The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 34 : The Night of Bloodshed (5) (Thanks to ORDTEE for the Gifts)

Chapter 34: Chapter 34 : The Night of Bloodshed (5) (Thanks to ORDTEE for the Gifts)

The screams of the soldiers behind the gate rose as they desperately tried to brace it from the inside, pressing their bodies and gear against it to delay its collapse.

At the same time, others climbed the upper walls, pouring boiling oil, hurling rocks, and using anything they could turn into a weapon to halt the savage advance.

But the orcs... they did not hesitate. They did not slow down. Their march resembled a crawl from a primordial age—knowing nothing but to advance or die.

The fortress gate, which had withstood decades of war and storms, finally began to crack. Each blow brought them closer to the moment of collapse.

From the rear, Gerom watched in silence—an immovable mountain amid the chaos. He neither smiled nor shouted. His cold, focused eyes locked on a single target: the gate.

Behind the advancing warriors, Lord Gerom’s gaze rose to the fortress’s high ramparts. The sight of the inner keep burned into his mind as he muttered, voice low but resolute:

"If I can take this fortress... reclaim the shaman’s treasure... and level up... I could raise myself—and the Akdad Tribe—to the level of the great clans. Another campaign into human lands might be within reach."

He understood: this was a rare moment. A singular opportunity.

A path paved in blood... toward ascension... toward power.

A deep warcry erupted from the orc ranks, shaking the battlefield like a thunderstorm. The humans on the walls tensed as the roar surged toward them, rolling over the field like a wave of fury.

Desperate human soldiers braced the gate from behind, shoving bodies and gear against splintering wood, buying moments with their lives. From above, rocks, oil, and scrap rained down.

But the orcs did not slow. Their charge was primal—an avalanche of muscle and will, either to conquer or fall.

The gate, which had withstood years of siege and storms, finally cracked—its hinges screaming.

Still at the rear, Gerom raised his double-bladed spear, eyes burning.

"Forward! Kill them all! Leave no one standing!"

And the orcs answered in unison—

"ROOOAARR!!"

The battlefield exploded with the bloodthirsty cry of the orcs. It was as if the sky itself had screamed. The roar swept across the plains like a storm, shaking the air and rattling the hearts of the humans on the walls.

Gerom raised his tattooed arm—heavy and inked with war sigils—and with a single motion, unleashed the final wave of his warriors: a thousand orc souls. The last of the elites and survivors, forged in fire and death, now charged into battle.

They moved in locked formation, heads low, clad in coal-black armor that shimmered like obsidian walls.

Massive axes rested on their shoulders, gleaming under the afternoon sun like shards of a broken sun, reforged to harvest souls.

This was the final strike—the death blow.

The orcs surged forward with shocking speed, the earth trembling beneath them. Dust rose in their wake, casting a gray curtain over the battlefield.

Their footsteps were thunder—each step a drumbeat of doom, shaking the very bones of the defenders.

From the walls, human soldiers gasped in horror.

This was no charge. This was a storm—alive, wild, raging toward the gates.

A commander screamed hoarsely over the noise:

"They’re coming with everything they’ve got! Hold the line! There’s no retreat!"

On the central tower, Victor stood tall in his armor, his eyes calmly watching the oncoming tide.

He whispered:

"It’s a gamble... The orc commander’s throwing everything on the line."

Then, raising his voice to a sharp command:

"Greatbow units, prepare for continuous fire! Don’t stop until the last one falls!"

The signal horn blared.

Heavy bolts soared once again, slicing the sky like spears of iron. Their shrieks echoed like the screams of spirits—piercing, unnatural.

The frontlines of the orcs took the full brunt—armor shattered, bodies crashed to the ground, limbs torn apart.

Still, the orcs pressed on.They were monsters that felt no pain.

Fresh recruits released a flurry of arrows from their light hunting bows—not meant for war, but deadly fast.

In mere seconds, the sky was thick with arrows—thin, sharp, and relentless.

On a side tower, an old soldier, face lined and eyes steady, locked onto his target.

He loaded a bolt into his crossbow, took a slow breath, and aimed—an orc with twisted horns was charging just ten meters below.

He squeezed the trigger.

Thwip!

The bolt whistled through the air, then through the orc’s forehead.

The giant dropped to his knees like a statue, then crumbled forward—motionless.

Arrows rained down on the orcs’ heads — dense, sporadic, yet relentless.

"Roar! Roar! Roar!"

The orcs’ cries echoed in all directions, as if the earth itself were resonating with their fury.

Thirty elite archers stood atop the walls, each wielding high-quality bows armed with conical-headed arrows capable of piercing armor like spears.

The massive orcs from the "Nok" tribe — who resembled small giants — could barely lift their clubs or hammers in defense. If any dared raise their heads and roar toward the city walls, the ballista bolts would tear straight through their open mouths.

The tactic was simple: target the strongest orc, fire with precision, and pin him down until death.

If one bolt wasn’t enough to kill, then fire again — and again.

In addition, 150 newly recruited soldiers were using small crossbows. Though the bolts fired from these compact weapons were not inherently lethal...The closer the range, the more deadly they became.

With natural armor-piercing capabilities, these recruits aimed accurately at the rest of the Nok tribe orcs. Even their iron-plated armor was riddled with holes, turning them into walking pincushions.

But that was enough against the less-defended orcs.

Just fire the bolt.

It was precise. It was deadly — for both elite and ordinary orcs alike.

