Wood

There was no momentum like a locust swarm blotting out the sun, no terrifying, dense volley like a storm. Instead, it was the unnerving, almost supernatural silence of these arrows, shot without making a peep, that caused large numbers of orcs to drop like flies, creating a truly terrifying, psychological atmosphere. It was like a silent, invisible reaper moving through their ranks.

Defense seemed to have lost all meaning, as if every shield, every piece of armor, every last shred of hope, could be obliterated with just one perfectly placed arrow. The charging orcs, their bloodlust aroused to a fever pitch, roared and bellowed various war slogans in the guttural Orcish tongue, rushing towards the flimsy wooden camp wall like a pack of rabid wolves, convinced that sheer numbers would carry the day.

Right! They thought. Just get into close quarters! As long as they broke through that thin wooden wall and dragged the enemy into a good old-fashioned brawl, the elves, with their thin arms and legs, would be no match for the hulking orcs. This wasn't just a theory; it was a proven, battle-hardened truth from the two great wars of Quel'Thalas. They'd seen it work a hundred times.

It should have been like this, a simple, brutal equation. But suddenly, the orcs in the front seemed to step on something that wasn't quite right, something that gave way beneath their massive feet. ZAP! A flash of lightning, bright enough to blind a gronn, burst out from under them.

"Ahhh——" The air filled with guttural screams as twisted electric currents, visible as crackling blue tendrils, writhed around those unlucky orcs. In just a few breaths, they were reduced to smoking, twitching balls of charcoal, their armor still glowing faintly from the intense heat.

Mage? Orgrim's face twitched, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he watched this scene unfold from afar. It sent a cold shiver down his spine, reminding him of Gul'dan. If that treacherous warlock hadn't stabbed them in the back, why would the Horde have to resort to human wave tactics, throwing bodies at the enemy like the trolls did to the elves, just to exhaust their mana? It was a humiliating, inefficient way to fight.

Standing on the tallest command tower in the middle of the camp, a five-story monstrosity of wood and arcane wards, Marian, a member of the Silvermoon Council, looked down at the carnage with an almost bored expression. "I bet those simple-minded greenskins will think it's us mages who are finally taking action," she drawled, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Duke, ever careful to maintain a proper distance from the female elf with a suspiciously well-hidden weapon in her cleavage, smiled faintly. "Don't worry, you'll have your chance to shine," he said, his tone smooth as silk.

"That's good," Marian replied, her eyes briefly flicking to Duke's. "It is our wish to serve Sir Edmund." Her voice was so nonchalant, her robe so perfectly draped to reveal just the right amount of cleavage, that Duke almost thought she was chatting with him at a garden party, just missing a glass of champagne. It was enough to make any animal with excess hormones salivate.

Well, luckily I've been making good progress with Alleria lately, Duke thought, quickly looking away from Marian.

Then he saw a group of confused orcs, caught in a whirlwind of elemental chaos.

Being electrocuted! Being roasted! Being blown up! Being frozen solid! Being shot to death by arcane missiles! Being stabbed to death by spikes that suddenly shot out of the ground! It was a veritable smorgasbord of death. A glorious, chaotic mess, with a little something for everyone. The individual power wasn't overwhelming, but it was deadly enough to get the job done.

Orgrim, commanding from behind, felt his scalp tingling, a cold dread creeping up his neck. If the humans were just using simple weapons, like fire, he could still throw the Blackrock Clan, his most hardened warriors, into the fray. If they were using frost, he could use the frost trolls to resist. But unless they were warlocks with demon hounds, no orc had enough magic resistance to withstand this endless, varied assault. It was like fighting a hydra, cutting off one head only to have three more sprout.

Fortunately, there were some smart orc commanders, a few sharp knives in the drawer, who saw the truth.

"Watch your step!" one bellowed, pointing frantically.

Even though those things were cleverly covered, their true appearance was still revealed by the occasional explosion. They were disc-shaped objects, cunningly camouflaged with grass and soil. As long as an orc stepped on them, they would be triggered immediately, unleashing their payload. No matter what equipment you had, what clan you belonged to, once you stepped on one, you were crippled if not outright killed.

Well, here came the problem. If you paid attention to your feet, you couldn't charge fast, and you'd have no energy to defend against the relentless arrows raining down from the fortress walls. If you paid attention to defending against arrows, you'd forget about your feet and trip a trap. It was a classic lose-lose situation.

The orcs' violent charge, which had seemed capable of drowning everything in the world, slowed down for a moment, a brief, agonizing pause in their relentless advance.

