Chapter 443: Choice and Deterrence, Sorrow of the Orcs

"Hush, calm down, Charles. Think clearly about what must be done next, instead of acting like a foul-mouthed shrew."

After venting his rage and agitation through a string of curses, Charles successfully forced himself to compose, beginning to contemplate how to handle the impending war.

"Sariben? What possible reason could those bastards have to fight us? Although we are neighbors, we lack the irreconcilable conflicts over survival and resources that we had with Seuvintan. This sudden declaration of war is utterly inexplicable."

As his thoughts raced, Charles pulled everything he knew about the Sariben Empire from his memory, analyzing the motives behind this bizarre declaration of war against Alastrelle.

The Sariben Empire, like Seuvintan and Alastrelle, was a neighbor, though its border with Seuvintan consisted only of treacherous mountain paths, precluding any meaningful exchange of goods or communication.

However, now that Alastrelle had occupied Seuvintan’s former territories, the Sariben Empire shared a direct border with Alastrelle to the northwest, connected by numerous accessible roads.

"When we were locked in our decisive battle with Seuvintan, these neighbors sent observers to watch. Their intent was clearly to reap the benefits of our exhaustion. After the war, the royal family was too busy consolidating power and digesting the new land to consider the neighbors..."

"And after we dealt with the royals, the situation remained much the same: restructuring the parliament, revising flawed laws, stripping the nobility of their overreaching powers,

and conscripting soldiers. We truly hadn't given these neighboring kingdoms much thought."

"So, are these Sariben sons-of-bitches now eyeing Alastrelle while we are in the midst of our revival?"

Fidgeting with his pen, tracing aimless patterns in the air, Charles speculated on what grand scheme the Sariben Empire was plotting by declaring war at such a moment.

"No, that reason is insufficient. The cost of war cannot be recouped by a single victory. Even Alastrelle’s great triumph, which was calculated and suffered few major losses, requires years of recuperation."

He pressed his pen firmly against the desk, dismissing his own previous hypothesis.

Whether on Earth, where Wang Yu originated, or in this world, war was no trivial matter. Regardless of the scale, soldiers would die, and armor and supplies would be reduced to dust.

That was merely the baseline; as long as the war remained within manageable limits, those involved were professional soldiers or mercenaries willing to trade their lives for coin.

But when the intensity escalated, when professional soldiers were no longer enough and ordinary citizens were conscripted, the kingdom entered a countdown to destruction, burning its own lifeblood to secure a victory.

The death of an adult male often meant the collapse of a household, triggering a chain reaction of weakened consumption and plummeting productivity. Once the scale reached a certain point, the entire order of the kingdom would disintegrate.

The people were the future and the hard power of a kingdom. Population was not like goblins, which could be harvested crop after crop; it took over a decade for a child to grow into a warrior, and the kingdom’s core extraordinary forces were drawn from these ranks.

Mass casualties meant two long periods of stagnation. Without a deep foundation, an ordinary kingdom would effectively cease to exist. From any perspective, the Sariben Empire, which was not the pinnacle of human military might, had no reason to launch this war.

"Setting that aside, there is the matter of the Church of Light. They would never ignore a war without just cause or motive; they would surely send their Holy Crusaders. Does Sariben intend to disregard them as well?"

After his analysis, Charles’s expression grew strange. It made no sense—none at all. Unless Sariben had gone mad, why would they declare war on Alastrelle?

"Charles, perhaps they really have gone mad?"

The voice of the devil "One" echoed in Charles’s mind, catching him off guard.

"From a rational perspective, the Sariben Empire’s actions have no standing, but what if you view them through the eyes of a madman?"

"You mean...?"

Charles frowned, beginning to deduce the situation based on the devil’s perspective.

"Look back at Seuvintan’s actions. In the final stages, describing them as 'insane' is not inaccurate. And consider the unique existence of Serene—what if she is not an isolated case in Alastrelle?"

