Warsong

"The ones coming are the Warsong Clan of the Horde. They are not just good fighters, but extremely good fighters. What needs attention is their chieftain, Grom Hellscream. He is a top-notch fighter, a real heavy hitter, especially you, Marshal Lothar. I don't want the Marshal of the Alliance to rush to the front, playing hero... I know you are also a good fighter, a true champion, but with so many generals here, do you, as a Marshal, have the nerve to steal the credit from your subordinates? You'd be raining on their parade."

When Lothar heard Duke say that Grom was awesome, a true beast, he was really eager to try, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of a glorious duel. But after hearing Duke's pointed words, Lothar could only raise his hands in mock surrender, indicating that he would not go to the front line. He was a good sport, mostly.

Lothar did not make a move, and immediately there was a silent commotion among the other generals. A hundred pairs of fiery eyes were cast towards Duke, practically begging him to name a person or a certain legion. They were chomping at the bit, ready for glory.

At this point, it was almost a foregone conclusion that the Alliance was going to win. The only difference was whether the price they paid was high or not. But at this point, it looked like it was going to be a big win, a landslide victory.

Everyone was eager for victory, hungry for glory, and the kings, who already had different thoughts brewing in their minds, were even more eager for their legions to have a brilliant performance in this war, because this would affect their country's future voice in the Alliance. No glory, no say.

Scumbag has no human rights. This was not just talk; it was the cold, hard truth of wartime politics.

More and more transport ships arrived at the seaside, a seemingly endless green tide. The Horde had so many ships that the long coastline was not enough to accommodate them all. They were packed in like sardines.

The brave warriors of the Warsong Clan, fueled by demon blood and a thirst for battle, pushed the battle line to the middle of the mountain. They faced fist-sized slingstones flying all over the sky, whistling past their ears, and carried crossbows that could easily penetrate their bodies, turning them into pincushions. When one fell, another immediately took his place, stepping over the corpse of his comrade. When a group fell, a new group immediately rushed in, a relentless wave. They used their flesh and blood to erode the human defense line on the hill at a terrifying speed, a living battering ram.

The Warsong Clan warriors' agile movements, their exaggerated jumping abilities, and their violent strength, all of which made the soldiers of Lordaeron very uncomfortable. It was like fighting a pack of enraged gorillas.

In just ten minutes, Mograine had already sent out the reserve for the third time. Even though he still had enough reserve troops, the meat-grinder-like losses made his heart bleed. These were the elite troops of Lordaeron! The best of the best!

At this moment, two red flares were launched in the direction of the headquarters, arcing into the still dim light of dawn, particularly dazzling against the fading night sky.

To the east, the Kul Tiras Fourth Fleet, which had been waiting for a long time, their sails unfurled, raised its sails and arrived at the battlefield within fifteen minutes, cutting through the waves like hungry sharks. Then it fired at the densely populated coastline, far away from the coast, unleashing hell.

Grapeshot. After today, this brutal, indiscriminate weapon would probably be listed as one of the most hated weapons in the Horde, a symbol of their utter defeat.

A huge gun barrel could often fit hundreds of thumb-sized, relatively round iron lumps, like a giant shotgun. Because of the short range, the Kul Tiras commander ordered that each cannon be loaded with 20% less gunpowder than usual and 30% more grapeshot, to maximize the spread and devastation.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" As a huge roar sounded, a bloody storm suddenly broke out on the coastline, which was not particularly wide. It was a maelstrom of death.

The new armor that the orcs got from the dwarf slaves was completely unable to withstand the impact of this kind of hot weapon. It was like trying to stop a cannonball with a wet paper bag. As long as they were hit by a single bullet, a huge blood hole the size of a human head would appear on their bodies, and at the very least, their hands and feet would be broken, twisted at unnatural angles.

Large pieces of shattered limbs flew into the air, a grotesque rain of flesh and bone. There were split heads, splattered intestines, and shattered weapons, all mingling in a horrifying tableau. In a few breaths, the entire coastline had become a slaughterhouse for the orcs. The seawater that surged up with the tide was all dyed red with the blood of the orcs, turning the waves into a crimson tide.

The tragic scarlet color spread over the sea surface hundreds of meters away, a vast, sickening stain, and it was all the blood of orcs, a testament to their demise.

