After Galen and his men doused the campfire and retired to their tents, a vast army of Quillboar began moving silently across Red Cloud Mesa, just south of Bloodhoof Village. Under the pale moonlight, a long, serpentine shadow stretched across the highland, creeping forward with purpose.
"Chieftain, the warriors are in position," a tall Quillboar said respectfully to the leader, who wore worn leather armor and carried a scarred axe.
"Well done, Thornmantle," Chieftain Razorfen replied, his voice low and gravelly. "Let them rest for now. We strike at midnight. No noise. We take the Tauren by surprise and crush them in their sleep."
"As you command, Chieftain," Thornmantle said, hesitating slightly before speaking again. "But… before nightfall, our scouts reported an increase in tents within the Tauren camp. More smallfolk have moved in."
Razorfen scoffed. "Let them come. We march with over twenty thousand warriors tonight. This land is ours, and these Tauren squatters will pay for daring to claim it."
The pink hue of his skin darkened with excitement, his tusks bared in a savage grin.
"But Chieftain," Thornmantle persisted, concern etched on his face. "Word from the Barrens says the Razorfen were enslaved by a group of these same smallfolk. I fear—"
"Enough!" Razorfen snapped. "You are the tribe's warleader. Show some backbone, Thorn! We are not those pitiful Razorfen. When they cast out our ancestors, they split our bloodlines forever. We are the Razorfen stronger, fiercer, and unyielding!"
He gestured toward the horizon with a clenched fist. "We've stayed hidden too long in the caves. It's time we show the world that we are the true heirs of this land. First the Tauren, then the Barrens and let the Razorfen traitors see the price of casting us out!"
"…As you command, Chieftain," Thornmantle said quietly, though his eyes were troubled. He was among the few who could see where this path led and it wasn't victory.
He had no doubt this assault would fail.
The Tauren camp was protected by both arcane wards and skilled scouts. Nightfall would bring no advantage here. And knowing Galen—someone who appreciated both the Three Kingdoms and battlefield strategy—he would have anticipated a night raid. The Eaglewind Matrons were pleased with the human reinforcements. If Galen let them suffer a devastating loss in a surprise attack, his reputation would be in shambles.
That's why he always kept one legion fully equipped and combat-ready.
As the last embers of the campfire faded, Galen strolled the camp perimeter with his lion cub Simba and his dog Hogg. With a beast on each side, he couldn't help but walk with a bit of a swagger.
Truthfully, the patrol was unnecessary Gandalf had already set the defenses but Galen had gotten used to checking on things himself since his time in Gran Village. Back then, a lazy watchman could mean disaster.
The defenses were tight well-placed, deceptive, and cunning. Galen admired Gandalf's tactical growth. This was no simple magic-user anymore.
After his patrol, Galen dismissed Hogg, and Simba curled up at the tent entrance. With nothing but the sounds of frogs and insects around Stonebull Lake to accompany him, and no distractions like dungeons or short videos, Galen decided to sleep early.
But as he drifted off, a dark tide approached under the moonlight. Led by Thornmantle, the Quillboar crept closer to Bloodhoof Village.
At a distance of just 300 meters from the damaged outer wall, everything changed.
"Wooo-wooo-wooo!"
A low horn cut through the night air.
Flares launched into the sky, lighting the plains like day. The Quillboar, more than twenty thousand strong, were exposed in an instant, caught mid-step with no cover to hide them.
"Night attack! To arms!" the sentries roared.
From the tents burst a full legion of human soldiers, already alert and geared for battle. They took control of the defensive perimeter, especially the damaged sections of the wall.
The Quillboar were stunned. Thornmantle hesitated, caught in a no-win scenario. Galen's forces had timed their alert perfectly: close enough that the Quillboar couldn't retreat cleanly, but far enough to respond effectively.
A direct assault would meet prepared resistance. A retreat would cripple morale. The whole tribe had marched out tonight with dreams of bloodshed and glory.
Could Thornmantle believe Razorfen's confidence—that the humans were weak and the wall could be breached?
As he wavered, the order came.
"Razorfen warriors, charge!"
Chieftain Razorfen roared, and the Quillboar surged forward, no longer crouching, no longer hiding. They ran full tilt for the walls.
They were close. So close.
