Solution

To the west of the northern continent, the South Coast and the North Coast stretched out in a monstrous, endless arc, so long it vanished into the hazy horizon. To the south, the craggy peaks where the heart of the Kingdom of Gilneas lay clawed at the sky, while to the north, the coastline stretched on forever, a green ribbon unfurling into infinity.

From west to east, it felt as if the entire world had been sliced into undulating vertical lines, like the choppy sea horizon hung upside down. A long, artificial green outline marked the boundary between the churning ocean and the solid land, and the final, shimmering line was a silvery-white sea of humanity, bristling with steel.

The waves of the sea surged towards the shore, a green tide eager to swallow the land whole, its vanguard a terrifying, verdant mass. And whenever those waves retreated back into the briny deep, they dragged with them a horrifying crimson stain, a testament to the carnage.

Shadowfang Keep, perched precariously close to the churning sea, stood like a lonely island in a vast, green ocean. It wasn't small, mind you, but only a landmark of its sheer scale could truly highlight the boundless, mind-boggling expanse of this battlefield. Reflected in the grim eyes of the human commanders on the fortress tower was a sight that would curdle milk: two armies, locked in a death grip, fighting like rabid dogs over a bone.

The fortress's thick, high walls muted most of the guttural roars and desperate screams, but if some poor soul dared to stick his head out of a firing port or an iron window, the deafening tidal wave of sound would hit him like a charging kodo, instantly knocking him senseless.

The green tide, an endless, writhing mass of orcs, choked the entire coastline. Theoretically, only a little over 200,000 orcs should have made it to the South Flow Coast, thanks to the Alliance fleet sending half of their transport ships straight to the bottom of the sea to feed the fish.

However, that "more than 200,000" was about as reliable as a goblin's promise – a mere phantom approximation. No one, not even the orc commanders themselves, had a clue how many of these supposed 200,000 were elite warriors from the top-tier clans, or if the number was accurate, or if most of them were just glorified orc laborers. It was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, tied with a green ribbon.

They had only one simple, brutal order for the orcs who successfully made it to shore: "Go to the direction where the sun rises." Yes, charge eastward. When an army's numbers swell to such an extent that no human language can even begin to describe it, the simplest command becomes the most brutally effective. In theory, the Alliance's defenses grew weaker the further north you went. But all the warships of Kul Tiras were now concentrated on the sea, from Palatine Bay to the southwestern corner of the northern continent, a formidable wall of Bloodsail and Stormwind warships. Just making it to shore was already a victory for the orcs, a small miracle in a sea of despair.

In addition to their massive main transport ships, the Horde had also cobbled together a number of medium-sized warships, designed for one thing and one thing only: charging headfirst into the enemy. These crude, melee-focused vessels were giving the Alliance fleet a considerable headache. But in the end, Admiral Daelin, a man who could herd cats in a hurricane, managed to get his ducks in a row and began systematically hunting down the remaining Horde transport ships.

The South Stream coast was so crammed with orcs that there wasn't enough dry land for all the Horde warriors to stand on at the same time. Tens of thousands of orcs were packed together like sardines in a can, wading through chest-deep to ankle-deep water.

They filled every available inch of space, even climbing on each other's heads in a desperate attempt to find solid ground. Any cannon shell could plow a bloody furrow, a grim line of death, through the shallow water, sending green bodies flying like rag dolls. They were like an endless, ravenous army of demons, spewing forth from the abyss, ready to devour everything in their path.

Near the churning sea, several patches of forest, strategically separated by pre-set firebreaks, had been set ablaze. The inferno roared, a wall of flame blocking the Horde's relentless advance. However, the sheer, overwhelming numbers of the Horde were such that almost every moment, another orc was shoved into the death-filled forest by the relentless press from behind, condemned to burn alive. The orcs had no choice; it was either burn or be trampled.

They had seen what humans could do. When the human fleet stopped focusing on sinking transport ships, those brutal grapeshot cannons, capable of scattering a hail of small iron lumps with a single shot, would reap the lives of any orcs foolish enough to linger on the coast. If they wanted to survive, they had to push forward, defeat everything in their path, or die trying. You could only light a forest on fire once. A burnt tree couldn't be burned a second time before it grew back again, which, let's face it, wasn't happening today.

But Lothar had his back against the wall, no other options. In places where the forest couldn't be set ablaze, a few tattered Lordaeron flags still bravely fluttered, struggling to hold their ground against the green tide. Looking at the scattered, thinning lines of his soldiers, Lothar knew it was only a matter of time before they were completely swallowed by the endless green wave.

On the battle line closest to the beach, the Alliance's most renowned infantry regiments stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a defiant wall of steel. They braced themselves against the Horde's furious assault, holding a defense line composed of sharpened antlers, deep, treacherous trenches, and multiple layers of colossal fences that had been prepared long ago.

These were the 1st to 5th Legions of Lordaeron, the cream of the crop. Lordaeron's legions were the largest, rarely numbering less than 20,000 men. And their gear? Top-notch, second to none. It was no exaggeration to say that on a flat battlefield, a single Lordaeron legion could wipe the floor with two legions from any other country.

Behind the steadfast Lordaeronians, you could glimpse the Dalaran 1st to 20th Infantry Regiments, the Gilneas 1st to 24th Infantry Regiments, and the First and Second Legions of Alterac. But everyone knew, with a grim certainty, that if the iron will of Lordaeron's finest broke, the infantry from the other nations, coming up behind them, would be chewed up and spit out even faster.

Inside the headquarters at Shadowfang Keep, the tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. "Crazy! Crazy! The orcs are fucking crazy!" King Genn Greymane of Gilneas roared, slamming his fist on the table.

"Calm down, Genn!" King Terenas, who had also arrived on the front line bright and early, snapped back, his voice edged with fury. He angrily rapped the edge of the heavy command table with his scepter, making loud BANG BANG noises that echoed through the room. "If we lose here, you can still scurry back into your mountains. But if we lose here, I won't be able to defend half of Lordaeron!"

Beyond the coastline's defense line, the entire Silverpine Forest lay undefended, a wide-open invitation for the Horde. To the south, the orcs could strike at the heartland of the Kingdom of Gilneas, nestled on the southwestern cape of the northern continent, about 300 meters above sea level. Heading directly east, they could march straight to Dalaran, perched on the southern shore of Lake Lordamere. And if they swung north, they could attack the slightly higher Tirisfal Glades, the very center of Lordaeron. Gilneas occupied less than a third of Silverpine Forest; the rest was Lordaeron's territory, a crucial breadbasket. It was plain as day: if the South Coast defense line buckled, it would be a body blow to the Alliance, a punch that would leave them seeing stars.

"Antonidas…" Lothar, his face grim, had no choice but to turn his gaze to the Archmage, the military chief of Dalaran, the man with the greatest magical firepower to turn the tide of battle. To face the Horde's all-out assault, Antonidas had pulled out all the stops, bringing five mage regiments and 40,000 infantrymen – the absolute limit of what he could muster.

"Just now, at the most critical moment, the mages had already poured their guts into casting massive Fire Walls to help stabilize the battle line," Antonidas explained, looking utterly drained. "Now they've burned through so much magic, what they need most is a long nap. Otherwise, forcing them to keep fighting will just fry their arcane circuits. By tomorrow, you won't be able to squeeze a single spark out of them."

Mages were awesome, no doubt about it, but they were also willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause. What could you do? King Terenas was clearly losing his marbles.

"Anyone else got a brilliant idea? I'll marry Calia to him!"