A single well-aimed shot could leave a horned orc critically wounded, stumbling and collapsing, making him an easy, unmoving target for the archers. He would struggle and roar in pain, but in the end, it wouldn’t take long.

The terrifying power of the bolt would tear through his body completely.

Silence.

And then... death.

With the addition of crossbow bolts and small arrows, it became possible to strike vital areas — like the orcs’ eyes — from time to time.

One shot had pierced directly through a neck, shattering the throat.

It could be considered a satisfying result — taking down a few orcs with precise shooting!

Hundreds of tall orcs now stood at the edge of the fortress wall.

Each thick-skinned, long-horned orc had eight or nine crossbow bolts embedded in their bodies.

Some were so riddled that over twenty bolts were packed tightly into a single orc — a painfully obvious target.

The sheer pressure of this arrow rain blanketing the battlefield had a more terrifying psychological effect than even the sharpshooters with superior armor-piercing skills.

As long as there were enough bows and arrows, a continuous downpour could be maintained,you can always shoot them to death.

...

From his elevated position atop the black hill, Gharom, standing behind the formations alongside Akar and the other orc commanders, could see it all...

He saw how some front-line ranks had halted their charge.How others had faltered under the relentless storm of arrows.

He clenched his spear so tightly that the veins in his thick forearm bulged, then spat on the ground.

Akar, standing beside him, noticed Gharom’s state and stepped forward slowly, continuing in a low, grim voice:

"If this continues... our front lines will be exhausted within an hour. After that, we’ll have nothing left to move. The human fortifications will hold until morning, and we’ll be forced to retreat — under a storm of arrows and counterattacks."

He pointed toward the current battlefield — or rather, the massacre that the orc army was enduring under the enemy’s arrows:

"Time isn’t on our side. Every minute of delay allows the enemy to reorganize their lines... to prepare surprises we haven’t foreseen yet."

Gharom listened silently, then turned to him and said:

"Then speak. Say what you’re really thinking."

Akar looked directly at Gharom and the rest of the commanders, eyes firm:

"But if we launch a focused, direct breakthrough — a precise strike at their command level — we might create enough chaos to open a gap. That chaos... is our only shot at breaking the front line."

Dogrel, who had remained silent until now, furrowed his brows at the suggestion, then finally spoke:

"You’re proposing a high-risk assault led by our elite commanders?"

Akar responded without hesitation:

"Yes. The weight of this battle no longer lies in our numbers. It lies in shocking the enemy where they least expect it. If the troops see their leaders charging in with them, it will ignite their fighting spirit — and it will throw the defenders into disarray. It’s a risk... but a calculated one."

He paused, then added grimly:

"I don’t approve of reckless gambles... but the facts don’t lie. Staying in our positions is guaranteed loss. At least your plan gives us a chance."

"Time is running out... and if the will breaks before the wall does, we’ve already lost."

His gaze drifted toward the fortress gate — that slab of unpolished iron they had once thought an easy target. But it had held firm, standing as though defying the pride of the orcs themselves.

Gharom looked around, eyes sweeping the faces of those around him. Then, his voice thundered — a roar so deep it made the ground beneath them tremble:

"You commanders—step forward!"

The command rang out like thunder across the hilltop.

Without hesitation, six figures emerged—each one a warrior forged by countless battles, the fiercest among the orc tribes.

They came forward in silence, their heavy steps sinking slightly into the blackened soil, and stood in a rough arc before Gharom.

His gaze, cold and unwavering, locked on the distant fortress gate—a slab of unpolished iron that had withstood every assault thrown its way. Then, with a voice that rolled like distant drums, he spoke:

"We move as one. A single spearpoint driven through their heart. If the gate falls before us, the battle is ours. If it does not... then we fall upon it—and it will break with our bones."

One of the commanders shifted uneasily, eyes flickering between his comrades. Then, after a moment, he broke the silence with a voice low and grim:

"Gharom... this is a gamble. If we fall, the rest will falter. The tribes will lose their spine. Their leaders."

Gharom said nothing at first. His eyes, sharp as blades, scanned their faces. Then, in a sudden motion, he stepped forward and drove his spear into the ground at their feet. The impact shook the soil beneath them.

"Do you fear death?" he asked.

Silence.

Dogrel, who had stood quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of caution:

"A leader doesn’t always have to stand at the front. Sometimes... the wise thing is to survive."

Gharom turned his full attention to him, his voice rising like a war chant:

"We did not come here to survive. We crossed mountains and deserts, bled across miles of earth for glory—for conquest! We came to build a kingdom, to win the Queen her throne, and carve out a place for our kind beneath the sun!"

He raised his spear high above his head, and his voice became a roar:

"Forward! Tear through friend and foe alike if you must! Carve a path through blood and steel—reach that gate and bring it down! We are the storm! We are the hammer!"

"Prepare yourselves. Once the signal is given, we strike."

The wind howled. Five minutes passed.

Then, like a blade drawn from its sheath, the strike force surged into motion.

Only thirty warriors, but each one handpicked from the strongest—the fastest, the fiercest. Their armor was light, made for speed over defense.

Their eyes burned with a focused rage. Each commander led a wedge of warriors, with Gharom at the point, his double-bladed spear gleaming like lightning.

They tore through their own ranks first, a blur of motion and discipline.

The plan was brutal in its simplicity: approach from the battlefield’s left flank—where enemy fire had momentarily thinned—and push hard toward the northern gate, a section of the wall that showed signs of wear under relentless assault.