Defense

The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging Southshore into a suffocating blanket of darkness.

A bright sword, a beacon of defiance, was stuck on the very top of the mountain.

In the vast expanse of the horizon, where sky met sea, the sword's tip plunged into the slightly yellowed meadow, a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of the sunset. Its sharp blade, shining like a tranquil pool of autumn water, mirrored the vast, churning ocean, while the hilt and pommel seemed to melt into the endless, darkening sky.

It was a sword that seemed to pierce the very fabric of heaven and earth, a testament to unwavering resolve.

The blue lace, adorned with a proud lion head emblem, wrapped around the hilt, fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Its swaying, flowing dance stirred up distant, bittersweet memories, like dust motes in a forgotten sunbeam.

Wise, deep blue eyes, slightly narrowed, greedily drank in the panoramic scenery between heaven and earth, absorbing every detail with an almost childlike fascination.

The middle-aged man wore a magnificent blue lion-head cloak, edged with shimmering gold, that billowed around him like a storm cloud. Beneath the cloak, a shining golden helmet, dented and scarred, spoke of battles fought and survived. This armor symbolized the glory of an era, a golden age, but also carried the bitter shame of a crushing defeat.

A pair of large hands, which had only recently become rough and calloused from the burdens of leadership, touched the top of the hilt, gripping the sharp sword with a possessive tenderness. He stood proudly in the wind, unmoving, like a statue carved from granite.

"Your Majesty, it's getting late. The chill is setting in."

"Anduin, guess what I'm looking at?" King Llane, a wry smile playing on his lips, turned and calmly asked his childhood friend, the former leader of the Stormwind Knights and now the revered Commander-in-Chief of the Alliance.

"Across this sea, straight ahead, then southwest, turn southeast, and you'll hit Stormwind City."

As Llane's best friend, his confidant, Lothar easily guessed Llane's thoughts. He knew the king like the back of his hand.

"Stormwind," Llane murmured, his voice laced with a profound sadness. "That was the land we risked life and limb to protect, the very heart of our glory. When I knew that Stormwind could not be defended, when the walls crumbled around us, I truly thought my sword and I would perish there, swallowed by the flames. However, for Varian, for my son, I still stand here, looking at my sword in a strange, foreign land." Llane pulled the sword from the ground with a grunt. Even after such rough treatment, the sharp and tough blade showed no sign of wear, no dullness, still gleaming like a fresh wound.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, he raised the tip of the sword high into the sky, holding it aloft like a sacred banner. Llane stared at his sword quietly, lost in thought.

A timid voice, small and uncertain, came from behind Llane and Lothar: "Father, are you saying that I have tarnished your glory?"

"No, that's not the case, Varian. Not at all." Llane retracted his gaze, his eyes softening as he turned to his son. The Stormwind Golden Sword, which symbolized royal power and the enduring glory of their lineage, looked impossibly slender and solid in the fading sunset, as if it was this very sword that held the world together, preventing it from crumbling.

Llane sheathed his sword with a soft snick and walked over to his beloved queen and child.

The queen, with a gentle, encouraging push, urged the young Varian forward, into the circle of his father's love.

Llane stroked Varian's little head lovingly, his calloused hand a stark contrast to the boy's soft hair. His loving eyes seemed to travel through time, seeing not just the boy before him, but generations past and future.

"A thousand years ago," Llane began, his voice a low rumble, "when the last heir of Emperor Thoradin was abandoned in the ruins of Stromgarde by the arrogant nobles, those greedy fools who were eager to chase riches in the fertile lands of Lordaeron, the first king of Stormwind Kingdom took that heir. He led the abandoned, the poor, the desperate, across half of the continent to the valley where Stormwind City now stands. And there, the first king made an oath, an unbreakable vow: 'I swear to protect my people – keep them away from hunger and cold, keep them away from killing and disputes, and keep them away from the arrogance and greed of the nobles.'"

Llane's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it had a strange, ethereal quality, making everyone feel as if they were following his voice, traveling back through the mists of time to that bleak, desperate era.