Chieftain Razorfen's heart pounded with anticipation. In his mind, he already saw it—guards slain, the camp ablaze, the spoils of war piled high. He would push north next, liberate the Razorfen, and unite the long-fractured tribes.
He would become the first true Warchief of all Quillboar.
His name would be legend.
But the next moment did not unfold the way he dreamed.
The moment the horn blared through the night, Galen flipped upright, quickly donned his gear, and rushed to the gates of Bloodhoof Village.
He was among the last to arrive. The Silver Legion was already stationed at the front, guarding the village entrance, while the other two legions stood ready behind the wooden walls.
After joining Matron Hawk Wind and the others, Galen made his way to the frontline just in time to witness Gandalf orchestrating the defense.
"One hundred meters—open fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Musket shots from Galen's soldiers and arrows from the tauren hunters lit up the night. At such close range and with the quillboar packed tightly together, accuracy was barely necessary. The barrage struck with brutal efficiency.
The advancing quillboar were devastated. The front lines stumbled as if slamming into an invisible wall. Many were thrown backward by bullet impacts, only to be trampled by the charging warriors behind them.
The quillboar, armed with crude, spiked clubs lashed to wooden handles and lacking even basic shields, were hopelessly outmatched against disciplined musket lines.
One volley after another, the quillboar ranks collapsed in waves, gaining only a dozen meters of ground. From the rear, Chieftain Razorfen watched in disbelief. This wasn't the glorious slaughter he had envisioned. His warriors were dying en masse before even reaching enemy lines.
"Boar Riders! With me—charge! Thornmantle, the rest is yours!"
"Chieftain, wait—!" Thornmantle's warning came too late. Razorfen had already surged forward at the head of three thousand Boar Riders.
These mounted warriors were the elite of the Razorfen tribe. Their equipment was relatively superior—iron axes, short spears, small wooden shields, and mounts armored in bark-like plating grown by their shamans from thornwood plants.
Despite their brutish discipline, the Boar Riders thundered forward with impressive speed, their boars snorting and foaming at the mouth as they closed in on the village defenses.
"Infantry, forward! Raise shields!"
The Silver Legion moved like a machine. Their shields, larger than standard issue, locked together as they poured out through the gap in the wall, forming four tight square formations. With practiced ease, they crouched low, bracing for impact.
From command to full formation, less than ninety seconds had passed.
Some marksmen fired at the Boar Riders, but most continued suppressing the slower-moving infantry behind them. Thanks to their speed and partial armor, only a few riders fell before making contact.
CRASH!
The clash was thunderous. Boars slammed into shields, tusks denting steel and sometimes snapping off completely. A few boars broke their own necks from the impact. Several infantrymen were thrown back, cushioned by comrades braced behind them.
Now stuck in close quarters, the Boar Riders lost their momentum. No longer cavalry, they became cumbersome infantry still mounted on panicking beasts. The SilverLegion responded quickly—rear ranks flanked them from both sides.
Melee broke out.
The Boar Riders were bigger than men, with dark gray or cyan skin, bare torsos, leather greaves, and tusked helmets. Intimidating as they looked, their tactics were crude and their coordination non-existent.
Their armor coverage was poor, their heads exposed, and their weapons barely scratched heavy infantry. Only their iron axes posed a threat.
The third wave of flares lit up the night again, turning the battlefield to daylight.
Panting heavily, thousands of quillboar infantry finally reached the fray after suffering enormous losses. They clashed against the shield walls, but Thornmantle already saw the truth: the battle was lost.
These enemies weren't frail. They were organized, well-armed, and tactically sharp. Thornmantle even witnessed a slim human soldier cleave through a Boar Rider's shield with one clean stroke.
Their primitive studded clubs were ineffective against plated armor. Only the Boar Riders' axes made any dent.
It had been thirty minutes since the attack began. Galen had only committed one of his three legions—about 8,000 soldiers. The quillboar, by contrast, had thrown in their full strength: over 20,000 troops.
Now was the time.
Galen turned to Gandalf. "Get the knights moving. We'll break their formation. Have the Riptide Legion ready to encircle them."
Over two thousand heavy cavalry began to mobilize across the plains, their presence like drawn blades waiting to slice the enemy ranks.
