At the southern edge of the grasslands, the wind carried gravel as it swept past. The Alarda Army, having just emerged from the mountain pass, advanced deep into the grasslands over the soft black soil.
The thirty-thousand-man force stretched for several miles in a long column. Their dark gray uniforms formed a neat, straight line across the withered grasslands. These were the two army divisions personally led by Paul Greiman—the best-equipped and most battle-tested main force in the Northwest Legion.
Paul reined in his horse and stopped on a rise, his gaze sweeping over the handsome soldiers below. They wore dark gray uniforms, carried breech-loading rifles on their backs, and had short blades hanging at their waists. Their ranks moved slowly across the grasslands like a steel dragon. The artillery followed close behind, horse-drawn cannons leaving two clear tracks in the grass. The wagons of the Supply Convoy were loaded with ammunition and compressed rations, with infantry escorts walking beside each one.
He raised a hand to his brow and gazed into the distance. The grasslands resembled silk smoothed by the wind, stretching all the way to the horizon. Only the occasional hawk skimmed past, leaving a fleeting shadow in the blue sky.
Such vast land was waiting for him to conquer, and his heart surged with excitement.
Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder rode closer, the map spread in his hands trembling slightly in the wind.
"Lord Greiman," he said, his finger landing on a spot marked with a river, his voice lowered slightly. "At our current pace, we'll reach the designated campsite in four hours. There's a water source there where we can rest."
Paul nodded slightly. "Send more men to scout the surroundings. Don't leave any gaps. The grasslands may offer a wide field of vision, but Orcish