Necromancer, summoning 055? What the heck?

Chapter 394 The Iron and Fire Defense Line: A Sinful Interrogation
This long earthen mound, once the burial place of the former orcs, has now become the burial place of the current orcs.

The orc vanguard once crossed the highest peak and was only one step away from charging into the enemy's trenches, but in the end they failed to make it.

Just one step away, the final step.

However, this step was like an insurmountable chasm.

The artillery fire cut off their reinforcements, and of the orcs who managed to cross the blood-red road between the trench exit and the earthen hill battlefield, less than one in ten survived.

The orcs who managed to reach the top of the hill were endlessly worn down by the skeletons, and most of them fell on the slope of the earthen hill. In the end, those who were able to fight their way through were all powerful generals and elite captains of orc totem level or above.

While the orcs' bloodline level, totem level, and beast soul level are not entirely equivalent, they can be roughly understood as the first, second, and third transformations of human warriors. From a pure strength perspective, they are even a notch stronger than their human counterparts at the same level.

Unless a totem-level orc is unlucky enough to be hit in a vital spot like Lurger, the damage these skeletons can inflict on them is quite limited thanks to their muscle strength and physical defense.

Bloodscar Rag, who had gone berserk, was the first to charge over the top of the earthen hill.

This bear chieftain of the Crack Claw tribe was covered in bone fragments and black blood, making him look quite ferocious, but he only suffered superficial wounds and was not seriously injured.

However, the prolonged battle had taken a toll on his physical strength. Rag was breathing heavily, and he seemed to feel a burning pain in his lungs from the overload.

Behind them, on the slope, were scattered orc warriors who had followed the charge, in twos and threes.

Below the hill in front of him were severely distorted trenches. Sandbags, barriers, partitions, supply packs, ammunition boxes, and other items from the human positions were scattered haphazardly. There were also many soldiers who had been caught in the gaps between the trenches by this sudden upheaval, and they appeared to have lost their lives.

However, the orcs arrived too late.

After a brief moment of panic, the human warriors who were still able to move dragged their wounded comrades back and retreated behind the second trench.

What Ragnar faces is an anti-aircraft machine gun that has already raised its barrel and is aimed at the hilltop.

Or it should be called a machine gun.

The weapons of the vast ocean exhibit a significant polarization: one part consists of high-end "imported" goods, meticulously crafted products at the level of Blue Star laboratories, boasting strong performance, high precision, and excellent adaptability; the other part comprises low-end domestically produced goods, focusing on adapting to local conditions and producing whatever is feasible.

A significant portion of these are weapons produced in tandem with ammunition; only by producing the ammunition can such weapons be mass-produced.

Now, to express gratitude for the orcs' outstanding performance in this battle, the battlefield of the Vast Ocean is equipped with a complete set of 6-barrel 25mm anti-aircraft cannons imported from Blue Star, complete with precise fire control.

In Dongxia, it was usually combined with tanks and collectively referred to as the 625 self-propelled anti-aircraft gun system.

The muzzle velocity is 1,150 meters per second, and the maximum rate of fire is 5,000 rounds per minute.

Behind the 25mm anti-aircraft gun, there are also three single-barreled 35mm rotary cannons, which are incredibly expensive to use, but of course, their combat effectiveness is outstanding.

The moment the orcs were spotted, fire engulfed the hilltop, and a deep, terrifying buzzing sound filled the air, like countless metal bees flapping their wings simultaneously.

Bloodscar Rag was the first to see the row of menacing cannon muzzles. As a battle-hardened totem-level orc warrior, he possessed a beast-like instinct for danger. The moment the cannons began to rotate, the hair on his body stood on end, and a chilling premonition of death gripped his heart.

But he didn't stop.

We can't stop!

Behind them, the orc warriors, having finally broken through the swamp of bones, were charging forward. Perhaps, if they were just a little faster, a little faster, and charged into the enemy ranks, these ranged "magic guns" would be useless.

"Long live Cracked Claw!"

Rag mustered all his strength and let out a hoarse roar. His muscles bulged, and the yellowish-brown totem patterns on his skin lit up, vaguely forming the phantom of a giant bear standing upright.

With a powerful stomp of his feet, mud exploded everywhere, and the orc commander's massive body, enveloped in rain and killing intent, plummeted down the mountain.

Then he saw the light.