The ground shook as the horses picked up speed. Anxiety rippled through the quillboar army.
From gaps in the wall, the warriors of the Riptide Legion emerged in organized squads of a hundred, sweeping around from the southwest and southeast.
The knights galloped beside Stonebull Lake, reaching full speed.
"CHARGE!"
At the order, the cavalry veered sharply toward the battlefield, lances lowered. With no proper ranged cover to stop them, the quillboar could only brace for impact.
The next phase of the slaughter had begun.
As the knights thundered into the ranks of the wild boar warriors, their charge cut through the enemy like a red-hot blade through soft cheese—unstoppable, relentless, and devastating. Boar bodies were skewered on their lances, three or four at a time, until the weight became too much. With no other choice, the knights discarded their lances, drew their broadswords, and continued cleaving a bloody path through the chaos.
Not to be outdone, Dezco of the Sunwalkers saw the moment as a perfect opportunity to prove himself before the Divine Envoy. Without hesitation, he rallied over a hundred elite Sunwalkers, five hundred battle-hardened warriors from the Dawnhunter Tribe, and another five hundred beast riders from Bloodhoof Village.
Over a thousand tauren mounted their kodo beasts. The leading Sunwalkers rode kodos clad in thick, heavy armor—custom-forged under Dezco's direction, inspired by Galen'sphilosophy of unstoppable iron-clad warfare.
These were no ordinary cavalry.
They were Heavy Armored Kodo Knights—kings of land warfare.
At Dezco's command, two thousand kodo knights surged forward. As their massive mounts pounded the ground, the earth itself trembled. Wielding spears and battle axes, the towering tauren—nearly four meters tall on their mounts—charged like a living avalanche into the wild boar lines.
The battlefield became a storm of slaughter. Limbs flew, blood sprayed, and the enemy ranks collapsed wherever the cavalry passed.
Panic gripped the rear of the wild boar formation. Their morale broke, and Thornmantle stood paralyzed. He had no answers. The Razorfen tribe's Hog Riders—already committed to the front—were their only cavalry. All others, including the last-resort Bramble Guards, remained his final gamble. But even they couldn't stop what was happening.
Worse still, this was supposed to be a flawless night raid—quick and decisive. The shamans hadn't even been brought along, so confident was Razorfen in a swift victory.
But they had underestimated Galen.
The Razorfen tribe, once numbering over 50,000, was no match. Once a mid-sized force in their own fractured society, now they faced a united, disciplined army—and they were hopelessly outclassed. For ten thousand years, their people had declined in faith, culture, and strength. Their fallen demigod remained unresurrected, forgotten by his own kind. Their iron weapons were crude. Their leadership was tribal and disorganized.
Now they were nothing more than prey.
The human heavy cavalry and the armored kodo knights became fangs, ripping through the wild boar horde. Even calling it a formation was generous—it was a panicked mob. Those who resisted were crushed. As the Tidewalker Legion entered the fray, the battlefield split in two: to the north, the Hog Riders were trapped by the Stonewall Legion and Bloodhoof Guard; to the south, the remaining wild boars were encircled by the Tidewalkers, Eaglewind Tribe, and the Wind Totem warriors.
Gandalf's intention was clear: annihilation.
Chieftain Razorfen finally realized the truth—this wasn't the script he had envisioned. His mighty Hog Riders were supposed to bulldoze the enemy, like they had crushed the White Mane gnolls. But now they were stopped cold, mired in blood and steel.
In desperation, Razorfen attempted a breakout, leading his remaining Hog Riders in a charge. With a screeching roar, he unleashed a piercing sonic wave that momentarily disoriented nearby infantry, giving him just enough of an edge to cut down a few defenders and seek a way out.
But before he could escape—
A towering tauren slammed down in front of him, blocking his path.
Maine Bloodhoof.
Once the commander of Cairne's Bloodhoof Guard, Maine was a veteran of over forty years of battle against the centaurs. Though aging, he remained as formidable as ever. After decades of defending his people, he had longed for retirement—seeking peace on the Mulgore plains, time with grandchildren, and a life free from bloodshed.
But Cairne had refused. The Bloodhoof Clan's youth had been thinned by war, and their strength was needed more than ever.
So Maine stayed—and today, he stood as the immovable bulwark of Bloodhoof Village.
