Real Mount and Blade Game

The piercing alarm sounded like a pebble thrown into a stagnant pool, creating a dangerous ripple in the Wood Elf Forest stronghold before strangely subsiding, without the expected torrent of bones.

Four days.

For four whole days, the undead army maintained a suffocating "silence" at the edge of the forest.

This deathly silence was more agonizing than the shouts of a charge. Every rustle of wind and the sound of panic threatened to break the taut nerves, and exhaustion and pain grew rampant under the invisible pressure.

In the center of the stronghold, inside the command post temporarily converted from a treehouse, the air was filled with a mixture of bitter herbs and the smell of sweat and blood.

Shen Mu leaned back in a chair woven from resilient vines. His face was no longer ashen, but still shockingly pale. Every wrinkle was etched with a deep-seated exhaustion and a forced, stoic will. Thanks to the almost sacrificial infusion of life energy from the Wood Elf Elder, and the sliver of unwavering faith maintained by the surviving allied soldiers through the nearly shattered [Tallinn] network, he was temporarily pulled back from the brink of annihilation. However, the Sea of ​​Spirit remained a fragmented archipelago. The light at its core, representing the [Tallinn] link, was riddled with cracks, its glow as faint as a candle flickering in the wind. Each attempt to solidify his spirit brought excruciating pain, like being stabbed with knives and axes.

"Hoo..." Shen Mu took a deep breath, the icy air stinging his weakened lungs, forcing himself to suppress the piercing pain that could have made him faint. He slowly opened his eyes, and deep within those eyes that had endured the molten heart purgatory and the abyss judgment, a storm-like will was being painstakingly rebuilt on the ruins. "Alatan Khan," his voice was hoarse, but it had regained its penetrating power.

The Khergit leader, who had been waiting nearby, immediately stepped forward. The crisscrossing scars on his face appeared even more menacing in the shadows, but his eyes also betrayed an undisguised weariness and vigilance. "Commander! How are you feeling?"

“He won’t die.” Shen Mu said succinctly, standing up while holding onto the edge of the wicker chair. He swayed slightly but quickly regained his balance. “We can’t lie here anymore. Is this silence a sign of impending doom, or the suppression before a storm? The answer won’t come knocking on our door. Let those who can still move come with me to take a look.”

Stepping out of the command post, the air, unique to the forest and mingled with the scent of decaying earth, new leaves, and the lingering stench of blood, hit me. Outside the stronghold, the once dense woodland had been cleared to create a relatively open defensive perimeter. The dampness of the fresh soil still lingered, and the exposed tree roots twisted and gnarled. And on this war-torn land, a wall rose from the ground.

It wasn't a stone wall, but a human wall—a flesh and blood barrier built from countless blood-stained, leather-covered shields and makeshift chevaux-de-frise reinforced with broken spears and spare spear tips. They formed a continuous defensive line of varying depths, encircling the outermost perimeter of the stronghold and relying on the remaining roots of ancient trees and steep slopes.

Shen Mu's gaze first fell upon the forefront of the defensive line. There stood heavy infantrymen, clad in heavy plate chainmail and wielding massive Swadian kite-shaped shields nearly as tall as a man. Their equipment was no longer gleaming; their armor was covered in gruesome wounds from sword cuts, axe blows, flames, and unknown corrosion, many patches made of rough iron plates and tough animal hides. Many had blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their arms, their faces covered in congealed dust and scabs, yet their eyes remained as resolute as rocks. Like iron oaks rooted to the earth, they silently constructed the fortress's most solid first line of defense—the successors to the "Wall of Sighs," now known as the "Oath of the Ruins." The air echoed with their heavy breathing and the sound of their massive shields pressing against the ground, compacting the earth, carrying a weary yet undeniable sense of power. As Shen Mu's gaze swept over them, these heavily wounded warriors straightened their backs, the veins bulging on the backs of their hands gripping their shield handles. A sergeant major, his shoulders wrapped in thick white cloth and his face sallow from blood loss, roared, "The ruins will not fall! Glory will live on forever!" He was met with a deep but firm thud as a shield struck the ground.

Shifting the gaze slightly back, on the second, relatively gentle slope, stood seasoned Rhodok warriors, wielding spears or heavy halberds. They were the teeth and supports of the fortress, responsible for thrusting deadly blades through the gaps after the heavy infantry had held off the onslaught. These resilient soldiers, accustomed to mountain warfare, had become the most agile masters of fortification in the stronghold. They efficiently reinforced the makeshift fortress with every available material—fallen ancient trees, nearby collapsed rocks, even the decaying bones abandoned by the undead—constructing mutually supporting firing ports and passageways. Many spearmen's spearheads were broken or dulled, temporarily bound with sharp stone fragments or carefully polished animal bones. An old soldier with the characteristic Rhodok mountain fortitude on his face was directing two soldiers with broken arms in slings to reinforce a section of a low wall that was easy to climb with thick vines and wet mud. He saw Shen Mu, nodded silently, and patted the cold ground beside him with his calloused hands, the meaning of which was self-evident: the defensive line is right beneath our feet, and the position will stand as long as we are here.