The six-barreled 25mm anti-aircraft gun spewed out a continuous stream of intense flames. Each shell leaving the barrel sounded like a small thunderclap. When they fired thousands of rounds per minute in succession, the sound seemed to transcend the realm of hearing, forming a thick, invisible barrier.

The first wave of bullets swept across the orc troops on the ridge like a wall.

Ragnar was the first to be affected.

He couldn't see the shells clearly, but he could see their trajectories. The orange-red dots of light connected into a blazing line, flashing past in the gray rain, whipping towards him like a whip.

He crossed his twin hammers in front of his chest, unleashing the power of the totem to its fullest extent. The phantom of the giant bear grew even larger, its muscles, brimming with psionic energy, as hard as steel.

But it's no use.

The first 25mm high-explosive shell hit his left-hand warhammer directly.

The weapon, forged by the tribe's best master craftsman from refined steel and which had accompanied him in battle for over a decade, exploded like a fragile plank of wood. Shrapnel and shockwaves tore apart the armor on his left arm, instantly twisting his forearm bones into bizarre angles.

Several shells followed, striking his chest and abdomen almost simultaneously. The thick plate armor proved fragile against the specially designed armor-piercing projectiles, leaving several large holes in his chest and abdomen. The impact even sent his burly body flying backward.

The crimson in Rag's eyes quickly faded, replaced by disbelief, bewilderment, and panic.

What... kind of power is this?
He forced his head down and saw a fountain of blood, mixed with fragments of internal organs, gushing from his chest.

The phantom of the giant bear totem flickered for a moment, then vanished with a mournful cry. Deprived of the totem's protection, a cannonball sliced ​​off half of Rag's head mid-air.

This fierce general of the Crack Claw tribe once fought alongside the Bear Clan army from south to north, his hands laden with the souls of countless humans and orcs. In the previous battle at White Wave Beach, he even killed more than a dozen Naga Royal Guards. In the end, he couldn't even let out a complete wail before he fell into the mud like a rag doll, mingling with the countless bones of his people that he had personally smashed.

Almost at the same time that Rag fell, the right-winger Wori Blackpoint also met his end.

The moment the Tauren commander saw the muzzle flash, he activated his powerful racial ability, Rock Skin, and the Skymountain-exclusive defensive rune, Mountain Protection, covering his heavy plate armor with a layer of hard, thick, grayish-brown psionic sheen.

He abandoned the charge, slammed the massive tower shield into the ground, and bent over with his broad shoulders against the shield, trying to withstand the devastating attack.

The 25mm machine gun fired a burst of runic flames at the giant shield, and the 35mm rotary cannon immediately took aim at it.

This rapid-fire gun, specifically designed to engage light armor, has a projectile with superior armor-piercing capability and a larger propellant charge.

Several 35mm shells struck the center of the tower shield. The massive steel shield, strong enough to withstand direct ballista fire, was like glass struck by a heavy hammer. The psionic glow on its surface flickered violently, and then it was covered with spiderweb-like cracks.

Worry Blackhorn grunted, his shield-wielding arms trembling violently, and he dug two deep furrows beneath his feet.

Another round of 35mm cannon fire ensued.

The tower shield shattered completely. A cannonball pierced through the wreckage of the shield and penetrated the joint of the plate armor on Worry's left shoulder. [Rock Skin] only lasted for a moment before being pierced through, and his entire left arm was severed at the shoulder.

The minotaur let out a painful roar, decisively abandoning his plan to hold out to the death. He took a step forward, actually wanting to continue advancing.

This is the stubbornness etched into the marrow of the Minotaur tribe of Motianling.

Then, at least three 35mm shells hit his torso simultaneously.

The luster of the rocks completely disappeared, and the heavy plate armor was torn apart and blown away, revealing the bloody and mangled chest and abdominal cavities underneath.

The Minotaur general, whose lower body was still relatively intact, collapsed to his knees like a collapsing mountain, his massive body tumbling forward and splashing up large waves of mud and water.

Rod Ironspine, the last to reach the ridgeline, witnessed it all.

Because he had tried to pull his seriously injured old friend Lurger out of the sea of ​​bones, Rhodes was a few beats slower and thus lagged behind. When he rushed to the highest point of the mountain, what came into view was a network of fire lines.

Two of the three centurions who went into battle with him were gone in an instant, and a cold and sticky despair permeated Rhodes' entire body.

