16: Chapter 16 Three Thousand Orcs Invade

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The night wind blew from the north, carrying the unique sulfuric smell from deep within the mines, mixing with the woody scent of cooking smoke. It smelled like a unique, somewhat unsettling dinner aroma of this world.

The orc legion arrived at the outer defense line of Blackstone Village on the morning of the sixth day.

Not five days. Six days. The extra day was gained by the trap belt Locke dug in the northern valley over three days—the main orc force was bogged down in the swamp for about half a day, then blocked by a deep ditch disguised as a dry riverbed, forcing them to detour. This one-day difference allowed Locke to reinforce the last line of defense.

Locke's six defense lines unfolded sequentially from outside to inside. The first was a cluster of traps scattered in the valley, the second was an archery suppression position on the high ground, the third was a volley line of flintlock soldiers behind a dirt wall, the fourth was a laser gun ambush point, the fifth was barricades and rooftop sniper positions for street fighting, and the sixth—the circular position of the Archon Plaza. Each defense line corresponded to a detailed retreat route and ammunition reserves.

The Orc War Chief stood on the high ground in the distance, about three and a half meters tall, holding a rusty power axe in one hand—its blade inlaid with metal spikes. It did not immediately order an attack. It stood on the high ground, surveying the entire terrain of Blackstone Village. That slow-moving, scrutinizing gaze made Locke realize he was not facing a beast that only knew how to charge—it could spot traps. The failure of the first line of defense came much faster than expected. The orc vanguard cleared about a third of the traps by probing with long poles—the bodies of dead orcs were dragged away by subsequent orcs and left by the roadside. The losses were within the orcs' acceptable range.

The smell of blood and gunpowder intertwined, lingering in this windless canyon.

Locke's first round of flintlock volleys fired when the orc vanguard entered range—a puff of smoke rose, and seven or eight orcs in the front row fell. Subsequent orcs stepped over their comrades' bodies and continued forward. Another dozen fell in the second volley.

After the third volley, the orcs charged to the dirt wall. Locke ordered a retreat to the third line of defense. The flintlock soldiers retreated, providing covering fire—Lin Mo had made them practice this maneuver no less than fifty times on the training ground.

[Uncertain.] Lin Mo said without turning his head, [But moving forward is always better than waiting to die.]

The third line of defense was laser guns. Sixteen of them, operated by sixteen militiamen with the best shooting scores, chosen by Marcus. The energy stored in the power cells was not enough for continuous firing; every shot had to be a vital hit. Marcus waited until the orc vanguard was less than fifty meters away before ordering fire—sixteen beams of red light simultaneously cut through the morning mist. The accuracy of the lasers far exceeded gunpowder weapons—a charred circular hole appeared on the hit orcs, the surrounding skin and muscle instantly carbonized. The five leading orcs fell simultaneously.

These laser weapons changed a crucial variable on the battlefield: the death rate of the orc front-line soldiers exceeded their replenishment rate for filling gaps.

The street fighting lasted for nearly three hours. Lin Mo stood in the center of the circular position in Archon Plaza, with the last loaded flintlock and the laser gun he had never used beside him. He pushed the laser gun to a nearby recruit who had run out of ammunition—an eighteen-year-old from Riverbend Town who had taken a full one hundred and twenty rounds to achieve a passing score on the training ground. He saw the light in his eyes, and he also saw that his hands were still shaking as he loaded. He placed all his spare energy cells in the recruit's hands.

The War Chief personally charged into the plaza. Locke collided with it from the side, his battle axe striking the Chief's power axe handle, sending sparks flying. Locke was shaken back a few steps, blood oozing from his hand, but his battle axe remained in his grip. He steadied himself, tightened his grip on the axe handle, panting, looking at the enemy who was over a meter taller than him. He did not retreat.

More than twenty flintlocks fired simultaneously.

He heard the sound of his own heartbeat. In this unnervingly quiet ruin, his heartbeat sounded like a drum, thumping, thumping, thumping, dull and regular. He tried to slow his breathing, and his heartbeat followed suit.

The War Chief's massive body swayed. It looked down at the dozen bleeding bullet holes on its chest, then looked up at the mortals holding guns. Its knees buckled, and its heavy body slowly tilted forward, finally crashing to the ground in Blackstone Village's plaza.

Lin Mo later learned that this planet had a number on the Imperial star chart, but no one remembered its name. In the warhammer 40k universe, unnamed planets outnumbered named ones—they were just a string of numbers on star charts, gathering dust in archives, waiting for a battle that would never be recorded to erase the numbers.