"Our ancestor did it. He forged the glory of Stormwind Kingdom in his own way, with his own hands and blood. He also told the descendants what true glory is, not through words, but through deeds. Before his death, he issued an imperial decree, a sacred command, asking every noble in the new kingdom to follow the spirit of chivalry: to be humble and pious in heart and full of glory, to be brave and courageous without fear of sacrifice, to be compassionate to the world and to be honest and fair. This is how Stormwind Kingdom established itself with military force and inherited its title with military merit. Unfortunately, most of the Stormwind nobles forgot all this, lost their way, so I prefer to regard the fall of Stormwind City as the punishment of our ancestors for our loss of glory. A kick in the pants, if you will."

Young Varian nodded, his brow furrowed, not quite understanding the full weight of his father's words. The history was heavy, but the love in his father's eyes was clear.

"Fortunately," Llane continued, a faint smile touching his lips, "when the people of Stormwind were in their most desperate moment, when we were down and out, I still had the help of your uncle Anduin and the genius Duke, who suddenly emerged like a phoenix from the ashes. This gave me the opportunity to make up for my mistakes and regain the lost glory of the kingdom. My personal glory is no longer important. My only hope is that the descendants of Wrynn can still remember their original intentions and pass on the glory of their ancestors. As long as they can do this, I will not have any regrets even if I die. I'll die a happy man."

"Father! Yes! You will see the day when Stormwind is liberated!" Varian declared with fierce certainty, his small fist clenching.

"I hope so too, my son. I truly do. However, your uncle Anduin and I will eventually grow old, our hair will turn gray, our bones will ache. When that time comes, it will all depend on the efforts of you and brother Duke."

"Yes," the little prince nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with determination.

Looking out to sea, Llane's sight seemed to have crossed the horizon, piercing the veil of distance, and reached the huge transport fleet traveling at high speed on the churning sea: "It all depends on tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day."

"Don't worry, Llane," Lothar said, clapping his friend on the shoulder, a reassuring grin on his face. "With you, me, and Duke, we are both invincible! We're a force to be reckoned with!"

No one expected that just one day ago, in the muddy, desolate wetlands, at a gathering attended by hundreds of thousands of orcs, someone uttered almost the exact same oath.

Orgrim Doomhammer stood on a high hill, a solitary, imposing figure against the darkening sky. In his sight, hundreds of thousands of orcs, a green tide of muscle and fury, were trampling on the muddy land, their collective roar a primal symphony.

There were so many orcs that it looked like a bright green ocean, stretching to the horizon.

This ocean breathed together, roared together, enjoyed victory together, and shared a common, bloody destiny.

Every orc, from the smallest grunt to the mightiest warrior, was looking forward to Orgrim's speech, their fangs gleaming in anticipation.

In the eyes of the orcs, even though the last bastion of Ironforge had not yet been captured, everyone believed that it was only a matter of time before Kilrogg's dead-eyed Bleeding Hollow clan would pull those damn dwarves out of their caves and kill them, like pulling teeth.

They had completely conquered this continent. Although there was better prey and more fertile land here than in their desolate homeland, it was still far from enough to accommodate all the clans. In the eyes of the orcs, this was only enough for three large clans to thrive. But there were more than three large clans, many more, all hungry and restless.

Orgrim cracked a grim smile, then he raised his famous Doomhammer high up, a weapon of legend, and roared to the sky, his voice echoing across the vast multitude:

"My people! Listen to me! Hear my words!"

Even the slightest commotion below disappeared, swallowed by the sheer force of his voice. Every orc fell silent, their ugly faces with protruding fangs turned towards Orgrim, hanging on his every word.

"This world is very suitable for survival! We can rebuild our home here! We have already seized this land. This is a victory for the Horde! This is a victory for the orcs!"

There was an earth-shaking cheer from the crowd, a guttural roar that shook the very ground. Orgrim could only wait until the cheers died down, patiently, before continuing.

"But this is not enough! This is just the beginning! Humans are not as weak as we think. They are very good at learning and are very skillful. After every failure, they will respond to our axes and hammers with a stronger attitude, like a wounded beast. Even if we have driven them out of this continent, they are still trying very hard to take back what once belonged to them. So, what we have to do is to destroy them! Wipe them out of this world! Leave nothing but dust!"