Maine struck with a fury born of duty and loss. Without hesitation, he unleashed three shockwaves in rapid succession, obliterating Razorfen's personal guards.
Blinded by rage, Razorfen let out a roar of anguish. "You damned old beast!" he bellowed, eyes bloodshot, grief turning to wrath. "I'll kill you myself!"
The chieftain raised his battle axe, his ninth-level strength behind the blow, aiming to crush the tauren before him.
But Maine met his fury head-on, his voice like thunder:
"Come on, then!"
For over half a year, the tauren had lived in peace, working tirelessly to build their new homes. But Maine Bloodhoof had grown restless. His blood, though aged, still boiled with fire. For the past year, gnolls and boarmen had harassed Bloodhoof Village with constant hit-and-run raids—striking swiftly, retreating faster. It enraged the hot-tempered old warrior.
Now, he finally had his chance. He had the enemy in front of him, no escape this time. Maine's eyes gleamed with battlelust—if he didn't fight soon, he swore his bones would rust from disuse.
Steel clashed with steel as Maine's halberd met Razorfen's axe in a shower of sparks. They exchanged blow after blow, locked in fierce combat, their strength and skill evenly matched.
Maine Bloodhoof was a seasoned legend among the tauren. Though his talent had been unremarkable in youth, he'd broken into the Legendary ranks decades ago during a desperate battle, encircled by centaurs and forced to claw his way out between life and death. Now older, his strength had faded, and his stamina waned. He couldn't overpower Razorfen's quickly—but he didn't need to.
Because while they dueled, the larger battlefield was shifting.
The boarmen forces were falling apart.
Human heavy cavalry and tauren kodo riders tore into their formations like a scythe through grain. Like Galen carving through orcs in the Swamp of Sorrows, they cleaved the battlefield into ribbons.
Beneath the flares and swirling dust, the thunder of hooves and piercing war cries sent waves of panic through the boarmen ranks. Their formation, never truly solid, began to shatter.
Thornmantle dared not commit the elite Thistle Guardians to confront the heavy cavalry. The sheer pressure of the armored charge would break their nerve—he feared they'd flee at the first clash, dragging the entire army into a rout.
The Thistle Guardians had already been advancing, trying desperately to reach their chieftain's position through the Tidefury Legion and the tauren lines, but progress was slow. Elite or not, they were outclassed—less disciplined, less well-armed, and physically outmatched by the towering tauren warriors and heavily equipped human infantry.
After several devastating charges, Dezco's sharp eyes locked on Thornmantle—surrounded by better-armed boarmen, clearly a commander. A golden opportunity.
Dezco didn't hesitate.
At just a few hundred meters' distance, he kicked the sides of his kodo beast, signaling a full charge. The ground trembled as the beast responded, its thick limbs digging deep into the grasslands and launching forward with unstoppable momentum.
In seconds, they were upon them.
Scattered boarmen were thrown aside like rag dolls—impaled, crushed, trampled. Blood sprayed across armor. The air reeked of iron and death.
"Mother Una'yah," Galen muttered, stunned, "is this how your tauren always fight… so brutally?"
Una'yah simply smiled with quiet pride. "Always. That's my good boy."
Galen was speechless. This blood-soaked juggernaut was the same Dezco who'd once spoken so gently? This man could scare demons into silence. 6666! Galen didn't even know how to express his admiration—just give him a like and call it a day. Someday, he swore, he'd drop a poem so ancient and elegant that the tauren themselves would fall silent in awe.
Now, Dezco was at the tip of the spear, charging directly into the Thistle Guardians.
"Out of my way!"
With a bellow, golden light engulfed him. Two radiant wings of light sprouted from his broad back—admittedly comically small for his frame, but glowing with holy power nonetheless.
This was Avenging Wrath—the divine fury of the Sunwalkers. Galen chuckled to himself. Dezco clearly hadn't fully grasped the 'Manual of Solar Divinity Cultivation' he had handed out—the name of which he'd cleverly disguised to get the tauren interested in Paladin arts.
Still, the effect was dazzling.
Dezco, blazing like a golden god, crashed into the Thistle Guardians with his massive two-handed hammer. One swing sent enemies flying, coughing blood and teeth. His fellow Sunwalkers weren't far behind. Winged and wrathful, they surged in, hammers and spears smashing into the boarmen with brutal efficiency.
