The ratfolk were not stupid.
In a sense, being relatively weak in combat, they had no choice but to rack their brains to survive, drawing out even more wisdom than Clan Warriors.
And those ratfolk who had broken out of Black Horn City and charged into the Sunken Sky Grassland were the cream of the crop, tempered by life-and-death selection.
After Meng Chao's guidance, many of them suddenly saw the light.
What decided victory or defeat was not just combat strength, but also the will to fight.
Even if the Centaur Warriors truly possessed more than ten times their combat strength, there was no benefit for the former in playing a mutually destructive game with the latter, who fought like mad demons and risked their lives in bloody battle.
If they won, it was only natural. At most, they would satisfy their thirst for slaughter. They could not possibly find much valuable loot on the ratfolk, yet they would consume vast amounts of war resources and precious time.
But if they lost, they would be doomed beyond redemption.
Like all High-Level Orcs, Centaur Warriors did not fear death.
If they faced Lion-Tiger Warriors of the Golden Clan, or the mages and Night Watchmen of the Holy Light Land, the Centaur Warriors would surely charge forward like they had been injected with chicken blood, treating death as home.
Even if their flesh and blood were torn into pieces by incomparably powerful enemies.
There would surely be satisfied smiles on their severed heads as they flew high through the air.
Because in the instant before death, they knew very clearly that their souls would become dazzling golden rays, piercing straight toward the Summit of the Holy Mountain and joining the ranks of ancestral spirits in eternal glory.
But to stumble in a