than thirty transport ships lost their mobility because their oars were broken, spinning helplessly or simply floating aimlessly on the sea, dead in the water.

"Admiral," a messenger, breathless and urgent, saluted sharply. "I reported the battle situation to the deputy commander-in-chief, who urgently notified your majesty that your fleet should retreat and be careful of the Hordes fighting desperately. He said to watch out for a last-ditch effort."

"What should we be careful about?" Daelin scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "These transport ships with low sides, no towers, no rams, and no long-range weapons? Isn't he underestimating our Kul Tiras fleet? He's got another thing coming if he thinks we're scared of these glorified rafts!" Daelin suddenly remembered something, a mischievous glint in his eye. "He wants his Stormwind Fleet to get some military credit, right? We'll let them go later. We'll give 'em a bone."

At this moment, it seemed as if God himself wanted to slap Daelin in the face, to teach him a lesson in humility. Daelin successfully demonstrated what it means to be overjoyed and then end up in sorrow, to count your chickens before they hatch.

In the place where there was no murloc Flash shining, where the darkness remained impenetrable, thousands of small and medium-sized transport ships suddenly rushed out, a new, terrifying wave. The biggest difference from the previous transport ships was that the bows of these ships were equipped with the sharp, menacing horns of some giant creatures, crude but effective.

It wasn't a ram in the standard sense, not a finely crafted naval weapon, but for one-time use, for a suicidal charge, it was pretty good. It would do the trick.

Admiral Daelin's face turned pale in an instant, all the color draining from it. His triumphant grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter horror.

"Retreat! Let the Third Fleet retreat! Now!" Daelin bellowed, his voice filled with a desperate panic.

But it was too late. Despite the bright moonlight, the Kul Tiran fleet could do nothing when they saw the swarming boats, a green tide of destruction. Compared to the light, oared boats, which could turn on a dime, the Kul Tiran ships with their massive sails were too slow to turn and move, too cumbersome to escape.

The result of their clumsiness was that the ships in the front were all besieged by the Horde's small boats, surrounded and overwhelmed.

The Horde's small transport ships, fueled by suicidal courage, bravely rammed the Kul Tiran ships, their makeshift horns splintering against the hulls. And then, a scene that stunned the Kul Tiran people happened, something they had never witnessed before.

The tops of the transport ships were blown off, not opened like a hinge, but simply covered like a piece of cloth, designed to be easily removed. A group of orcs used brute force, sheer, unadulterated strength, to flip the top cover, which weighed who knows how many tons, into the water, and then climbed onto the deck of the ship along the outer wall without even using a grappling hook. They were like monstrous, green spiders.

Their climbing action was naturally resisted by the sailors, who fought back with desperate fury, and most of the orcs were thrown into the sea before they could climb up. Those who could not swim often drowned, dragged down by their heavy armor.

However, as more and more orc transport ships joined the siege, a relentless, green tide, Admiral Daelin, who was a few hundred meters away on his flagship, watched in stunned amazement as his Third Fleet ships were besieged one after another. Often, a single warship would be besieged by more than ten orc boats, a swarm of angry hornets.

When more than ten bright green figures, axes and hammers glinting, appeared on the deck of a Kul Tiran ship, Daelin knew that the ship was finished! It was a lost cause.

"Retreat! Retreat quickly! Abandon ship!" Daelin closed his eyes, a grimace of pain twisting his features.

Painfully abandoning the Third Fleet, caught in the chaos, Daelin led the remaining ships and used medium-range artillery fire with great artistic sense and distance, firing into the swirling melee with grim determination, to seriously deplete the Horde's military strength. It was a desperate, calculated sacrifice.

The tribal fleet, having achieved its goal, having delivered its deadly payload, continued to sail towards Southshore, regardless of the consequences, despite being bombarded by heavy artillery fire. They were like a force of nature, unstoppable.