Those wielding battle axes were especially terrifying—every stroke left corpses torn open or cleaved in half. The grass was drenched in blood.
Thank the heavens I recruited them early, Galen thought grimly. If I ever had to fight these guys… would I even be able to resurrect my soldiers afterward? Or would I be piecing limbs together like a jigsaw puzzle?
The Sunwalkers carved a path straight through the Thistle Guardians. Behind them, the thousand-strong kodo cavalry surged through the breach, crushing the boarmen's lines like brittle clay.
Sensing the moment, Dezco pressed forward, charging straight for Thornmantle himself.
Thornmantle had stopped shouting commands. His jaw hung slack, stunned by what he was seeing. His tribe's proudest warriors—were being annihilated. The kodo beast riders shattered their lines like dry twigs.
Galen, watching from afar, smirked. If only Thornmantle knew what I was thinking, I'd call him a frog at the bottom of a well.
It wasn't just his Scarlet Legion—no mortal army in all of Azeroth could withstand a charge from fully-armored kodo riders. Not Aragorn's Silver Legion. Not the Kor'kron Elite. Not even Stormwind's 7th Legion.
Yet Galen wasn't jealous. He had his own heavy cavalry. Only two thousand strong now, but given time, he'd build an unstoppable force. Still, heavy cavalry had weaknesses—especially against aerial threats and spellcasters. Ice magic could cripple them. Magic resistance was poor. And equipping them to compensate? Far too expensive.
Better to combine forces. Let each unit cover the other's flaws.
But for now, as Dezco and the kodo riders plowed through Thornmantle's ranks, there was only one truth on this battlefield:
The tide had turned.
And the Razorfen boarmen were drowning in blood.
Dezco led the Kodo Beast Riders in a relentless charge, carving a path through two thousand Thorn Warriors until they reached the heart of the enemy formation. The clan war banner fluttered in the wind behind the enemy commander — Thornmantle was in sight.
Blood smeared across his bullish face, Dezco grinned savagely. Today, the quillboar would pay dearly for their constant raids on Bloodhoof Village. He would make sure they learned the price of provoking the tauren.
Faced with thousands of thundering Kodo Riders, Thornmantle was paralyzed with fear. Confronting such brutal killing machines demanded more courage than he possessed — the pressure alone shattered his composure.
"Stop them!" he screamed in panic.
But only his personal guard stood their ground. Brave though they were, they were no match. Like mantises trying to stop a chariot, they were crushed beneath the charging war beasts.
Dezco had already fixed his gaze on Thornmantle. With one devastating charge, the Kodo beneath him hurled the warlord into the air. A moment later, the hoofbeats trampled him into the bloodied soil.
Even as Thornmantle tried to cast defensive spells — Stoneclaw Totem, Spirit Link — it merely postponed the inevitable. The Thorn Warriors tethered to him by magic coughed blood and collapsed in unison.
"Rank 9 Heroic Soul detected. Collect?"
The Origin Heart's prompt echoed in Galen's mind as he turned his gaze toward Dezco.
"Collect."
And just like that, the Razorfen tribe's second-in-command, High Shaman and Thorn Warrior Commander Thornmantle, was dead.
"Lord Thorn is down!"
"Retreat!"
"Move, damn it, don't block me!"
Panic swept through the southern battlefield like wildfire. The quillboar's morale shattered completely.
Despite the chaos, Galen couldn't help but admire the Razorfen tribe. They showed potential — structured ranks, Boar Riders, professional Thorn Warriors — a far cry from the disorganized Bristlebacks.
Unlike the Bristlebacks, who relied on conscripting ordinary tribesmen in times of war, Razorfen had built a real standing force. Though isolated in Mulgore and narrow in perspective, their chieftain showed promise — a true "pig of talent," Galen mused.
Already he was considering subjugation rather than annihilation. He had Nibnob the kobold, Hogg the gnoll, and the Bristleback tribe under his banner. Adding the Razorfen would strengthen his ranks further.
He rode to Gandalf and gave new orders: let the fleeing quillboar go. Avoid needless killing. Instead, encircle those who continued to resist — capture, not destroy.
