CHAPTER 188: THE WILDKIN ATTACKS!

CH188 The Wildkin Attacks!

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The City of Werth, like every other settlement bordering the Ironmourn Desert, was no stranger to Wildkin raiding parties.

However, the Dankrot Plains usually bore the brunt of those attacks. Not only were the plains more fertile with lush grasslands and farm fields, but they were also home to formidable Fury warriors whose presence seemed to lure Orcs like moths to a flame. As a result, the City of Werth seldom encountered powerful raids.

The most notable assault in Werth’s history had involved a thousand-strong raid, mostly composed of Snakekin—a race neither particularly easy nor overly difficult to repel.

Yet now, as Lieutenant Hans stared into the distance using the Archer archetype ability [Eagle Sight], he saw what could only be described as a dark tide on the horizon.

A horde no smaller than twenty thousand.

Leading the charge were powerful Orc warriors and shamans. Behind them surged a chaotic mix of Wildkin races and desert beasts.

There were humanoid forms with savage goat heads—the feared Goatmen of the Ironmourn Desert.

Nearly two-metre-long serpentine beings with arms and legs that allowed them to move upright like men or on all fours like beasts—the Snakekin.

Looming figures of pure muscle, shaped like bipedal bulls—the Boz Taurus, a warrior Taurus race of the Ironmourn desert.

Then came the Mantisari—human-sized praying mantis warriors known across the Arun Continent as insectoid samurai. Predators born for war.

Alongside them skittered giant desert ants, Rock Scorpions, Sand Geckos, and other monstrous dune fauna.

’At least,’ Hans mused grimly, ’none of these creatures wear their strength on their sleeves. That alone might spare us some loss of morale.’

He had long since learned that, despite what most claimed, men did not really want to know the full strength of their enemies—not until the fight was inevitable. Fear thrived on the unknown, yes, but hopelessness thrived on its confirmation.

Those selected for Werth’s City Defence Force were the sort who only hesitated when fight or flight became a question of survival. Hans would not poison their resolve early.

So, he held back his full assessment of the threat. Instead, he calmly pointed out the races he recognised and their known weaknesses.

Everything was proceeding with steady tension... until the formation of the enemy horde began to shift.

Roughly three kilometres from the city walls, the advancing force came to a halt.

It became clear that the Orcs had served as pacesetters, with only the fastest and most aggressive of the Wildkin managing to keep up. Now, the rest of the horde was catching up—forming into distinct layers behind the vanguard.

As the slower ranks filled in, Hans’s expression darkened.

"Oh no... Goblin Priests, Goblin Champions, Armoured Trolls, Twin-headed Trolls..."

Before he could clamp down on the situation, one of the rookie archers blurted out the names of the emerging threats—loudly.

Murmurs of panic began to ripple through the defenders.

Goblin Priests and Armoured Trolls were Class 3 threats—Elite rank equivalents. Goblin Champions and Twin-headed Trolls were Class 4—Veteran rank threats.

And they were not few. Dozens of them appeared among the ranks.

Werth’s Defence Force had barely a score of Veteran-rankers left after the young lord of the Kellerman family—the current City Lord—had taken most of the elite forces with him.

The Wildkin now fielded more Veteran-ranked monsters than the city defenders.

Even seasoned officers like Lieutenant Hans and Lieutenant Boris felt the weight of hopelessness beginning to crush their discipline.

"The Commander is here!" someone suddenly shouted.

A middle-aged man with a short goatee, riding a white horse, galloped toward the city wall. With a burst of power, he launched himself from the saddle and soared into the air—landing on the battlements with effortless grace.

A telltale sign of a Saint-ranker.

"Keep your wits about you, men!" the City Guard’s Deputy Commander—and interim City Lord—roared. "They are still savage Wildkin! There are just more of them this time. We’ve pushed them back before, and we’ll do it again!"

His voice thundered across the walls and into the city beyond, steady and commanding. That voice alone sent a wave of calm through the defence line and down into the streets below.

The city’s residents erupted in cheers. Their bulwark of hope had stepped forward at the hour of greatest need.

Almost immediately, the chaotic evacuation efforts below became more organised. The crowd moved in orderly lines, guided by the guards and soldiers stationed throughout the inner city.

Morale surged.

The City Guards, who’d moments ago looked to be on the verge of panic, now stood firmer, their eyes clearer. By the time the Wildkin horde had fully gathered, the City Defence Force was already in formation—stationed along the battlements and guarding the gates.

The war armaments lining the city walls stood ready to strike at the invaders.

Then, the air stilled.

A quiet tension spread.

The calm... before the storm.

HOOORN!!

The Wildkin’s war horn blared again.

From the horde, a massive figure emerged—riding a monstrous black-furred wolf. The beast’s snarl carried over the field, but it was nothing compared to the pressure exuding from the rider himself.

The Deputy Commander’s eyes narrowed.

Orc Chief.

"Get ready!" he roared.

At that exact moment, the Orc Chief raised his massive hand and waved it forward.

The Wildkin army surged into motion.

Armoured Trolls took the lead, their thick hides and crude bone armour soaking up the arrows raining from the battlements.

Behind them, Wildkin Priests and Shamans of different races chanted in unison—casting buffs and protective enchantments over their advancing troops.

From the walls, human Mages and Archers responded in kind. Bolts of fire, ice, and lightning exploded outward, interwoven with a relentless barrage of arrows.

Boom! BOOM!!

Explosions erupted in the Wildkin ranks, sending bodies flying and leaving scorch marks on the blood-soaked ground.

Still, the Armoured Trolls pressed forward—unstoppable tanks of meat and bone—followed closely by their even larger kin: the Twin-headed Trolls.

The average Armoured Troll stood at four metres tall, but the Twin-headed ones were closer to six. These towering monstrosities posed the greatest threat to the city walls and quickly attracted the attention of the Veteran-ranked defenders.

Yet, true to troll nature, they refused to die easily. Regenerating flesh and sheer size meant they could not be brought down swiftly.

That left the regular guards to hold off the rest of the horde.

Lieutenants Hans and Boris joined forces, collapsing their platoons together.

Hans took command of the Archers.

Boris led the melee fighters.

With steel in his eyes, Boris charged into the fray atop the wall—spearheading the effort to repel Wildkins who’d managed to climb the defences. Meanwhile, Hans barked orders as his Archers picked off enemies trying to ascend.

Strangely, the most dangerous climbers weren’t the larger races.

It was the goblins.

Small, nimble, and slippery, the goblins could scale walls with terrifying speed. Once over the top, they could become a lethal distraction amidst the chaos.

Hans knew that.

He focused his Archers on them—every goblin struck down with a single arrow. One kill at a time, they thinned the swarm and bought the melee fighters more time.

It worked. At least on this section of the wall.

But just because they were holding their line didn’t mean the other segments were as lucky...

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