"Hahaha! It reminds me of the first time I shot a hare with a bow when I was a kid!" Sylvanas cackled, a dark, joyous sound, as she loosed another volley of arrows. Because the difficulty of aiming was practically eliminated, she could now shoot triple arrows without any taboos, unleashing a terrifying barrage.

Anyway, the entire wooden wall was covered with quivers full of arrows, stacked higher than a gronn's head. You know, the armaments of the people of Lordaeron were the most abundant in the entire continent, so they had arrows to spare.

"Second sister! Do you want to compete?!" Vereesa yelled, her voice ringing with excitement.

"You bet your sweet arrows I do!" Sylvanas shot back.

The serious battlefield, a place of death and despair, was turned into a high-stakes hunting game by a few jumpy Windrunners, who treated it like a day out in the woods.

After sacrificing more than 4,000 elite soldiers, a truly staggering number, the Horde finally approached the wall of the camp. They violently swung their heavy hammers, smashing the wooden antlers and the wall to pieces with ease, tearing through the flimsy defenses.

The elven rangers, nimble as forest sprites, jumped off the not-so-high wooden wall one after another, landing gracefully on the other side.

To the Horde's utter surprise, the rangers didn't run far. They stood in the open space behind the wooden wall and continued shooting arrows at a distance that seemed utterly unsuitable for archery in the eyes of others. It was like they were just showing off.

"Kill these Elves!" the orc commanders roared, their voices hoarse with frustration and rage.

The unexpected happened again, because of course it did.

The elven rangers fought and retreated, a dance of death and evasion. And in order to avoid the unseen traps, the orcs often chose to step on the exact places where the elves had just stepped, thinking they were being clever.

Damn it!

Why was it that the elf was fine when he stepped on it just now, but the orc got zapped the moment he put his foot down? Electrocuted to death! Explode to death! Frozen to death! It was a magic show from hell!

The orcs suddenly discovered that the traps on the ground between the first wall and the second wall were denser, a veritable minefield. The density was so high that it was almost impossible to find a safe place to step. However, the elves, those nimble little devils, were able to fly in and out of the traps, dancing through death with impossible grace.

Not to mention the elven rangers who were fighting below, even Marian in the command tower was stunned, her jaw practically on the floor.

"Smart little thing," Marian murmured, a rare note of genuine admiration in her voice. "I see that you asked your magicians and magic apprentices to seal the magic into scrolls and store the magic in the trap. But I don't understand why our people were fine when they walked up to it, but the orcs fell into the trap."

Right!

Type A, "I Want Three Thousand Lives of You." To put it simply, it was a trigger-type mine that contained magic, a nasty little surprise package. It was created by Duke's follower mages, who had worked their fingers to the bone, pulling countless all-nighters to perfect it.

Duke smiled mysteriously, a glint in his eye. "Do you want to know the secret?" he asked, his voice a low purr.

"Certainly!" Marian replied, her curiosity piqued.

"Promise to help me fight the war to restore the Kingdom of Stormwind, and I'll tell you," Duke countered, a playful challenge in his voice.

"Members of the Silvermoon Parliament must obtain approval from the parliament before they can participate in the war," Marian said, her beautiful eyes moving as she gave Duke a look that showed she understood the political dance. She was hinting that she'd need to pull some strings.

"Then may I ask if we can open the library on the first floor of Karazhan and invite Miss Marian to come?" Duke pressed, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

"That's more like it," Marian purred, a hint of a smile playing on her own lips.

"Well," Duke began, leaning in conspiratorially, "the answer is weight. Without the weight of four high elves, those gadgets wouldn't be triggered at all."

Marian laughed, a silent, amused sound, shaking her head. "It's that simple?"

"It's that simple," Duke confirmed, his grin widening.

The orcs are more muscular than any other race in the Alliance. As they are tall and strong, they naturally weigh more. If a human weighs 150 kilograms (approximately 330 pounds), they are already considered extremely tall and strong. But for an orc, this weight is only equal to that of an ordinary warrior from a third-rate clan. For example, the Blackrock clan's powerful warriors were generally over 2.30 meters tall (over 7 feet 6 inches) and weighed over 200 kilograms (approximately 440 pounds). If they were the chieftain's personal guards, their height and weight would be even more exaggerated. Ogres are even more outrageous, easily tipping the scales at over 500 kilograms (over 1,100 pounds).

Duke used this crucial difference. When designing the mine, he added a thick iron block to the "button." Without a weight of about 200 kilograms (approximately 440 pounds) pressing down, it would be impossible to crush the iron block and trigger the mine. This is why "Three Thousand Lives of You" had almost no effect on the nimble Elf Rangers, but could kill every single orc who stepped on it. It was a truly weighted decision.