The tide had turned. Though Galen knew from the start the quillboar stood no chance, the 20,000-strong force still posed a logistical challenge. But with Thornmantle dead, their ranks crumbled. Only Razorfen and his Boar Riders remained, trapped by the Stonehoof Legion.
Over 2,000 human knights, having received Galen's signal, halted their pursuit and repositioned at the battlefield's edge, awaiting further command.
Dezco, though eager to continue the chase, recognized Galen's banner and relented. He turned back toward the north to witness the duel between Old Maine and Chieftain Razorfen.
Meanwhile, the Tidefury Legion ceased its offensive and began tending to the wounded. Galen's final reserve forces, under Gandalf's command, joined the Stonehoof Legion to encircle the remaining Boar Riders.
Only half of the 3,000 Boar Riders still resisted. Surrounded, each was isolated by six shield-bearing infantry. Ropes flew. Boar Riders were dragged down and pinned, long swords pressed to their throats.
Do you dare move now?
Half an hour later, Old Maine was breathing heavily. Chieftain Razorfen, drenched in sweat, panted as his black-pink snout darkened with exhaustion.
Tsk. A young pig like you, outpaced by an old bull?
Razorfen finally took in his surroundings. The battlefield had fallen eerily quiet, broken only by scattered cries. He was completely encircled — and every warrior around him, human or tauren, stared with barely concealed amusement.
Galen suppressed a grin. He was tempted to shout, "Quillboar 1-to-3 odds, Maine 1-to-6! Place your bets!"
But this was no time for jokes. The night raid had failed, the Boar Riders were captured, and now was the moment for surrender.
He cast Arcane Intellect, his voice magically amplified:
"Chieftain of the Razorfen tribe, you are surrounded. Lay down your arms. Submit your tribe to me, and I will spare your people."
"Damn invaders! Never!" Razorfen roared back.
Galen wasn't surprised. He'd heard this before. They all break, eventually.
"More than 5,000 of your warriors lie dead. Our casualties are negligible. The strength gap is clear. Don't throw more lives away."
"The Razorfen tribe will never be slaves!" Razorfen snarled.
Oh? Where have I heard that before?
Galen had seen many say as much — right before surrendering.
But he had one last card to play — something cruel, perhaps, but effective.
"Do you know who I am? I am the human lord who brought the Bristlebacks to heel. Chieftain Bristleback bent the knee and now serves me as a loyal vassal."
Razorfen visibly bristled.
"Because of his loyalty, I promised him your lands. I intend to march on Razorfen Canyon, conquer your tribe, and hand your people over to him — as slaves!"
The effect was immediate.
Razorfen's eyes bulged, his fury boiling over.
Clang!
The Razorfen Chieftain's battleaxe slipped from his grasp and hit the ground with a heavy thud, breaking the uneasy silence of the plains. The sharp sound jolted him from his daze.
He blinked, clarity returning to his eyes—eyes now full of conflict and defeat.
But it didn't matter anymore. The night was over. The battle was lost.
The tauren, triumphant, were patient. They gave the chieftain a few more moments to accept the reality.
Not long after, the Razorfen Chieftain slowly dropped to both knees. He bowed deeply, forehead pressed to the earth. Then, raising his hands, he clasped them together and lifted them over his head.
"I... surrender!"
Devil. That was the only word fitting for Galen in the Razorfen Chieftain's mind.
From the intelligence Gandalf gathered through captured Quillboar riders, the Razorfen tribe's origins were laid bare. Over fifty years ago, they were part of the powerful Razorfen quilboar tribe in the heart of the Barrens. Back then, their numbers exceeded 100,000. The tribe lived under theocratic rule, guided by shamans.
Then came the Blood Shards—red gemstones that granted great power.
But power breeds ambition.
Empowered by the shards, younger warriors sought to reclaim the quilboar holy land, Razorfen Downs, by force. The ruling shamans, however, resisted this vision.
Conflict broke out.
The rebellion failed.
In quilboar society, there was no exile. Only death awaited failure.
But some fled.
Those outcast warriors eventually found refuge in the southern mountains near Mulgore. There, they founded the Razorfen tribe and, away from war, rebuilt. Decades passed. Their numbers swelled to over 50,000.