The commander of the Horde ordered the transport ships to rush towards the Kul Tiras warships, a desperate, suicidal charge, but unfortunately, it didn't work this time. The Alliance was ready.

An orc laborer who was rowing hard suddenly couldn't help but screamed, a raw, terrified sound: "There are things down there, a lot of them! They're everywhere!"

The laborer pointed frantically to the large hole where the oar could be used. As soon as he finished speaking, he was dragged into the water with the oar, pulled down by an unseen force. A stream of blood spurted out, staining the water, and it was obvious that he was dead, gone in an instant.

At this time, quite a lot of slightly fat black shadows had appeared on the sea, their colorful triangular dorsal fins breaking through the water to form white waves, cutting through the surface.

Anyone familiar with it would know at a glance that it was a fishman. Murlocs.

This was not the first time the Horde had dealt with murlocs. They also knew that humans in Stormwind, though they did not know which one, had the ability to tame murlocs. It felt like it was as common as orcs taming wargs, a common, if unsettling, practice.

This alone was not enough to alert the Horde. They were used to dealing with a few murlocs.

Until the Horde suddenly realized that the number of murlocs was too exaggerated. It was an absolute deluge.

It was impossible to count how many there were. All we knew was that there were definitely more than ten thousand, a living, squirming carpet of scaled death.

Not only the orcs, but even the human defenders on the hill were stunned, their eyes wide with disbelief.

In the initial period, Duke did not send out the murlocs because he felt that it would not be effective to let the murlocs intercept the transport ships rushing towards the coast at high speed. It would have been a waste of resources.

It was different now, as most of the gaps on the coast were already filled with beached ships and dead orcs. If the Horde wanted to reach the shore, they could either smash the bottom of their own boats and disembark in deeper water, a risky maneuver, or continue to head west to find a place to land.

In fact, continuing westward was the right choice, the path of least resistance. But the sudden, terrifying appearance of the Kul Tiras fleet dissuaded the Horde commanders from thinking so. Worse still, the transport ships that were trying to attack the Alliance fleet all stopped, paralyzed by fear and indecision.

If the Horde's ship was powered by sails, the murlocs would have no way to cut off the power of the ship. But as for the oars, those flimsy wooden sticks, it would only take a few minutes for the murlocs to deal with the wooden oars that had not been specially reinforced. They were like piranhas in a feeding frenzy.

Under the command of the murloc oracle Mogor, the murlocs also became smarter, their primitive minds sharpened by the oracle's guidance. They worked hard to destroy every Horde transport ship, breaking the peon's oars in various ways and digging at the bottom of the tribal transport ship, creating leaks.

Even if one of the transport ships, which were packed with hundreds of people like sardines in a can, sank, it would be a huge loss for the Horde, a devastating blow to their numbers.

Looking at the battle situation, the five kings staying in the command center were all in high spirits, their faces alight with grim satisfaction.

"Hey, Horde, hurry up and play your cards. Show us what you've got! I don't know who the commander is, but if you don't play your cards soon, I will have to accept the lives of another hundred thousand orcs. And that's just a rough estimate!" King Genn muttered, a wicked grin on his face.

At this moment, a loud, sickening noise suddenly erupted from a large battleship in the Kul Tiras fleet. The next second, the huge mast, a towering symbol of naval power, broke with a deafening crack, pulling the entire ship down, causing it to tilt at a precarious 60-degree angle to the water. It was listing badly.

If the first blow could be barely attributed to an accident, a fluke, then the second blow that followed was witnessed by Duke himself, with his own two eyes.

On the left side of the battleship's bow, a dark shadow, a blur of green and steel, used a weapon to kill a fish, leaving a huge crack about half a meter wide and at least seven or eight meters long, a gaping wound in the ship's hull.

The hull of the entire warship let out a mournful cry, a groaning lament, and then the huge bow broke apart with a loud bang, splintering into a thousand pieces. The hull tilted even further, and a large amount of seawater poured into the cabin, rushing in like a hungry beast.

Duke clearly saw that many human sailors had already jumped into the sea to escape, scrambling for their lives.

Damn! Who is it? It's so unscientific!? What kind of monster could do that?

Duke cried out in his heart, a silent scream of disbelief, and the next moment he saw the murderer's weapon, which was a hook-like crimson axe. It was the signature weapon of a certain roaring father – Gorehowl! The legendary axe of Grom Hellscream!