Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 631: Paladins

The two-handed weapons that humans wielded like mighty tree trunks now felt like mere one-handed toys in the massive grips of orc warriors. However, they were still infinitely superior to the pathetic wooden clubs and crude stone axes that most orcs currently brandished—about as effective as trying to fell a mountain giant with a butter knife.

"Are they cursed with poison?" Orgrim demanded, his voice carrying the weight of hard-earned paranoia.

The centurion shook his head vigorously: "Our war wolves have sniffed every inch of these beauties, and they're cleaner than a priest's conscience. Though there does seem to be some lingering traces of human Holy Light clinging to the metal."

Upon hearing this, Orgrim's shoulders visibly relaxed: "These must be the emergency reserves of those sanctimonious Knights of the Silver Hand. What baffles me is why they fled in such desperate haste that they abandoned this treasure trove."

Gazing upon the more than two thousand masterfully crafted heavy weapons scattered across the scene, Orgrim felt mysteries swirling in his mind like a maelstrom of confusion.

A military force—most likely dispatched to crush an orc uprising—had abandoned such an enormous cache of weapons. It was like handing victory to your enemies on a silver platter while gift-wrapping it with a bow.

"Should we reject this bounty of weapons?" Thrall inquired, his brow furrowed with tactical concern.

Orgrim bared his tusks in a feral grin: "Take them! By the spirits, why wouldn't we? If those humans dare show their faces again, we'll be delighted to use their own weapons to teach them a lesson they'll remember in whatever afterlife awaits them!"

Grom interjected with characteristic directness: "Should we pursue the Scarlet Crusade fleeing northward? Mountain warfare plays to our strengths like a deck stacked in our favor."

Rexxar rumbled his concern: "Wouldn't that stretch us too thin from our main force? We still have countless younglings and expecting mothers back there, vulnerable as newborn whelps."

Thrall remained blissfully unaware that this single statement had just pushed the orc army toward the precipice of disaster.

This was the cruel reality of intelligence warfare—when you're fighting blind, every step could be your last.

Orcs made terrible scouts, about as subtle as a rampaging kodo in a china shop, so their knowledge of Lordaeron's continental affairs was limited to mountain gossip. Previously, they might have gleaned fragments of information from orc slaves who understood the Common tongue. But after the uprising erupted like a volcano, the people of Lordaeron naturally began hunting orcs with the fervor of zealots. Many slave owners, terrified of the brewing storm, slaughtered all their orc slaves and gladiators rather than risk the consequences.

Although Thrall appeared formidable because he had united all his forces like a clenched fist, he was ironically more vulnerable than ever after losing his eyes and ears across the land.

Orgrim groaned like a bear wrestling with thorns: "If we pursue the Scarlet Crusade, we might deal them a crushing blow that would echo through the ages. But the Southshore City-State packs serious military punch, and I'm equally concerned about them mobilizing their forces like angry wasps from a disturbed nest."

Having reached consensus faster than goblins count gold, the orcs began their withdrawal, with the mightiest warriors naturally claiming the finest weapons—survival of the strongest, as it should be.

The catastrophe the orcs feared most had mercifully not materialized, and their massive army still waited near the imposing Durnholde Keep like a coiled spring.

"Move out!"

If the orcs hoped to cross the Endless Sea westward, their route options were fewer than a goblin's honest promises. The coastline of Lordaeron was predominantly treacherous and unforgiving, with cliffs so steep that even sure-footed orcs couldn't descend without plummeting to their deaths.

Originally, the optimal path led northeast from Durnholde Keep. Though it required passage through Aerie Peak under the watchful eyes of the Wildhammer dwarves, the dense forest provided cover, and perhaps they could forge new alliances with the jungle trolls once more. Unfortunately, this road terminated in a dead end more final than death itself.

Since the Horde under Orgrim's leadership had previously utilized Seawatch Tower in the Hinterlands as their gateway to and from Lordaeron, the human kingdoms naturally wouldn't ignore this gaping vulnerability. Unable to extend their control into the Hinterlands directly, the kings devised a brilliant strategy—enlisting Duke's naga and murloc forces to patrol the waters opposite Seawatch Tower like aquatic sentinels.

With the precedent of the Blackrock Clan's elite meeting their doom in those waters, only a fool would attempt that route again, and Orgrim was many things, but never a fool.

The southern route was equally blocked, sealed tighter than a dwarven vault.

As the continent's largest trading port connecting north and south, the current Southshore City-State had inherited every defensive measure from the Second War's aftermath. It was a composite defense line carved into the mountainside, stretching over two hundred kilometers from western coast to eastern shore like an impenetrable wall of steel and stone.