Those who could break through the sea of ​​bones and reach the top of the mountain were the bravest warriors among the orcs, but in the face of this net of fire, they were so fragile and so vulnerable.

Rod Ironspine turned and ran.

He has to go back!

He had to report all of this to the clan chief and the warlords.

This was not a well-planned opportunity, but a complete death trap.

So many fine young men of the orc race charged not toward victory, but toward a slaughterhouse meticulously prepared by the enemy.

This is a despicable conspiracy by those human mages!
Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

After this raid, the orcs' morale was completely shattered.

They were undeniably brave, charging forward without hesitation; they were undeniably tenacious, braving artillery fire and a sea of ​​skeletons to reach the summit; they were undeniably indomitable, many soldiers continuing their advance until their bodies were completely torn apart.

However, faced with a technologically superior weaponry and tactics, they were even more desperate than the last elite troops of the once-great empire at Baliqiao. What to do?
As if venting their anger, they bound the mysterious strategists and sorcerers, who had come from afar and were clad in black robes, to the Pillar of Sin.

The Pillar of Sin is a type of totem pole, dedicated to punishment, judgment, and execution. It consists of three thick vines twisted together and spiraling upwards around a giant tree, the outer bark of which is covered with curved barbs.

The surface of each pillar of sin is covered with a patina of dark red bloodstains accumulated over the years, and even the torrential rain cannot wash away this intense color.

Three strategists and sixteen sorcerers were tightly bound to the Pillar of Sin by rough animal sinews and soaked leather ropes. Most of their hoods had been torn off, revealing pale, terrified, and pained faces.

The guards who accompanied the group tried to resist, but were mercilessly smashed into a bloody pulp by the ferocious orcs. Now, only the physically weak humans remained.

Without even needing any special techniques, their frail skin was pierced by the sharp thorns of the vines. Blood flowed down the vines into the totem pole, where it was gathered in the blood groove at the base of the pole. It then flowed upstream along the lion's tail pattern on the pole, climbed to the lion's head at the top, and slid down again.

This cycle repeats itself, and the blood flow becomes thicker and thicker.

Chief Gemar, known as "Cracked Claw," stood before the Pillar of Sin, his face ashen, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the human strategist leader.

"Tell me, who sent you?"

"What other schemes are you plotting?!"

Gemma's anger and despair were uncontrollable.

In this battle, Crackclaw suffered the greatest losses.

In order to completely encircle this enemy force, the "Cracked Claw" tribe had been using the lives of its own people as a means to stall the enemy. During this period of battlefield stalemate and digging trenches, the "Cracked Claw" also deployed the most soldiers and suffered the most casualties.

The three orc tribes had an agreement: once they had completely wiped out the enemy's main force and launched a counterattack back to the south bank of the Phantom Flame River, the "Crack Claw" tribe would receive full compensation, including land, laborers, slaves, and vassal tribes. The Bear tribe would be given priority in choosing these, ensuring that the Bear tribe could be fully healed first.

The vision is beautiful, but it's as fragile as a blown bubble, a reflection of the moon in the water, a phantom of a totem, or a boss's pie—so easily broken.

Gemma vented all his anger on the group of traitors.

How could I have been so foolish as to believe these guys?

The tall, thin strategist, a man who called himself Ashton, had long lost the composed and refined demeanor he once possessed.

Gemar didn't think it was a real name, but it didn't matter. When the other party came, they brought a complete plan, a considerable amount of gold coins, several special effect scrolls, and an enhanced mage team.

This can be considered a full expression of sincerity.

The orcs were not stupid. Several chieftains, along with their generals and shamans, studied the plan repeatedly and all felt that it seemed highly feasible.

Moreover, these people don't look like good people at all. Any centurion could smell the rottenness about them. Now that they're under the control of the orc tribe, they certainly won't gamble with their lives.

However, Gemma was ultimately deceived.

The most elite troops of the three tribes, orc warriors capable of taking on ten men each, were so easily wiped out behind that mountain that resembled the entrance to the Gluttonous Valley. Apart from the critically wounded and dying "Thunder Roar" Rod Ironspine, the other two commanders of ten thousand were not even brought back.

The losses from this battle will likely take ten or twenty years to recover.

And these guys are still so stubborn!

Ashton, his forehead drenched in cold sweat from the pain, his cheeks twitching violently, still managed to forcefully explain, "Chief...Chief Germa...it's a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding! We...we were plotting for the victory of the Orcish Horde..."