Orgrim raised his hammer, a symbol of his unwavering will, and pointed it north, towards the unknown, towards destiny!

"Orcs! Lok'tar Ogar! To the north! For the Horde!"

Southshore, a very small port town, was not comparable to any other port on this continent, let alone the infamous Booty Bay or the bustling deep-water ports of later times, such as Stormwind Harbor and Menethil Harbor. It was a mere blip on the map.

However, under Duke's relentless operation, after the arrival of the Stormwind refugees, this sleepy little town became the busiest port and cargo distribution center in the entire northern continent. It was buzzing like a beehive.

From the original small, rickety wooden pier, it had transformed into a huge, formidable stone pier, capable of handling serious traffic.

It was no longer just a quaint little spot for civilian fishing boats, but a sprawling, vital port for both military and commercial purposes, a true hub of activity.

The Southshore was dark from the beginning of the night, a black void, and it was not suitable to go out to sea unless there was a storm brewing. Every day, from the first crack of dawn, until the moon rose over the sea, the port was almost non-stop. Merchants brought goods from various ports, not only from the northern continent, but even the wily goblins from Booty Bay took great risks, braving treacherous waters, to deliver Duke's orders under the irresistible temptation of cold, hard cash. They'd sell their grandmothers for a few gold coins.

Tens of thousands of people were busy all day long, not to accumulate wealth for this huge port, not to line their own pockets, but just for the sheer survival of hundreds of thousands of refugees and for the grim, inevitable war that loomed on the horizon. It was a matter of life and death.

It was late at night, and there was still nearly an hour before the first faint rays of dawn light appeared between heaven and earth, painting the sky with the promise of a new day.

The sea opposite Southshore was calm and peaceful, a deceptive mirror, with only gentle, rippling waves on the dark surface.

If the officers had not already begun pre-war mobilization, barking orders and rousing their troops, if the soldiers had not gone to bed early, been woken up early, put on their armor, and waited fully armed in the bunkers and trenches on the mountain, I'm afraid everyone would have thought that the upcoming war was just an illusion, a bad dream that would never come true.

The Southshore Command Center was brightly lit, a beacon in the darkness, a hive of nervous energy.

Most kings were not used to waking up in the middle of the night, their internal clocks accustomed to more regal hours. For the three older kings, Genn Greymane, Terenas Menethil, and Aiden Perenolde, the impact was even more obvious. Most of them were holding refreshing drinks, served by their ever-attentive servants, trying to shake off the grogginess.

Duke sat in the seat that originally belonged to Lothar, a subtle shift in power. In this battle, he was the commander-in-chief, the man calling the shots.

Gently holding his chin with his left hand, Duke uttered two words through gaps in his teeth, his voice a low, gravelly command: "Ring the bell!"

Windsor was a very responsible soldier, sharp as a tack. He was so energetic that he would never miss Duke's order, not in a million years. He waved his hand and shouted, his voice cutting through the hushed tension, "Pass the order, the enemy is coming! Enter the first stage!"

A clear and sharp bell sounded near the headquarters, a piercing clang that shattered the silence. Soon, the sound spread rapidly, echoing through the night, and more and more dense bells sounded around the entire Southshore, like a frantic, metallic chorus. The two hills in the east and west of Southshore were in a violent commotion, as if the hills themselves were the legendary guardian gods of the shadow elves – the mountain giants – and the entire hills had suddenly come alive, shaking off their slumber.

The voices of officers at all levels could be heard faintly in the wind, sharp and urgent, and they seemed to be scolding the soldiers who dared to doze off, giving them a much-needed kick in the pants.

"Flare!" Duke was very frugal with his words, each one a command, precise and to the point.

The order was quickly passed down, relayed through the ranks, and soon, a cannon shot was heard on the hill east of Southshore, a dull thud. A ball of dazzling red light was shot into the air, arcing gracefully, then bursting into a shower of sparks, illuminating the dark sea.

It was not until this time that the alliance leaders, holding their telescopes, suddenly saw that countless small black shadows had emerged above the dark sea level in the distance at some point in time. They had appeared as if from nowhere.

