The screams of the soldiers behind the gate rose as they desperately tried to brace it from the inside, pressing their bodies and gear against it to delay its collapse.
At the same time, others climbed the upper walls, pouring boiling oil, hurling rocks, and using anything they could turn into a weapon to halt the savage advance.
But the orcs... they did not hesitate. They did not slow down. Their march resembled a crawl from a primordial age—knowing nothing but to advance or die.
The fortress gate, which had withstood decades of war and storms, finally began to crack. Each blow brought them closer to the moment of collapse.
From the rear, Gerom watched in silence—an immovable mountain amid the chaos. He neither smiled nor shouted. His cold, focused eyes locked on a single target: the gate.
Behind the advancing warriors, Lord Gerom's gaze rose to the fortress's high ramparts. The sight of the inner keep burned into his mind as he muttered, voice low but resolute:
