"Ah~ that feels good!" A warm current, like a gentle stream, spread through Rynar's limbs and torso, as the holy aura of his Paladin energy quietly healed his internal injuries.
"Oh~ Paladins sure are convenient. This must save a lot on medical expenses, right?" Orek watched Rynar's hands glow with white light, feeling a pang of envy. After all, dwarves typically just endured illnesses, bandaged wounds as best they could, and then sought out a healer if things got too serious. They never had the luxury of priestly healing. Now, with Rynar's abilities, it was practically like having a cleric in the team, and that made the dwarves, who lacked magical talents, incredibly envious.
"Luckily, His Highness is a Paladin. Otherwise, this expedition might have come to an abrupt end." Caslow exchanged a glance with Omsk, silently sighing in relief. The commission for this journey was generous beyond belief, but compared to the safety of their king, nothing else mattered. If Rynar's condition had continued to worsen, Caslow would have dragged him back home no matter what, even if it meant financial hardship. Money could be earned again, but a king's safety was irreplaceable.
"Lord Omsk, something feels very off here…" One of the returning rangers furrowed his brow in confusion.
"What happened?" Omsk was already on high alert. Rynar's injury had left him deeply guilty, and his nerves were stretched to their limit. Even the smallest sign of danger needed to be dealt with immediately.
"It's strange. We keep getting the feeling that something—or someone—is tracking us. And it's not just me; all of us Lordaeron rangers sense it. We've tried to scout ahead and locate them, but we found nothing…" The ranger's eyes were filled with uncertainty.
"Damn it! Looks like those bastards have set their sights on us!" Caslow reacted instantly. It had to be the troll tribe tracking them!
Yes, besides their incredible accuracy with ranged weapons, trolls were also legendary trackers. They could stalk a target from ten kilometers away and maintain pursuit for thousands of miles.
"You mean those trolls are planning to cause us trouble?" Omsk, though lacking a Dragoon's inherited battle memory, was still well-versed in military knowledge and had already analyzed the situation.
"Yes, they're likely preparing for a large-scale ambush. From now on, we won't just be dealing with small skirmishes—things are going to escalate fast." Caslow's expression grew serious.
"Our Lordaeron rangers alone aren't enough to provide full perimeter defense for the entire group!" Seeing the others' expectant gazes, the ranger captain immediately shook his head. "Are you joking? We're already stretched thin just keeping watch, let alone dealing with an even larger assault."
"Hmm, we're at a serious disadvantage here… Our formation is too stretched out, and the dwarves have almost no long-range attack capabilities." Rynar glanced at Balin, whose face showed an awkward expression.
Everyone knew dwarves rarely had archers. They mainly relied on crossbows for ranged combat, and there was no way they could have hauled heavy ballistae all the way out here—they didn't have any spatial storage devices, after all.
"We should find a good location to set up an ambush of our own and teach these trolls a painful lesson! Only if we hit them hard enough will they give up on pursuing us." Omsk's methods were always straightforward and brutal.
"There's a hill not far ahead. It's broad and spacious enough for our troops to maneuver. If we clear the trees on top, we'll even have ready-made materials for fortifications," the scouting rangers quickly reported. They were already familiar with all the suitable terrain nearby.
"The sun's about to set. The trolls might strike at night. We need to pick up the pace," Balin warned.
"Agreed! Move faster! Forced march!" Rynar ordered without hesitation.
…
"Boom! Boom! Boom!" The powerful dwarves swung their muscular arms, their sharp battle-axes now doubling as the best logging tools. Infused with battle energy, the axe blades sank deep into the tree trunks with ease, felling thick trees in just a few strikes.
"Faster, lads! We might get attacked after nightfall, and I don't want those trolls getting anywhere near us! Move it, sons of Durin!" Balin personally shouldered his axe and began chopping. His actions immediately motivated the other dwarves, who swung their axes with renewed vigor. For some reason, the rhythmic chopping in Rynar's mind sounded like an echoing chant: Eighty, eighty, eighty…
…
"Are you sure about this? Will the trolls really attack?" Rynar, unlike Caslow and the others, lacked their sharp battlefield intuition. He still held onto a sliver of hope.
"Your Highness, trolls have another key trait—they hold grudges. And they're an intelligent race with their own civilization. Think about it—if orcs invaded your kingdom, burned your lands, and slaughtered your people, wouldn't you take revenge?" Omsk shrugged, exasperated by Rynar's wishful thinking. The trolls were bound to strike. As for who would emerge victorious, that depended on timing, terrain, and strategy.
"Alright, from this moment on, I'm handing over command to you all. I won't interfere with your decisions—you're the experts here." Rynar decisively delegated authority. He might not be the most qualified general, but he was certainly a capable king. On Earth, he had learned an important lesson: never let personal hobbies interfere with professional decision-making, and never compete with experts in their own field.
For reference, just look at that bald principal who lost eighty thousand troops despite having a sixty-thousand-man advantage—remote command and amateur leadership could get an entire army killed.
"We won't fail Your Highness!" The two knights pounded their chests in a formal salute.
After receiving supplies from Rynar, the Zaltarion soldiers swiftly erected a makeshift military camp. One by one, the tents went up, blending seamlessly together. Rynar's tent was among them. Unlike the grand, ostentatious command tents seen in television dramas, real military leaders kept their living quarters as inconspicuous as possible. Even animals understood the principle of taking out the leader first. Those grand tents were nothing more than council halls—no commander in his right mind would sleep in such an obvious target.
"Your Highness, everything is in place…" The ever-dutiful royal guards carefully lifted Rynar into his tent. Since it looked identical to the soldiers' quarters, it wouldn't stand out at all. Though the tent was small, it was more than enough for just one person.
A hammock had already been set up inside—yes, a hammock. This was one of the few privileges Rynar allowed himself. Given the cold and damp ground, his royal guards had taken the initiative to set up wooden posts and suspend a hammock for him.
"Your Highness, please rest while you can. Tonight may be a sleepless one. I'll bring your food shortly. And please—do not remove your armor. This isn't Riverguard. Your armor is your last line of defense—make good use of it," the royal guard captain reminded him with a deep bow.
"Yes, I understand. Thank you for the warning," Rynar replied sincerely. He had no intention of testing his body's resilience against troll spears.
…
Meanwhile, deep in the jungle, a group of towering trolls adorned with vibrantly colored tribal tattoos leaped effortlessly between the treetops. Their massive forms moved with astonishing agility through the dense forest. Their destination? Rynar's encampment.
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