Azshara's Great Retreat

Andy looked at his panel, noting the 0.2 added to his attribute values, and couldn't help but mutter, "Killing an Orc actually gives me points?"

"That is only natural!" The Monster Spirit seemed to disdain discussing technical matters with Andy any further; in any case, Andy might not understand even if it explained.

"Didn't you say that only items from this world could increase my attributes?" Andy asked, puzzled.

"Sigh..." If the Monster Spirit had a physical form, it would surely have fainted by now. "That Orc is dead, dead, do you understand? Once you kill him, he is a corpse, and corpses are also classified as items of this world! It's not just Orcs; the corpses of all creatures in this world, provided they have attributes, can stack stats for you!"

Andy put on an expression of sudden realization, his hands moving non-stop as arrows flew out one after another. Standing behind the main elven force, Andy specifically targeted the slow-moving Orcs, usually taking one down with two or three arrows. Although killing an Orc warrior only added 0.2 to his attributes, even a mosquito's leg was still meat!

The Orc shield-bearers ran rapidly, quickly approaching the elven front-line melee troops. The archer commander no longer dared to issue orders; they were too close to their own phalanx, making indirect fire no longer suitable.

The tall Orcs raised their shields, roaring as they charged into the elven positions, quickly becoming entangled with the warriors. The three-meter-tall Ogres were even more unbridled, their long arms and legs sweeping back and forth, leaving any elven warrior they struck either dead or crippled.

"Direct fire, fire at will!" the archer commander shouted, and hundreds of arrows drilled into the bodies of the charging Orc warriors like a swarm of locusts.

At this moment, Andy retreated from behind the elven warriors to the archer phalanx; he was just a guy who knew how to use a bow and didn't want to die too quickly. He didn't stay idle while retreating, his arrows harvesting the lives of unlucky Orcs one by one. He had moved to the archers also because his own arrows were running low, and there were bundles of arrows stacked at the edge of the phalanx.

Once the two armies met, Azshara Beach quickly turned into a meat grinder of a quagmire. Severed limbs filled the air and ground, and the dark red blood of the Orcs mingled with the pale purple blood of the Elves, spraying everywhere as the sounds of slaughter shook the heavens.

Tyrande stood beside Andona, watching the battlefield. Several of Andona's subordinates had already led warriors into the fray, leaving only Andona's personal guard and the archers in the rear. Tyrande's expression was grim; although the elven forces held a numerical advantage, they were not winning the field. The Orcs, averaging over two meters in height with knotted muscles, wore only simple leather armor—some even bare-chested—their bodies laden with explosive power, showcasing the ferocity of the Orc race.

An Orc warrior holding a large shield was charging left and right. The shield he held in both hands was shaped like a beast's head, with two long, sharp fangs protruding from the mouth! With a forceful thrust to the left, the fangs pierced directly through an elven warrior's body, lifting him high before tossing him into the air. The blood spraying from the elven warrior drenched the Orc's head and face, further inciting his ferocity to the extreme.

Andy took aim, and an arrow shimmering with green light pierced the Orc's throat, ending his madness—it was Andy's most frequently used "Serpent Sting."

Andona also furrowed his brows, his gloomy expression indicating his extreme dissatisfaction. These elven warriors of his had been carefully selected from all the elven forces; both in martial skill and physique, they were top-tier. How could they be so vulnerable? What he failed to consider was that while his warriors were elite, the Elves had been at peace for too long, and these soldiers had never seen the reality of war.

How could soldiers who had never seen blood become powerful warriors?

The Orc warriors, aided by the Ogres, were like tigers with wings, quickly turning the situation on the beach into a one-sided rout.

"This won't do!" Tyrande said. "The losses are too great; we cannot afford such attrition."

Andona knew this all too well, but what could he do? He glanced at Tyrande beside him and sighed helplessly; the elven warriors in the front were already showing signs of a crumbling retreat. With a wave of his hand, the battalion of personal guards behind him drew their weapons and charged forward with a shout. The old general's facial muscles twitched slightly; if this still didn't work, he feared his own old bones would have to join the fray!

Tyrande reached out, and her owl landed on her arm. She whispered a low incantation, and a cold, clear radiance washed over the owl, which instantly flapped its wings and shot into the sky, suddenly transforming into a giant bird with a wingspan of over two meters, screeching as it dove toward the Orc troops below.

Andy stole a glance in that direction; good heavens, it looked like Tyrande was going all out!

Tyrande slung her bow over her back, crossed her hands over her chest, and bowed her head, silently chanting. At first, the sound was very faint, but moments later it grew louder, eventually resounding across the entire sky above the beach.

A breeze rose on the beach, but in the blink of an eye, it turned into a gale, instantly blowing so hard that everyone could not open their eyes.