Furthermore, the Kul Tiras Fifth Fleet maintained permanent garrison at Tol Barad Island's fortress in the opposing waters. Even if they somehow breached Southshore's defenses, sailing past would be tantamount to suicide—like swimming through shark-infested waters while bleeding.

The remaining northern coastlines—Northshore and the Whispering Shore at Lordaeron's northernmost tip—weren't impossible, but the orcs had recently staged uprisings there, stirring up trouble like poking a dragon's nest and provoking the full wrath of the Kingdom of Lordaeron.

In Thrall and his commanders' view, they faced nothing but dead ends. They had no inkling that the Scourge would soon sweep across those very lands like a plague of locusts...

The only viable escape route lay along the broader Southern Coast and Northern Coast, just west of the continent, with an extensive coastline stretching between these two regions.

This path resembled walking a tightrope over an abyss, meaning the orc army would have to thread through potential interceptions from Southshore city-states, Dalaran, and Gilneas in sequence—like running a gauntlet designed by their enemies.

However, Orgrim's tactical analysis proved sound: the Southshore city-states possessed limited military might of their own, Gilneas had erected the Greymane Wall and pursued isolationist policies more stubbornly than a mule, and aside from Dalaran, the other two seemed unlikely to deploy forces against them.

Yet just as the orc army was cautiously traversing the Hillsbrad Foothills from east to west, approaching Dalaran like hunters stalking prey, they suddenly discovered that reality had shattered their expectations more completely than a hammer shatters glass.

"What in the name of the Burning Legion!? Monster-like humans?" Thrall was so stunned he could have been knocked over by a feather.

"Aye! Those human civilians have gone completely mad—their eyes burn redder than ours did when we drank demon blood over a decade past!" A centurion complained with obvious distress. "My warriors tore them clean in half, and the damned things kept trying to bite us with whatever remained of their mouths! They all looked deader than our yesterday's meal, but how can corpses move and fight?"

The color drained from Thrall and Orgrim's faces faster than water through a sieve.

Something was catastrophically wrong!

Both leaders mounted their war wolves and raced toward the front lines with urgency that would shame a courier carrying news of invasion.

The scene that greeted them shocked them to their very cores.

Once upon a time, humans had used the phrase "green tide" to describe the Horde's ferocious assaults sweeping across battlefields.

Now, the situation had reversed more completely than a coin flip.

The valiant orc warriors had formed a relatively disciplined battle line, hacking desperately at the humans who charged forward with the reckless abandon of berserkers who had lost all sense of self-preservation.

No, these were decidedly not humans—not anymore.

These horrific abominations that bore grotesque resemblance to humanity had long since surrendered their lives to forces beyond mortal comprehension.

Thrall witnessed with his own eyes a man whose chest cavity had been hollowed out by some unknown predator. The creature was wielding a pitchfork, its torn face exposing yellowed teeth, with mysterious black ichor flowing from the gaps like cursed wine. It charged forward with mindless fury and attempted to skewer an orc warrior.

After being cleaved in half by a mighty axe blow, the monster continued crawling forward from its severed lower portion, and while the orc warrior was desperately fending off two other approaching horrors, it sank its rotting teeth deep into the warrior's exposed calf with the tenacity of a rabid wolf.

"By the ancestors' bones! These aren't humans! They're some manner of cursed undead! Great spirits preserve us, no wonder the humans haven't come to trouble us—they're drowning in catastrophe far worse than anything we could imagine!" Orgrim bellowed in horrified realization.

"Should we retreat?" Thrall asked with barely concealed anxiety.

"Retreat! Pull back immediately! There's no wisdom in being foolish enough to entangle ourselves in such an apocalyptic disaster!" Orgrim snarled through gritted teeth.

Just as the Horde attempted to withdraw from this nightmare, the wind carrying a malevolent aura grew increasingly violent, howling like the voices of the damned.

On the shores of Lake Lordamere east of Dalaran City, countless undead emerged from the icy depths step by methodical step, rising from the lake bottom like some twisted parody of rebirth.

In the Scourge's encampment, accompanied by a bone-chilling wind that defied the season's warmth, black banners were hoisted high and snapped menacingly in the unnatural breeze.

As if sensing some cosmic disturbance, the giant spider demons and death acolytes of the Cult of the Damned raised their grotesque heads in perfect unison.

Not only these minions, but the Death Knight generals and Liches—beings saturated with darkness itself—all turned their attention toward the southeast simultaneously, drawn by an inexplicable force.

In their eyes, where soul-fire flickered like cursed candles, a sacred column of light blazed upward almost piercing the heavens themselves.

A flicker of bewilderment arose in the depths of their supernatural vision at the same moment.

Paladins? So many of them in one place?