Done For

At this moment, Turalyon rode up on horseback, ready to deliver the coup de grâce to Zuluhed.

And then, Zuluhed pulled a move that dropped jaws across the battlefield – he suddenly reached up with his left hand, grabbed only the lower half of his broken right arm, and then, gripping the shattered limb like a baseball bat, smashed it down towards Turalyon's head, still clutching the hammer! This wasn't just abnormal; it was something out of a nightmare, a move that screamed "gone completely off the reservation." Nobody would expect an entire arm to be knocked off, much less for that same arm to then grip a hammer.

But Zuluhed, bless his deranged heart, did it. He went above and beyond, utterly defying all expectations. The weapon descending at high speed was less a hammer and more a giant, grotesque nunchaku, one part his own mangled arm, the other his enormous warhammer.

Even Turalyon, a seasoned veteran who'd seen more than his share of battlefield horrors, was momentarily flummoxed by this scene. There was no time to dodge, and Turalyon, almost on autopilot, continued to swing the hammer in his hand, trying to land a blow on Zuluhed's face with his sacred, golden-glowing knight's hammer before Zuluhed's anatomical weapon fell.

The two were hit almost simultaneously, a sickening, bone-jarring impact.

Zuluhed was done for. Under the astonishingly potent divine attack, his entire face caved in, a direct hit from Turalyon's hammer. He crumpled to the ground under the desperate gaze of his most revered chieftain, Orgrim. His body spasmed as life drained from him, and nothing could stop the blood from gushing from his shattered head.

Turalyon… Turalyon's Holy Light saved his bacon. A shimmering, incandescent aura flared up, looking like a glowing eggshell, perfectly shielding him from the fate of having his head pulped. The knight's invincibility was, and always would be, a get-out-of-jail-free card. Any self-respecting Paladin wouldn't kick the bucket on the battlefield without popping their Holy Shield first. There was a shock, a ripple of raw power.

No harm done!

The Last Stand Falls

Orgrim, surprisingly, didn't crumple. He looked at Zuluhed's lifeless body and then, as if fueled by a final, desperate surge of fury, he erupted with his last ounce of ferocity! His severely injured shoulder couldn't lift the mighty Doomhammer, so he suddenly yanked out two daggers made from the teeth of some unknown, monstrous beast from his waist and began his doomed breakout. This was hopeless. This was pure, unadulterated madness.

Under the collective gaze of every warrior on the field, it was Turalyon who charged forward. He leaped off his horse and swung his hammer, aiming for Orgrim's head. No one needed to remind Turalyon to hold back; everyone knew he was a steady, thoughtful sort. Sure enough, Turalyon twisted his hammer at the last moment, striking the orc chieftain with the flat side of the hammerhead instead of the sharp edge. The perfectly delivered impact knocked Orgrim to his knees, and he collapsed to the ground. More than one person saw the orc chieftain's chest still rising and falling.

"You will be judged for your grave crime of slaughtering mankind," Turalyon declared to the unconscious Orgrim, still surrounded by the Holy Light. "You will be paraded in heavy chains through every royal city of the alliance to atone for your sins!"

Uther arrived then, standing beside Turalyon, his entire form radiating a brilliant golden light, more dazzling than the brightest midday sun. The remaining orcs either turned tail and fled, or at best, simply threw their arms over their eyes and cowered in the blinding glow. As fate would have it, the last orc foolish enough to rush forward to save their chieftain was consumed by the light…

The holy light faded, and not far away, over a thousand pairs of orc eyes stared in stunned disbelief as their leader was dragged up like a dead dog and bound with thick iron chains.

Failed?!

Orgrim, the strongest orc in the entire tribe, invincible in Mak'Gora, failed?! Not just Orgrim, but Rexxar, renowned for his bravery among the orcs, was captured too! For the orcs, who lived and breathed by personal strength, this was an earth-shattering event, enough to make their very faith crumble!

"Ahhh! The Warchief has been defeated!"

"Oh no, we lost! The chieftain was captured—"

"Ancestors! Mak'Gora's strongest man has been defeated!"

Not every human could understand the guttural Orcish tongue, but that didn't stop them from savoring the raw fear and utter demoralization in the orcs' shouts.

"Don't let them run away—" Lothar waved a hand, a predatory grin spreading across his face. That's right, these orcs weren't surrendering; they were running for the hills. Chasing down fleeing soldiers was an ancient custom. The paladins mounted their horses again, chanting prayers, and pointing their hammers, now wreathed in holy light, at the fleeing orcs.

Holy light streamed from the paladins' eyes, their hands, and the hammers they raised. The black, scorched earth beneath their feet seemed pale in the blinding glow of the holy light gushing from them. "Kill these evil beings, let these rude and evil creatures return to dust, and let the whole world be free from their pollution forever!" Uther passionately bellowed the Holy Light Church's doctrine of righteous extermination. He took the lead, charging forward, and light hammers, scorching as miniature suns, began to fly through the air, one after another.

A Paladin's Hammer of Wrath held the sum total of their fury against evil. It was an expression of the rage in their hearts, and a judgment from the Holy Light itself. Many orcs, still in mid-flight, were blasted into oblivion by the holy light hammers before they even knew what hit them.

The Paladins led another charge, shattering the temporary silence on the battlefield. The remaining orcs and humans resumed their brutal dance. The rest of the Alliance troops also launched a full-scale assault. After witnessing Orgrim's defeat, the orcs plunged into utter panic, and nearly 150,000 of them frantically tried to escape the battlefield.

The treacherous terrain of Blackrock Fortress trapped these fleeing orcs like rats in a maze. The first rule of any fortress is that it's easy to defend and hard to crack. Narrow passages are practically a given. From the Scorching Canyon to Blackrock Mountain, there was only a 45-degree slope, at most 500 meters wide, and it just kept getting narrower. Beyond that, most of the mountains soared at a dangerous 70-degree incline. With pursuers behind them, climbing meant becoming a sitting duck.

Hundreds of thousands of orcs were crammed at the foot of the mountain. Even though the humans behind them weren't much more numerous, no orc dared to turn back and fight. They desperately shoved and clawed, even tearing at their companions' limbs, all for that single, narrow escape route.

"Fire, fire! Don't worry about the barrels blowing! Send every last shell we have into those green beasts!" Magni roared, practically buzzing with excitement. Excluding those smashed by orcs or ogres, and the few that broke down along the way, over 120 new steam tanks – Panzer IVs – had gathered at the foot of the mountain, plus armored vehicles, totaling 300. Fortunately, Magni's most insane tank destroyer was…

"Firing the canon!"

"Boom!" After every deafening roar, a colossal ball of blood and guts erupted into the air.

The orcs… were cooked.