"Pfft!!!"

A piercing scream interrupted Ashton's explanation, as the orc centurion in charge of the interrogation brought down his hammer without hesitation.

This crude hammer wasn't a weapon, but merely a tool used to secure tent stakes. It was pointed at one end and flat at the other. Now, the centurion used the pointed end to strike Ashton's strategist's forcibly pried-open fingers, instantly striking the finger bones into an unbelievable arc.

The broken bone fragments emerged from between the skin and flesh, as if opening a dark, gaping eye, looking fearfully at this unfamiliar world they had never encountered before.

"For the orcs?"

Chief Gema took a step forward, angrily pushing aside the rain shelter his attendants had held up for him, letting the rain stream down his ashen face—perhaps to hide the tears hidden within.

"I was blinded by greed; how could I believe the nonsense of you maggots!"

"Your 'brilliant plan' has drained the blood of tens of thousands of our warriors!"

"Smash it! Smash all his bones! I want to see just how hard the bones of you humans really are!"

"Yes, Chief!"

The executioner's voice was filled with brutality.

What followed was endless scolding, torture, interrogation, and more torture.

The orc interrogator grinned, raising and lowering his hammer repeatedly.

From the fingers of the left hand to the fingers of the right hand, then the wrist, the elbow... the victims let out shrill screams as they were hammered piece by piece into reddish bone fragments. Their bodies twitched violently like fish out of water, but no matter what they did, they could not escape the repeated swings of the iron hammer.

It turns out their bones weren't very strong.

The interrogated humans began to ramble incoherently, cursing and begging for mercy, and spouting incoherent "accomplices" and "plans," which aroused even greater anger among the orcs.

The beastmen's faces wore cruelty, a kind of gleeful desire to witness suffering; the execution had become a long and solemn ritual. The sounds of bones being struck—metacarpals, carpals, ulna, radius…—were fine and dense, while the screams of agony were long and drawn out, creating a unique rhythm.

After the bones in both arms had been smashed to pieces and they had completely slumped down, the orc began to strike his ankles, shins, and knees...

The air was thick with the stench of incontinent excrement, and the orcs swung their hammers even harder.

Ultimately, more than a dozen contradictory and conflicting testimonies were presented to the chiefs.

Under such violent torture, these humans were willing to confess anything. However, given the hasty nature of the interrogation and the immense physical torment involved, it was extremely difficult to weave a complete story together.

All forms of torture and forced confessions, without the interrogator's prompting, are likely to be riddled with loopholes.

Therefore, never believe those who instigate confessions under torture. The detective may be unaware of the truth, but the person who framed you knows better than you do how wronged you are.

The orc leaders picked and chose, and finally selected a few testimonies that were barely coherent and looked somewhat plausible.

The most complete and logically sound account is that of Ashton, the chief strategist.

Indeed, having a clear mind is useful in any situation.

"Kill those who refuse to confess and those who fabricate lies, and give their heads to the children to kick around like footballs!"

"Lock these guys up. Don't let them die. After the fighting here is over, take them back to the royal court!"

An old orc general said hesitantly, "Chieftain, Chieftain, I feel that what they said still has many problems, many things that don't seem right..."

Gemar shook his head, stopping the old orc from speaking.

He knew perfectly well.

Not only did he know, but the orc leaders, generals, and shamans present could also understand it to some extent.

Well, it's hard to say about the chieftain of Thunder Bluff; tauren are too stubborn...

But what good does it do to understand it?

A massive defeat needs a reason to console oneself, and the soldiers' grief and rage need an outlet; otherwise, the army might collapse from within immediately.

Sometimes, "truth" must give way to "reality".

The order was carried out swiftly.

In the rainy night, brief screams rang out again. These pampered and high-ranking mages were turned into tattered corpses. Soon after, human heads with distorted faces were given to the orc warriors, who kicked them around in the muddy field.

Ashton and the others, after being given simple medication and bandaged, were thrown into the damp and smelly dungeon like a lump of mud.

The heavy rain kept falling, as if it would never stop.

Rain washed over the camp, the distant, now silent battlefield, and the ever-present marks on the Pillar of Sin, where fresh blood and ancient stains slowly merged, revealing a bewitching crimson.

The battlefield after the great battle was silent except for the sound of rain.

(End of this chapter)