"That makes sense. Wait, your tone suggests you’ve already reached a conclusion. And you can see my thoughts? Damn it, you’re cheating."

"You guessed it. Although the self-destructive methods used by the Sariben soldiers annihilated their souls, I could still see the discord. Their wills had been twisted."

"Ah, damn it. I hate this kind of mind-warping power. If that’s the case, these recently emerged ancient ruins—they seem stable on the human side, but in reality, the news has likely been suppressed. A 'Utopia'? Heh, what a massive layout."

Charles pressed his hands against his face, revealing a grim smile. He had pieced it together. If this was the trajectory, then it wouldn't just be Sariben moving against Alastrelle.

He knew his own mind was sound; if he was certain of his sanity, then anyone attacking him must be the one who had lost their grip.

"Look, what did I tell you?"

Seeing the message that had just arrived from the Grand Duke of the West, Charles felt a sudden sense of relief. Another kingdom was massing troops on the border. If it were only Sariben, Charles would be deeply troubled, but with this development, the nature of the situation had completely shifted.

"We can't afford this, we truly can't. Alastrelle’s soldiers are not things to be discarded lightly. So what now? We have no choice. We must display enough strength, show our sharp blades to these bastards, and make them understand that Alastrelle is no soft target."

Muttering to himself, his plan set, Charles decided he would use every resource at his disposal to deal a crushing blow to these human kingdoms, and during the window of this threat, he would push Alastrelle’s hard power to its absolute limit.

It was hardly a perfect plan, but it was the only choice Alastrelle had. As for the increasingly chaotic situation across the continent, he would have to wait and see how the "giants" handled it.

...

Within the Orc Kingdom, the intensity of the war had reached a terrifying level. The orc armies stationed on both sides of the Taliban River began a frenzied slaughter with no room for retreat. The rushing river could not wash away the multicolored blood; corpses nearly blocked the channel, piling up at the river bends.

Other orcs brandished their weapons, clad in crude armor, crossing these "bridges" of corpses to charge into the fray. Roars echoed, limbs flew, and the power of shamans flickered amidst the orc ranks.

The orc battlefield was far more brutal and simplistic than that of the humans. Orc warriors took up their weapons, triggered their "Berserk" state, and charged the front lines, either smashing their enemies into pulp or being smashed themselves.

Kill, then be killed. The orcs behind stepped over the corpses of their kin to reach the front, continuing the cycle. There were no tactics, nor was there any concept of morale; everything lost its meaning before the orcish innate ability of "Berserk."

On the battlefield, the only thing that could be called tactical planning was the shamans commanding when and where to trigger the berserker state. Everything else was a pure meat grinder of raw combat power, until one side had no orcs left standing.

A sea of blood and a mountain of corpses—this was the best description for the largest war the orcs had seen in a century. There were no legendary heroes emerging, no chosen ones who could survive seven charges; there was only pure combat and death.

Life became a tragic, meaningless number, rapidly dwindling in the relentless turning of the battlefield’s meat grinder. Garrosh, the powerful orc who had been assisting shamans in "resurrecting" ancient entities just days prior, had become nothing but rotting meat on the ground within a minute of entering the fray.

Strength and weakness were no longer distinct. The strong were cut down by equally powerful enemies appearing from nowhere, while the weak were killed by the mere shockwaves of battle. The stench of blood became tangible, a pale red mist drifting over the field, even though orc blood was usually green...

Within the blood mist, one could only hear the berserk roars, the crisp sounds of weapons smashing into flesh, and the wet thud of footsteps on pulped remains. The battle was obscured by the hazy scarlet fog, the fighting orcs transformed into shadows of a demonic dance, as the concentration of "Frenzy" climbed steadily.

This chaos, spreading across the continent, was developing faster than any race had anticipated. With the "rebel orcs" as a foundation, the orcish lands were the first to see their war spiral into an uncontrollable stage.