Much smaller than the Kul Tiran warships they were used to seeing in the harbor of Southshore, these were mere specks.

In comparison, these small transport ships looked like a pile of leaves scattered on the water, insignificant and fragile.

However, these shadows that looked like leaves were growing faster and faster in everyone's field of vision, swelling in size. In a short while, the unmistakable shape of a "ship" appeared in the field of vision, then another, and another.

The mages stationed on the hills on both sides, their faces grim, cast a large number of Light Spells. Countless white balls of light began to rise to a height of dozens of meters above the beach, illuminating the entire beach as bright as day, turning night into an eerie, artificial dawn.

The Horde's transport ships arrived, a relentless, green tide, but they ignored the blinding light and did not slow down at all, crashing straight into the rocky eastern coast with a sickening crunch.

Even though they were thousands of meters away, the kings at the headquarters could hear the terrible tremors of the ship crashing into the shore, a sound that vibrated through the very ground. In a trance, they even felt the wooden bottom of the ship wailing, crying out in agony, and the big iron nails on the planks struggling, making a teeth-grinding sound while escaping from the wood, like a thousand tiny screams.

Countless dark shadows emerged from the ship, pouring out like a swarm of angry ants, and with the help of the light, the human defenders on the shore quickly saw their enemies – orc laborers.

Without armor, holding the crudest wooden hammers or extremely primitive stone axes, they rushed towards the hills not far from the shore in a somewhat foolish, disorganized manner under the shouts of the few orc warriors who were pushing them forward. They were cannon fodder, pure and simple.

"The first archer brigade is free to fire! Let 'em have it! The second archer brigade is ready to go." Mograine's voice boomed, calm and authoritative.

It was not cost-effective to use up the archers' strength to deal with the enemy's cannon fodder, these expendable peons. But Lord Mograine knew that the protagonists today would not be the archers of Lordaeron. And according to the deputy commander, that cunning little fox Duke, who had unparalleled scheming, after the archers had used up their strength, they would have at least three hours to rest and recover their strength. It was all part of the plan.

Just as Mograine glanced at the 'special seat' high up on the hill, where Sylvanas was perched, the familiar, deadly sound of a bowstring vibrating was heard, a soft thwip.

The arrows were quite accurate, finding their marks with chilling precision, and even if they failed to hit the enemy's vital points, they would basically hit the enemy somewhere, causing pain and slowing them down.

"Huh? Not bad," Sylvanas commented, sitting in her special seat, bored out of her mind. She looked like a cat watching a particularly slow mouse.

It wasn't bad as Sylvanas said. If it were in the human world, it would be almost at the level of a master archer.

The archery skills of these archers in Lordaeron were accumulated through countless hours of grueling shooting training. They started training at the age of 18, and most of them had received more than five years of intense training. The money converted from the broken arrows of each person was estimated to be hundreds of Arathor gold coins. It was a costly investment.

After arriving here, Mograine was depressed for a long time after learning that the bows and arrows of ordinary archers were useless against orc warriors and that javelins with stronger lethality were king, the true weapon of choice. Fortunately, Duke, ever the pragmatist, informed him that archers could also be used as cannon fodder for the enemy, to soften them up.

Regardless of whether this was waste utilization or simply making the best of a bad situation, at least these gold coins had now recovered some of their cost from the orc laborers, turning them into a grim form of currency.

Ten breaths passed, and the beach returned to peace again, a silence broken only by the lapping of waves. These laborers, who only had a loud voice and a crude weapon, were soon shot by arrows and died on the shore, their bodies littering the sand.

More and more transport ships were washed ashore, their hulls groaning and splintering.

The archers began to get busy, their arms became sore from the continuous shooting, muscles aching, and finally the first group of laborers began to arrive in front of the hill, a wave of green.

General Abendis shouted, his voice booming, "Raise your spears! Raise your shields! And attack!"

In front of the bunker at the bottom of the hill, the soldiers were already ready, forming a long defense line in a very standard manner, a solid wall of steel and flesh. Perhaps this was not enough to resist the huge number of tribal warriors, the main force to come. But if it was used to deal with hard labor, with these expendable peons, it would be quite sufficient, and it would also be a good opportunity for the new recruits to see blood, to get their feet wet in the grim reality of war.