Their leader, the current chieftain, was a direct descendant of the rebels—driven by the same dream: to become Warchief of all quilboar.
But Galen had other plans.
He wanted the Razorfen tribe crushed, enslaved, and handed over to the original Razorfens.
For the proud chieftain, this was unthinkable.
And that's why he broke.
The captured Razorfen warriors and riders were moved to a secured area in the camp, watched closely by the Silver Legion. Meanwhile, the rest of the army began clearing the battlefield.
Combined casualties among the tauren and Crusader legions were under a thousand. Galen's reinforcements had greatly reduced Bloodhoof's losses.
Most of the human casualties came from heavy blows dealt by the rugged quilboar weaponry, leaving many with internal injuries despite their armor.
The fallen were carried away by a special squad, with Gandalf already preparing to have their bodies transported to Silvermoon City.
Out of the 20,000 Razorfen forces, over 5,000 were killed in action—many under the devastating charges of human knights and kodo riders.
The Firestorm Legion captured more than 3,000 retreating quilboar, including over 600 elite Thorn Wardens. Meanwhile, the Silver Legion rounded up the surviving boar riders—roughly 1,500.
In total, all the Razorfen tribe's fighting elite were now in Galen's hands.
Only about 10,000 adult survivors fled back to the gorge, along with the elderly, the weak, and the children.
The night raid had failed completely.
It was the Razorfen who attacked.
It was the Razorfen who bled.
And it was the Razorfen who lost.
The chieftain himself wasn't a fool—but after years of isolation, he had grown ignorant of the outside world. To strike at the tauren, famed for their strength in battle, was already a risk. But to do it on the very night Galen's legions had arrived?
Disastrous.
By dawn, the battlefield was cleared, the troops regrouped, and Gandalf had patrols sweeping the area. Only then did the soldiers finally return to their tents to rest.
Thanks to the Silver Legion's firm defense, the enemy never reached the walls of Bloodhoof Village. No buildings were damaged, and the construction project remained untouched.
When morning came, the cool Mulgore air replaced the arid Barrens heat. Galen was roused by unexpected noise.
The battle had ended at three in the morning. By four, the soldiers had fallen asleep. Who had energy to spare so early?
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Galen stepped out of his tent and walked to the camp gate. There, he saw Harken Windtotem organizing tauren laborers, who were removing the piled quilboar corpses for burial in the distance.
Shamans used the waters of Stonebull Lake to cleanse the bloodstained earth.
At the gate of Bloodhoof Village, Matron Hawkwind Un'yaya stood watching quietly.
Galen greeted her as he approached.
"Good morning, Lady Un'yaya."
"Good morning, Galen. Thank you for your aid. Without your help last night, we would have suffered terrible losses."
Her eyes shone with sincere gratitude.
Bloodhoof Village had its own defenses, and their hunters were vigilant. But even prepared, a 20,000-strong quilboar charge could have overwhelmed their 5,000 defenders and broken into the village proper. Countless tauren workers would have perished.
Luckily, Galen's legions had arrived in time.
And even more fortunate—the Razorfen Chieftain had been overconfident and poorly organized in his attack.
Disaster had been averted.
"No need for thanks, Lady Un'yaya," Galen replied. "It is the Crusader's duty to protect our allies. Now that Bloodhoof Village is secure, when do we set off for Red Cloud Mesa?"
Red Cloud Mesa—an elevated region covering about one-fifth of Mulgore—was named for the mist that turned crimson under the sunset. It was the site of the next tauren settlement.
With most of the Razorfen elites captured and only refugees remaining, Galen intended to strike while morale was low and secure Razorfen Gorge for good.
Lady Un'yaya nodded. "The Hawkwind tribe has already prepared the supplies. We're ready to move at any time."
For the tauren, building this camp was more than construction—it was about their future. While Thunder Bluff stood as the central stronghold, it couldn't hold all the clans. Expansion was necessary.
Bloodhoof Village housed mostly Bloodhoof clan members, but also included Windtotem and Dawnstrider families. The Hawkwind clan had long awaited their own space.
This new settlement would be their home.
"In that case," Galen said, "I'll have Gandalf mobilize the troops. Please have your people prepare as well. We'll depart after lunch."
"As you wish, Galen!"