Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 630: Orcs Roll out

At this moment, Orgrim, who was in his blood-pumping prime, thundered over carrying his legendary Doomhammer—a weapon that had crushed more skulls than a troll had teeth.

"Thrall, now that you've celebrated enough to make a tavern bard weep with envy, let's move out!"

"So urgent?" Thrall looked at Orgrim with genuine surprise, noticing the seasoned warrior looked as jumpy as a gnome in a spider den.

From the other side, Grom came stomping over, Gorehowl gleaming wickedly in his grip: "Thrall, you're still greener than a murloc's backside! You haven't witnessed the Alliance's bone-chilling war machine or those accursed weapons that could level mountains. When it comes to reading the battlefield like an ancient tome, I strongly suggest you heed Orgrim's counsel—he's forgotten more about war than most will ever learn."

Thrall, an orc leader rarer than a peaceful ogre, possessed wisdom and character that would make even the wisest shaman's jaw drop in amazement.

Indeed, as the saying goes: "Character is destiny"—and by the Light, was that truth carved in stone.

Experience also forges the soul like a blacksmith hammers steel.

Unlike the grim tales of old, Thrall in this timeline had been discovered by Orgrim while barely more than a whelp, thanks to the mystical visions of shamanic prophets. His entire upbringing had been carefully orchestrated and fiercely protected, like a precious artifact hidden from tomb raiders.

Though born to the arena's bloody sands, he was spared the crushing abuse that should have been his burden. Gone too was any human benefactor to offer him sympathy and warmth—no soft-hearted soul to ease his pain.

Instead, he received Orgrim's iron-willed teachings from his earliest memories to his current prime.

Thrall had been molded according to the ultimate Chieftain blueprint—forged like the finest blade.

He possessed a humble spirit and followed Orgrim's guidance as faithfully as a paladin follows the Light, seeing in him both mentor and father figure.

Thrall bowed his head respectfully. "You speak true wisdom. In the arena's blood-soaked pits, I've heard countless legends about the terrifying might of humans and dwarves—tales that would make even a death knight pause. But I've never faced them in open warfare. In this matter, Orgrim and Grom, your battle-hardened experience towers over mine. I will heed your counsel."

Suddenly, an orc scout burst into their presence, breathing harder than a winded kodo.

"By the ancestors! The Scarlet Crusade is practically breathing down our necks!" All three leaders reacted as if struck by lightning.

The Scarlet Crusade—those fanatical zealots they'd marked as their most dangerous adversary—had apparently set up camp in a ravine less than thirty kilometers northwest, right under their very noses like assassins in the shadows.

This was a threat more deadly than a pit full of fel-corrupted spiders.

Grom hefted his fearsome Gorehowl, the weapon thirsting for blood: "Well then? Shall we paint the battlefield red?"

"For the Horde!" Thrall and Orgrim roared in perfect harmony.

"Then let's ride forth and claim glory!"

Whether the humans were plotting some elaborate trap or playing games worthy of chess masters, this battle was as inevitable as death and taxes.

Duke remained blissfully unaware that during these ten grueling years, the people of Lordaeron had systematically strangled the Horde like a noose tightening around a condemned man's neck. They'd erected fortress after fortress, wall upon wall, steadily shrinking the orcs' living space until it felt smaller than a gnome's workshop. Thrall and Orgrim had long dreamed of abandoning this cursed continent and seizing vessels to sail across the Great Sea to the promised lands of Kalimdor.

This time, Thrall had assembled the cream of the Warsong and Frostwolf clans—warriors whose prowess was legendary—plus more than twenty thousand liberated orcs, plus thirty thousand elderly, infirm, and young orcs. In total, a staggering force of one hundred fifty thousand souls.

The migration of such a massive horde couldn't be hidden from a blind cave fisher, let alone trained scouts.

Rather than pray to the spirits that the Scarlet Crusade would prove as oblivious as a drunken ogre and somehow miss this green tide, it was far wiser to simply eliminate this dangerous threat once and for all.

After years of relentless combat, these orcs had been tempered into the finest fighting force this side of the Maelstrom. From military structure to command hierarchy, Orgrim had refined everything based on hard-won lessons learned from human tactics.

A mere ten minutes after the war horns sounded, an army exceeding eighty thousand battle-ready warriors stood ready to march—organized faster than you could say "Zug zug!"

"Lok-tar ogar!"

The thunderous battle cries that had been absent from Lordaeron's fields for far too many years erupted once again, shaking the very earth.