Now, they stood guard, forming a solid shield wall with exposed spears, without any tactics, just a brute force confrontation, and the scattered tribesmen who launched an attack slammed into them like a wave against a rock.

The shield wall remained intact, unyielding, and every single peon was stabbed to death, impaled on the sharp points of the spears.

The fight with the peon was pleasant and easy, almost like a training exercise. And except for the real blood, it was no different from the training of stabbing straw man targets with spears. It was a walk in the park.

Some soldiers have already joked, their voices light with confidence: "If all the so-called warriors of the Horde are like this, one of our battalions can kill ten thousand tribesmen! We'll be home by dinner!"

At this moment, after the second round of Light, illuminating the scene with an eerie glow, Abendis discovered that huge transport ships were beginning to rush ashore, their massive hulls groaning. And many taller figures with obvious armored outlines appeared on the coast, a far more menacing sight.

The main force of the orcs had begun to arrive. The real show was about to begin.

Mograine ordered, his voice sharp and decisive: "Blow the horn! Archers cover! Let the sword and shield soldiers and spearmen come back! We will enter the second stage soon!"

The unique horn of the Lordaeron army sounded, a deep, resonant blast that echoed across the battlefield, a signal for retreat. The soldiers who were enjoying the killing on the front line suddenly realized that it was time to retreat, to fall back to a stronger position. With good light and the commander's shouting, the soldiers evacuated in an orderly manner, a disciplined withdrawal, and they followed the designated mountain path to enter the second defense line at a higher altitude.

When he saw his soldiers evacuating as planned, General Abendis raised his sword and shouted, "First Javelin Battalion, throw! Let 'em have it!"

The tall black shadows of the javelins suddenly shot into the air, drawing a beautiful arc against the dawn sky, then let out a sharp scream as they plunged downwards. Without any surprise, quite a number of orc warriors were nailed to death at the foot of the hill, pinned to the earth like insects.

However, many continued to charge, their green eyes burning with an unholy light.

Abendis noticed that many of the orc warriors were better armed than the intelligence reported. They were no longer the naked big guys with brute force described by the Stormwind soldiers, the crude brutes they had expected.

They basically had huge, spiked shoulder armor on their right shoulders, protecting their weapon arm, a fearsome horn helmet on their heads, a metallic half-body armor on their chests, and leather arm armor on their forearms. They had no armor on their lower bodies, often only a crotch armor similar to a leather skirt, but they obviously wore a pair of huge, heavy boots, which allowed them to better pass through complex battlefields, wading through mud and gore.

Abendis quickly summoned a Dalaran mage who was responsible for communication and reported the crucial information to Duke, his voice urgent.

After receiving the news, there was a stunned silence in the command center, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Lothar curled his lips, a grim humor in his voice, and said, "Gentlemen, at least we have confirmed that our enemies are a group of intelligent creatures that can evolve. They're not just dumb brutes after all. They're learning."

No one could laugh at this bad joke. It wasn't funny at all. It was too close to the bone.

Duke glanced at the exquisite wall clock hanging in the command center, its hands ticking inexorably forward. The time was exactly 4:30 in the morning. The main event was about to begin.

"Tell Alleria and Sylvanas that it's their rangers' turn. Time to earn their keep." Before Duke finished speaking, two voices had already echoed in the command center, as if they had been listening in.

"I heard it," the voice of the great devil Alleria boomed, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

"I'm almost moldy," Sylvanas complained, her voice a dry, sarcastic drawl. "About time."

Then, the deafening noise from the beach, the shouts and the thud of battle, seemed to suddenly become much quieter, almost a whisper.

Whether it was Llane and Seamus on the eastern hills, or Mograine and Abendis on the western hills, no commander dared to believe his eyes. Their jaws dropped.

It had been too long since humans had seen the elite rangers of the high elves in action, truly unleashed.

If the definition of a sharpshooter is to kill one enemy with one arrow, then these rangers were super sharpshooters, simply monster-level existences. The chilling sound of bowstrings could be heard from the higher positions on the hill, a deadly symphony.