"What is going on!" Orgrim roared. Seeing his warriors had already suppressed the enemy, why had such a strong wind picked up at this very moment?

"Chieftain, it seems to be the enemy's magic!" one of Orgrim's lieutenants shouted, fighting against the gale to reach his side.

Orgrim stomped his foot, just about to turn and order his Shamans to cast a counter-spell to stop the wind. Before he could take a few steps, he saw a massive pillar of white light, interspersed with specks of gold, piercing straight into the sea surface behind them.

The Orc ships on the water that were shrouded or grazed by the light pillar were all torn to pieces, scattering across the surface like wood shavings. Orgrim stared in shock at everything happening on the sea, forgetting even what he had intended to do. After remaining still for a few seconds, the light pillar seemed to turn into a giant rod stirring the ocean, and a massive water dragon climbed the pillar, shooting straight into the sky!

"What kind of spell is this!" Orgrim muttered, but no one answered him; everyone was staring blankly at the scene unfolding on the sea.

As the water dragon reached its peak height, the light pillar suddenly withdrew all its power. The water dragon crashed back into the sea, forming a giant wave over ten meters high that surged toward the beach, rushing toward the Orc legion with the force of a landslide. At the same time, Tyrande's arms were wide open, her eyes clouded with a gray mist, and sweat beads the size of pearls dripped from her forehead to the ground.

Andy watched all of this, squinting at Tyrande. Mother of God, she really is going all out; what a massive display!

Orgrim instantly snapped to his senses and shouted to the rear, "Quick, call the Shamans!"

The Shamans behind the troops didn't need to be told; two had already been diverted to control the Ogres, and the remaining dozen turned together, chanting incantations. The waves rose higher and higher, cresting onto the beach. The Orcs at the rear of the legion screamed as they were swallowed by the surf. The Orc Shamans danced and chanted loudly, and the sand in front of them began to bulge upward. Finally, before the waves could crash over them, they erected a high sand wall, blocking the water. The waves continued to rise, and the sand wall glowed with a hazy yellow light, growing inch by inch.

This was a life-and-death duel between the magical powers of two races: Tyrande alone against ten enemy Shamans!

Tyrande's sweat flowed more profusely, and the Shamans on the other side were not faring well either; all ten had flushed faces, and two of the weaker ones had already begun to cough up blood. The two Shamans controlling the Ogres exchanged a look, traced the magical fluctuations to Tyrande's position, and one of them shouted, "Destroy everything, Light of Thunder!" The remaining Shaman raised his hands with him, and instantly, a swirling dark cloud formed directly above Tyrande's head.

A flash of lightning streaked through the dark clouds, followed by an even thicker, larger bolt of lightning striking down toward Tyrande's head!

"Look out!" Andy realized it too late; the lightning had already formed, and he was too far away to provide rescue.

The lightning arrived in an instant. With a violent flash, Andy kept his mouth agape, ignoring the blinding light, and watched the point of impact, an indescribable feeling filling his heart. Hilar was already sobbing; no one could have expected Tyrande to be ambushed while casting.

After the intense light faded, the lightning continued, but the descending bolt was gradually being pushed back up. Andona, the old elven general who had been standing by Tyrande's side, had grabbed a large shield in his desperation, blocking the fatal blow for her.

Andy rushed over, his hands supporting the giant shield as Andona collapsed instantly, gasping for air. His hair was scorched, emitting a pungent, burnt smell, and his hands were covered in blood, trembling uncontrollably.

Tyrande suddenly regained her senses and stopped casting. The giant wave, which had risen to thirty or forty meters, lost its power support, and the seawater poured down from the sky, flowing back into the ocean along the beach. The massive earth wall also collapsed, and sand filled the air in an instant. Six of the ten casting Shamans had fallen to the ground, each with ashen faces, vomiting blood and fainting.

A trace of blood leaked from the corner of Tyrande's mouth. She glanced at the paralyzed Andona, her eyes filled with apology. Finally, she helplessly said to the messenger, "Sound the horn, we are retreating!"

The "woo-woo" sound of the horn rang out, and the surviving elven warriors, under the cover of the archers and the still-lingering gale, retreated toward Ashenvale, supporting one another. Tyrande watched the retreating elven warriors, her face a mix of expressions: unwillingness, anger, and a sense of relief!

Orgrim looked through the wind wall at the retreating Elves. He did not order a pursuit; he wanted to preserve more of his tribe's embers. Since the enemy had retreated, he would let them go; after all, he had only come to find a pure land for his own survival.

As Andy retreated, he glanced at Orgrim on the beach. The other side saw him too. Orgrim noticed someone staring at him—a fellow with long, pointed ears. He raised the Doomhammer in his hand, and the tribal warriors behind him all roared, using this to declare their victory in the war!