Shen Mu walked to a section of the defensive line, his fingers brushing over a fragment of bone blade, deeply embedded in the edge of a giant shield and stained with black grime. A cold, decaying aura emanated from his fingertips—a "greeting" left by the undead. "How are the supplies? How many heavy shields are still intact?"

The accompanying logistics officer was a middle-aged man with a worried expression and a stubble beard. He opened a leather ledger that was almost worn through: "Commander! More than half of the leather greatshields were lost in the Molten Core Domain, and now there are less than three hundred intact... The Rhodok spears are also heavily damaged, many of them have been hastily repaired. Medicine... the wood elves' herbs are almost exhausted, and the seriously wounded..." His voice lowered.

Shen Mu didn't speak, but squeezed the cold shard tightly before releasing it, surveying the "barrier" formed by wounded soldiers and damaged equipment. "You..." he began, his voice low but clearly audible in the silent defensive line, "are the last backbone of the Wood Elf Forest. The Black Core of the Molten Core Domain couldn't devour you, and neither can the undead here." He didn't deliver a passionate speech, his gaze sweeping over the weary yet defiant faces. "Every shield, every spear, is proof of your survival, and the reason we continue to stand. Take stock of what's most urgently needed, especially medicine. Wood Elf Elder," he turned to a wise-looking Wood Elf elder behind him, "the last bit of protection the forest can offer should be used to maintain the defenses and stabilize the wounded."

"As you wish, Commander." The Wood Elf Elder bowed slightly, his voice carrying the whisper of the forest. "As long as the spirit of nature remains, we will do everything in our power to protect the 'Roots'."

Beyond the low canopy of trees, behind the outpost and atop the ancient giant trees surrounding it, lies another pair of eyes watching over the desolate forest—the positions of the Vaegir Icewind Archers and the Rhodok Heavy Crossbowmen.

Shen Mu ascended the winding wooden steps to a lookout platform perched at the fork of a tall oak tree. The view was excellent, offering a clear view of the cleared defensive line in front of the stronghold, the forest edge stretching out like a rotting carpet in the distance, and even further, the "wound" of the ancestral tomb of Long City, shrouded in an eerie "end" aura. The air here became frigid and icy, carrying the distinctive frost of the Vaegir archers.

A tall, sturdy Vaegir female officer, her eyelashes seemingly covered in fine ice crystals, stood solemnly, bow in hand. Her name was Arya Frost, the temporary leader of the Icewind Archers who had lost nearly seventy percent of their comrades. Her compound longbow gleamed with a ghostly blue runic light, an arrow nocked, its arrowhead covered in a thin layer of frost, as she warily scanned the lifeless enemy lines. Seeing Shen Mu approach, she did not salute, but merely stepped aside slightly to make way, her eyes still sharp, but deep within them lay grief for the immense sacrifice and anxiety for the future. “Arya,” Shen Mu walked to the edge of the platform, gazing at the ominous swarm of undead in the distance, pulsating with faint, dark red light, “Is there anything unusual?” He could feel the chill emanating from the female officer, a chill that offered a slight respite to his chaotic mental sea.

“Nothing’s abnormal, Commander.” Aria’s voice was crisp and cold, like shards of ice colliding. “They seem to be… asleep. But more like they’re gathering something. The energy fluctuations in the core area have increased by several notches compared to four days ago. Also…” She pointed further away, vaguely in the direction of Long City, “The city’s deathly aura is strange. No active undead aura flows out, as if the ‘wound’ has become a one-way valve, only letting in and not letting out. But I can’t observe it closely. The density of undead scouts on the edge of the forest is extremely high.”

Shen Mu nodded, his gaze shifting to the other side of the platform. Several soldiers clad in heavy leather armor, working together to wind up a menacing Rhodok heavy ballista, came into view. These crossbowmen were mostly technical soldiers, possessing equally tenacious fighting spirit, but continuous fierce battles had rendered most of their expensive ballistae scrap metal. The repaired ballista before him was called "Unyielding." Its string was hastily pieced together from tough, enchanted ancient vines and several intertwined iron bars. The wooden beams securing the winch even showed charred marks, clearly remnants of the "Hellfire" from the Molten Core Domain. The captain of the crossbowmen operating it was missing half an ear, his hands wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, yet his eyes were focused as if he were polishing the most delicate parts.

"Have you tested the range? How powerful is it?" Shen Mu asked. Any long-range suppressive firepower will be crucial in the upcoming defensive battle.

The crossbowman captain wiped the sweat from his brow, revealing a smile tinged with the smell of metal shavings: "We can hit that biggest dead tree at the edge of the forest, about seven hundred paces! It's just that this broken string is slow to draw! The accuracy is a bit off. The arrowheads are made from all the scrap metal and broken bones of the undead we could find, with some gunpowder added. Although they're not as good as the previous armor-piercing explosive arrows, they can still smash a skull or two! It's just... we're really running low on ammunition."