The orc legion began to rout the moment the Chief fell. It wasn't an orderly retreat, but a true rout—like the receding tide, the green-skinned figures vanished into the morning mist, leaving behind a field of corpses and broken weapons.

Lin Mo's ears were still ringing. He turned around and saw Locke sitting on the ground, panting, Yang Shitou bandaging a wounded militiaman, and Alice squatting among the injured, her silver-white hair stained with someone else's blood. He walked to the edge of the plaza, leaning on a dirt wall that had a corner chipped off by projectiles, watching the retreating orcs. The chaos attention level jumped from thirty-five to forty-two. Those scattered orcs would carry this news further—the mortals here had won. And the news of winning, in itself, was the greatest catalyst for chaos.

As he surveyed the battlefield in the cold morning air, a scout ran back from a distance and whispered something in his ear. Lin Mo's expression didn't change, but he clenched his fist.

Locke later asked him what the scout had said. Lin Mo was silent for a moment.

"Someone is meeting them in the direction they retreated."

"People? What kind of people?"

"Wearing black robes," Lin Mo said.

[Follow the map, three days.]

*It doesn't matter if the axe blade is chipped,*

*Just grab another and keep chopping.*

*—Locke's monologue after the rout of three thousand orcs*

Kahn did not leave immediately after the transaction. He sat in Lin Mo's Archon office, drank a cup of tea brewed from herbs grown in Blackstone Village, and commented: "Not bitter, but astringent." Then he put down the teacup and said, "There's an abandoned communication station to the west. It's not on the Imperial retirement list because it was one of the sites cut off during the secession, and not reactivated after the war. But as far as I know, most of the equipment in that station is still there." He finished speaking, stood up, straightened his robe, and walked out the door. No quote was left. No return date was set.

Lin Mo opened his notebook under the kerosene lamp. Since the first day of his transmigration, he had recorded everything he considered important: the weaknesses of orcs, the bureaucratic structure of the Empire, the fluctuation frequency of underground energy, the temperature changes of the octagram pendant. These records seemed disorganized—but in his mind, they were slowly forming a web. Each piece of information was a thread in this web. He believed that one day, when enough threads intertwined, he would see the complete form of this web. He added today's events. Then he closed the notebook and locked it in his desk drawer.

After Kahn left, Lin Mo stood alone by the window of the Archon's office. He held a cup of cold herbal tea. The information Kahn left—the abandoned communication station—was like a coin dropped into a machine he hadn't decided whether to use. He twirled the rough ceramic cup with his finger, mentally evaluating three factors: distance, risk, and reward. The abandoned communication station was several days' journey from Blackstone Village, with records of chaos activity along the way, but if the communication station was truly still functional, Blackstone Town could establish stable communication with the outside world. He put down the teacup and wrote a new entry in his notebook.

After Kahn's transaction, Lin Mo sat in the empty Town Hall, with the list of supplies Kahn had left on the table in front of him. He picked up a piece of paper and drew three lines on it—three lines extending outward from Blackstone Town, representing Kahn's trade route, Obsidian's trade route, and the as-yet-unused abandoned communication station route. The intersection of the three lines was not in Blackstone Town, nor on any known Imperial colony world—they intersected in an unmarked area. A gray zone on the Imperial map.

Lin Mo looked at the intersection point, not immediately drawing any marks on it. He closed his notebook. Before he figured out what that area was, he didn't want to leave any records pointing to it on paper.

*(Old Tom later carved it on the gate of the Arsenal)*

*Fifty people stayed,*

*meaning fifty families chose to believe.*

*—Lin Mo · First Batch of Settlers Reception Record · Annotation*

It was late. The lights of Blackstone Town went out one by one, leaving only the torches on the watchtowers swaying in the wind. He stood by the window for a while, then returned to his desk to continue writing his plan.

He stood there, looking at everything before him, and suddenly had a very strange feeling—if someone had told him a month ago that he would be on a planet an unknown number of light-years from Earth, using high school chemistry to make gunpowder, college club experience to make guns, and product manager logic to plan a village's defense system—he would have thought that person was crazy. But now he stood here, and every single thing was truly happening.

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The anonymous letter appeared on the Intelligence Center's desk the next morning—unsealed, unsigned, with only one sentence: "The wall you dug open is not the only one." Lin Mo read the letter three times before realizing: this meant another person also knew about that wall.

*[My horse, Dilu, flies fast; my bow, like thunder, startles the strings.]*

*—Xin Qiji, "Broken Array Song." mirror of the emperor's memory fragment*