Thrall, Grom, Orgrim, and the mountain of muscle known as Rexxar following in their wake, led this army of eighty thousand elite orc warriors in a charge toward the Scarlet Crusade's stronghold, their war cries echoing like the roar of an ancient dragon.

"Hahahaha! By my ancestors' beards, I'm suddenly reminded of that absolutely disastrous long-distance raid thirteen years past!" Orgrim suddenly burst into hearty laughter.

"Which catastrophe are you remembering? The wild goose chase near Eversong Woods?" Thrall had memorized every battle tale Orgrim had ever shared, collecting them like a scholar hoards scrolls. freewebnøvel.com

"Precisely that one! We ran our legs off for three solid hours, only to find ourselves chasing shadows and earning nothing but blisters!"

"Wasn't that the campaign led by that cunning fox Edmund Duke?"

"The very same snake. If the spirits are merciful, I pray never to cross paths with that tactical genius again. Fortunately, the Scarlet Crusade has about as much connection to that mastermind as a murloc has to flight." Orgrim's sigh carried the weight of old battles.

"He's been feeding the worms for over a decade," Grom grumbled with obvious displeasure, obviously he wanted to face him in battle.

"Missing in action!" Orgrim corrected sharply. "Though facing him again would be about as welcome as a plague outbreak, until I see his severed head decorating a pike, I refuse to be fool enough to consider my greatest nemesis truly dead. Thrall, engrave this lesson on your heart: never count your enemy defeated until you've confirmed his demise with your own eyes."

"Understood, Warchief." Thrall nodded gravely.

Grom shrugged dismissively. "You're more cautious than a goblin counting his gold."

The orc war machine moved with frightening efficiency. For these battle-hardened, elite frontline clan warriors, covering fifty kilometers at near-maximum pace was as routine as breathing.

Thirty kilometers would take roughly two hours—barely enough time to work up a proper sweat.

However, upon arrival, the bewildering scene before them left even these seasoned veterans scratching their heads in confusion.

The military encampment stood eerily empty, and judging by the evidence, the occupants had departed approximately two hours earlier, heading toward the treacherous northern mountain passes.

Even more perplexing were the unmistakable signs of recent combat scattered throughout the camp.

Shattered antlers, gouged camp gates, overturned supply wagons...

Grom's extensive experience in guerrilla warfare and mountain combat allowed him to immediately assess the situation: "A battle definitely occurred here. Not a massive engagement, but certainly a serious skirmish with real blood spilled."

"Against whom?" Thrall demanded immediately, his tactical mind already racing.

At Grom's meaningful glance, an orc warrior from the Warsong Clan sprinted over and began excavating the conspicuously fresh mound of earth that screamed "mass grave."

"The corpses have been thoroughly burned, making identification nearly impossible. But what remains suggests they were human civilians—non-combatants."

Humans? Civilians?

Had the Scarlet Crusade brutally suppressed some desperate peasant uprising?

While Thrall lacked the experience to read between the lines, Orgrim certainly did not. The former warchief's brow furrowed deeper than a canyon as he asked, "Why do I detect traces of Holy Light magic on these charred remains?"

Just as Orgrim pondered this mystery, sudden cheers erupted throughout the abandoned camp.

"What's the commotion?"

"Weapons! Mountains of weapons! Premium craftsmanship!" A centurion rushed back with his report, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Show us immediately!"

Before them lay a magnificent cache of expertly crafted two-handed hammers and battle axes, clearly bearing the masterful touch of dwarven smiths but sized for human warriors.

The hammer handles, heads, and axe blades were forged from the finest steel, gleaming like captured starlight. The moment these weapons found their way into orc hands, they were treasured like precious gems.

Especially the grizzled veterans who had survived the Dark Portal War—they immediately began educating the younger generation about the legendary quality of dwarven craftsmanship, their voices filled with the reverence usually reserved for ancestral spirits.

"What in the name of the Burning Legion is happening here?" Orgrim's brows were knotted tighter than a sailor's rope.

"They departed in such haste that these weapons proved too cumbersome to transport," Grom observed with characteristic pragmatism. "Their loss is our tremendous gain. You know as well as I do that even after slaying ten human soldiers, you might not acquire a single weapon worth wielding. Standard human military weapons are forged too light for our grip—about as useful to us as toothpicks."

Grom's assessment rang absolutely true.

Human battle formations demanded precise coordination and swift maneuvering. Aside from relatively flexible spears, weapons that were excessively long or heavy would transform allies into obstacles. Except for knights and paladins whose martial prowess bordered on the supernatural, few humans would dare wield such massive weapons in organized combat.