“That’s enough.” Shen Mu looked at the crossbow cart, which was practically a collection of scrap metal, yet felt an indomitable power within it. “The goal isn’t to penetrate, but to interrupt and disrupt. If they begin to construct that ‘altar,’ I need your crossbow bolts and Arya’s Frost Arrows to be the first needle piercing their heart.”

Arya and the crossbowman captain's eyes sharpened simultaneously: "Understood!"

Just as he stepped off the watchtower, the sound of rapid, short hoofbeats rang out in the distance. Several swift, lightning-fast figures galloped along the newly cleared forest path outside the stronghold, reining in their horses and stopping in an open area not far from Shen Mu. Their movements were clean and efficient; they were none other than Kujit's elite mounted archers and scouts.

Leading the group was Alatan Khan, whose mount, "Thunder Shadow," puffed out white vapor from its mouth and nose, revealing its fatigue from days of travel, but its eyes remained as sharp as a hawk's. Alatan Khan dismounted, his movements steady, and walked a few steps to Shen Mu, bringing with him a heavy smell of dust, grass clippings, and a faint, decaying necromantic odor.

“Commander,” Altan Khan’s voice was low and rapid, carrying the ruggedness characteristic of the steppes, “the scouts have all returned. The ‘Grey Mane’ that penetrated deep into Long City just sent back news.” He glanced at Shen Mu’s slightly pale face, and without further ado, cut straight to the point: “Long City is deathly silent! Truly deathly silent. There are almost no living undead in sight on the main roads and among the ruins. The remaining death energy is converging towards the ancestral tombs. That ‘wound’… is like draining the last ‘nutrients’ from the entire city.”

He paused, then pointed towards the undead legion at the edge of the forest: "But their 'silence' is not an act of surrender. We've observed them up close; beyond the forest edge, they've built a... massive platform using bones, decaying soil, and a viscous black energy liquid. The remaining abyssal lesser demons and skeletal wizards are busy on the platform, as if carving runes or performing some kind of ritual. The energy fluctuations at the core are unusually strong, and... there's a familiar aura."

"Familiar?" Shen Mu frowned.

“That’s right!” Alatan Khan nodded emphatically, his eyes grave. “Although it was very faint and chaotic, we caught a trace of something similar to the crazy, viscous, and highly polluting feeling of the 'Desecrating Devourer's' remnants several times in the turbulent energy flow emanating from the center of that platform! We even suspect that they might be trying to pull some other monster out of the abyss ruins through that 'wound'!”

This conjecture, like an icicle in the dead of winter, pierced the hearts of everyone present. A cold glint flashed in Shen Mu's eyes, and the mental anguish seemed to intensify as a result.

“Longcheng is deathly silent… the undead are receding… the wounds of the ancestral tomb are drawing in… the remnants of the abyss are summoning…” Shen Mu repeated these fragmented pieces of information in a low voice, his brain racing amidst the excruciating pain. “The curse of Yenogu… the prophecy of the spirit world’s descent… the rules of the fusion of the abyss and the undead…” The shattered [Talin] network fluctuated violently, vaguely catching a faint, pure, yet resolute and sacrificial spiritual aftershock coming from a certain direction deep within the forest. Kalanzo! That must be the spiritual imprint left by Lieutenant Kalanzo when he sacrificed himself in the Ash Corridor, among the soldiers he protected, which has now briefly surfaced due to Shen Mu’s own weakness and communication with the rules! Although the pure “order” light brought by this inheritance is faint, it points a direction like a lighthouse in Shen Mu’s chaotic sea of ​​consciousness—the core of the forest, perhaps the location of the ancient sacred ground of the wood elves.

Combining his previous perceptions with Alatan Khan's intelligence, a bold and dangerous plan quickly took shape in Shen Mu's mind. He abruptly looked up, his voice carrying an undeniable decisiveness: "Send all captains to the command post immediately! Alatan Khan, continue to send out the most elite bandits, keeping a close watch on that platform and the flow of energy from the 'wound'! Arya, have your archers imbue their arrows with the 'Root Entanglement' or 'Nature Mark' secret techniques bestowed by the Wood Elf elders! Crossbow captains, prepare your 'Unyielding Blades,' the target is those skeletal wizards presiding over the ritual! We don't have time to wait for the storm..."

He looked up, his gaze passing over layers of withered branches and wary crowds, towards the faint, ancient, gentle yet decaying light emanating from the depths of the forest. Caranzo's spiritual imprint resonated subtly in that direction. "I must go to the heart of the forest myself… Perhaps the remaining natural core there, and the last spiritual legacy of our comrades, are the only keys to breaking this silent stalemate and tearing apart the enemy's 'altar'!"

The deathly silence was receding, and a deeper thunderstorm was brewing in the stillness. The remnants of the allied forces, having completed their regrouping, would face the darkest clash before dawn in this last refuge of the wood elves. (End of Chapter)