Advance (III)

"Get ready!"

Terk, commander of the Black Legion's Eleventh Infantry Regiment, roared through a loudhailer.

"Those damn Greenskins are almost here!!"

Many soldiers had only just rushed out of their tents, hopping as they tried to put on their boots while running.

They could already hear that sound clearly.

That kind of roar.

Everyone had been caught off guard. The news an hour ago had still been that the Orks were stalled in the B5 sector, where the defenders were holding out stubbornly.

But no one had expected the Greenskins to make a clear push through the center this time. Mount Mishil was the core anchor of the entire canyon defense. Once it was breached, the Orks could burst through the weak gaps between certain defensive lines and charge toward the city of Tyre, thirty kilometers away.

The rapid loss of the B5 sector was turning that hidden danger into reality.

From a certain distance away, battle sounded like something peculiar.

The trembling earth, the roar of engines, the shriek of weapons, the muffled thump of explosions, the cries and shouts—all of it blended into an ominous whisper, like the savage growl of some monster slowly awakening beyond the hills.

Terk had heard that whisper many times in his life. It always heralded either days when he had been fortunate enough to survive, or moments he would never forget.

Outside the tents, noon had arrived.

The camp was in chaos as soldiers hurriedly prepared for battle. The regimental commander raised his head and looked at the sky.

The slowly turning clouds had been stained green, like water seeped through with poison.

To the southeast, an enormous sandstorm seemed to be crawling forward, engulfing the Scale Kingdom's battle lines. Even the black fortifications had been swallowed.

Terk squeezed through the surging