Chapter Twenty-Three: Letting Go

After an hour of chaotic battle, they finally succeeded in drawing the attention of the Beast Emperor, Barbaric Hammer, and soon the most elite orc battle regiments arrived from all directions—including every main force stationed west of the city! There was no other way: the scale and momentum of the human breakout was simply too great. With the exception of disorganized individuals scattered throughout the city, the vast majority—tens of thousands—attempted to break through the siege in formation. The Beast Emperor naturally assumed this was the core of the human forces. Even if some managed to slip through the net, he was entirely confident that the hundreds of thousands of goblins would suffice to encircle and annihilate them.

As the commotion in the north grew ever louder and the elite orc regiments from the west were redeployed, the western gate of the capital of Saint Tarren opened quietly. A thousand soldiers in proper military attire slipped out in silence. These were the most loyal followers of Amathia, handpicked for their absolute fidelity. All other regular troops had been sent by Amathia to the northern breakout to mislead those so-called “freemen.” He was willing to sacrifice the entire city’s human population as a mere stepping stone for his own escape—this alone spoke volumes of his ruthless cunning. Even among these thousand trusted elites, Amathia was prepared to abandon them, should the need arise, using them to draw the orcs’ attention away from himself.

Though Amathia was exceptionally gifted, from childhood he had been entirely self-centered, subscribing to the creed that self-preservation justified any act, no matter how cruel. To rise above others, he devoted himself to the Church of Light, training to the rank of Grand Knight—a formidable warrior. As an illegitimate child of his family, he became one of their hidden weapons. After achieving fame and power, perhaps out of revenge or ambition for even higher status, he used his formidable skills to brutally kill every legitimate family member who had ever bullied him. This act laid his cruel nature bare for all to see. Despite the temptation of such a powerful Grand Knight, the Church of Light expelled him. To avoid the wrath of this mighty organization, Amathia fled to the remote southern continent, becoming a petty tyrant—otherwise, a Grand Knight could have secured a place of honor anywhere.

Once outside the city, Amathia looked back one last time at Saint Tarren, the city he had called home for over a decade. “Damn it! If not for the greed of the Anglians, would I have been reduced to a stray dog, fleeing for my life? One day I’ll repay the Anglians tenfold for this insult!” With this vow, Amathia and his followers raced toward the orc encampment.

Thanks to the raging battle in the north, not a single goblin in the refuse fields was left slumbering. As soon as Amathia’s force appeared, a horde of goblins took notice, quickly converging by the thousands.

“Open fire!” Amathia commanded, delivering a deadly blow to the charging goblins. His followers drew their assorted weapons and charged forward. Amathia led the way, unleashing a ten-meter wave of sword energy that instantly carved a gap in the goblin ranks.

“It’s that human demon! Even the orcs’ mightiest warriors couldn’t defeat him—we’re doomed!” wailed an experienced goblin under-boss, collapsing in terror. The entire goblin assault faltered. To these simple-minded creatures, respect for strength was ingrained; Amathia’s signature sword energy had slain many orc heroes, earning him the well-deserved title of demon among the weaker goblins.

Amathia had never imagined his reputation for sword energy would be so formidable among the orcs—one swing, and the enemy’s morale collapsed instantly. He was delighted: clearly, killing orcs had its rewards.

His sword energy flashing, Amathia led his troops like wolves among sheep, scattering the goblin horde with ease. Despite the absence of the main orc forces, he knew a hard fight lay ahead, and escape would be perilous. Yet the goblins feared him so much that his forces broke through the refuse fields with just a hundred casualties. Meanwhile, the sounds of battle from the north diminished; it seemed the fate of those human “freemen” was sealed.

Collecting his thoughts, Amathia led his men westward. His horse had been lost in the fighting, so the entire force was on foot. A few more miles, and they would reach the forest ahead—once there, true freedom awaited.

Perhaps even the god of Light could not tolerate such a wretch escaping so easily. At that moment, several hundred orc wolf-riders appeared on patrol. Normally, there would have been no patrols here, but due to the fervor of the human breakout, Barbaric Hammer had dispatched large groups of wolf-riders in squads to patrol the perimeter and prevent any stragglers from escaping.

Spotting the approaching wolf-riders, Amathia was forced to halt and form his troops for battle. Their heavy matchlocks had long since been discarded; only melee weapons remained. Without a tight formation, resistance was futile, and Amathia himself was already greatly exhausted—his battle energy nearly depleted, which he needed to preserve for his own escape.

The wolf-riders were not foolish enough to allow the humans to form up; with a howl, they charged directly into the human ranks. Fresh and powerful, the wolf-riders tore through the nearly spent human infantry, slaughtering them mercilessly.

The human soldiers, knowing that surrender meant death, could only struggle desperately against their fate. Seeing his force doomed, Amathia gritted his teeth, seized a giant wolf, and through brute force subdued it temporarily. For an ordinary man this would have been impossible, but for a Grand Knight, it was merely troublesome. Mounting the beast, he shamelessly used his own trusted followers as bait, cut down several wolf-riders who blocked his path, and sped toward the forest, leaving behind only the curses of his dying men as he vanished from the wolf-riders’ sight.

Amathia had no fear that anyone would ever reveal his villainy that day. The wolf-riders had conveniently erased all witnesses—no human survivors remained.

Once safely within the forest, Amathia glanced back at Saint Tarren one last time, his gaze profound, before turning away and vanishing into the distance.

The next day, when the orcs cleared the battlefield and tallied their dead, they found that nearly half of their million-strong siege army had been lost! Among them were more than twenty thousand of their elite soldiers; the rest were expendable goblin cannon-fodder. As for the humans, the city and its surrounding regions held not a single living soul. The Beast Emperor, Barbaric Hammer, had no interest in counting the human corpses—their only value was as food for the goblins, for even the lowliest orc warrior would scorn feasting on the flesh of another sentient being.

Thus ended, in utter bloodshed, one of the most brutal sieges in the history of the continent.