In just a few breaths, all the densely packed tribes on the beach were shot to death, mowed down like wheat. The arrows were as accurate as if they had eyes, automatically navigating from the bows to the orcs' throats and other vital points, finding their way home.

Suddenly, the entire beach was empty, littered only with green corpses.

"My God, what kind of powerful reinforcements did our deputy commander invite back? They are equivalent to a ten-thousand-man archer corps!" King Llane muttered to himself, utterly dumbfounded.

General Seamus, ever the diplomat, comforted Llane: "I heard that the Windrunner family is the top ranger family in Quel'Thalas, bar none. They're the best of the best."

Llane felt a little better, a sliver of hope rekindled.

General Seamus was right about this. The rangers of the Windrunner family were indeed the most powerful among the High Elves, bar none. They were in a league of their own.

Throughout the human world, including the high elves, even if the more powerful night elves are included, no army could compare with the archers of the Windrunner family. Perhaps, the mysterious army directly under the legendary High Priest Tyrande Whisperwind could compare with the rangers of the Windrunner family, but that was a big "perhaps."

However, the terrifying thing about the Horde was not only its powerful individual combat capability, but also its terrifying, overwhelming numbers. They were like a green tide, endless and relentless.

When they found that more and more ships were moored on the designated western coast, the irritable orcs decisively ignored the orders from their superiors and began to rush the ships to all possible places for mooring, like a pack of wild dogs scrambling for scraps.

For example, the eastern beaches where the mountains were higher and human defenses were better, a seemingly suicidal move.

For example, the port terminal of Southshore itself, a direct assault on the heart of the Alliance's logistics.

At dawn, the main force of the Horde's beach landing finally arrived. The huge iron ship crashed into the stone dock, shaking the entire port dock to its foundations. Duke saw through the telescope that the deep-water port dock that he had built for a long time, the fruit of his labor and his private money, was hit by those bastards, and there were flying stones everywhere, splintering and cracking. Duke wanted to kill all the orcs, every single one of them.

"Damn you, this is my private money..." Duke muttered in his heart, a vein throbbing in his temple. He was seeing red.

Over there, Turalyon was also muttering, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and disgust: "In the name of the Holy Light, they are too ugly! My eyes! My eyes!"

Even though Lothar and Duke had described them in vivid, horrifying detail, it was far from seeing them in person. The reality was far worse than any nightmare. He wondered if the stronger the orcs, the uglier they were, a direct correlation between power and hideousness. Turalyon, who had personally observed the dead laborers of the Horde, those pitiful peons, originally thought that the Hordes were all medium-sized monsters about the same size as burly humans, with light green skin and two huge fangs in their mouths, like overgrown pigs.

Now Turalyon realized that he was completely wrong. He had been living in a fool's paradise.

The real tribal warriors were taller, more muscular, and uglier looking, like something ripped from a nightmare.

Vivid green skin and red eyes that were redder than a rabbit's, burning with a malevolent fire.

And those tusks! They were so huge that they couldn't even be contained by the lips, jutting out like sharpened daggers! Turalyon swore he had only seen tusks of that size on boars, monstrous, feral boars.

But wild boars do not walk on two feet, carry huge heavy weapons, or wear heavy armor. These were something else entirely.

Duke pretended to observe through the telescope, then, with a theatrical sigh, delivered the answer marked in the system prompt: "Okay, generals, one good news and one bad news."

Everyone pricked up their ears immediately, leaning forward in anticipation, like dogs waiting for a treat.

"The good news is that the Horde is finally willing to invest its main force. Lothar, you can consider recalling the reserve troops stationed outside. It's time to bring out the big guns."

Lothar smiled slightly. To be on the safe side, Lothar had distributed about one-third of the troops assembled in Southshore and stationed them in the central part of Hillsbrad Foothills, roughly inland between Southshore and Redemption Island, as a strategic reserve.

Lothar was noncommittal about Duke's proposal. Taking it back might not necessarily help, it might just clog up the lines. If he didn't take it back, it could be used as insurance, a safety net. At most, he would receive complaints from one or two kings, saying that his army was unable to perform meritorious deeds, that they were left out of the glory.

Lothar asked with a knowing smile: "What about the bad news?"