Before the firepower of the human navy, the orcs' transport ships were almost incapable of retaliation. Their only means of long-range attack were catapults or manually thrown projectiles by soldiers.
However, the former was completely ineffective at aiming on the sea, while the latter had too short a range and too little power to compare with cannons.
For the Horde, the Alliance navy's volley fire was nothing short of a massacre.
After several rounds of bombardment, the ocean before them had turned into a "mass grave," with countless wrecked ships and wooden debris floating on the water.
Numerous orc warriors, despite their formidable combat skills, were mercilessly swallowed by the sea, becoming a feast for the marine creatures and murlocs.
Fortunately for the Horde, their fleet was numerous—too many for the Alliance to eliminate with a single round of volleys.
Naval warfare was different from land battles; the distance between ships was far greater than the dense formations of infantry on land.
This meant that even with concentrated fire, the Alliance could not inflict exaggerated losses on the vast Horde navy.
Faced with an enemy that was essentially defenseless, Daelin Proudmoore did not hesitate to order a full assault.
The Alliance fleet finally broke formation and charged towards the orc fleet, engaging in close combat to maximize the devastating power of their broadside cannons, intending to completely eradicate the enemy.
On the Horde's side, Orgrim Doomhammer, who had been holding back for a long time, finally gave the order for the Dragonmaw Clan's red dragons to attack.
Until now, he had watched as his forces were slaughtered, his teeth grinding in silent fury. Yet, he had refrained from deploying the red dragons.
He was waiting for this moment—the moment when the Alliance launched their full assault.
Orgrim knew well that, despite commanding the formidable red dragons, their greatest weakness was their limited numbers.
Thus, he needed to ensure they were used to their fullest potential.
Earlier, when the Alliance fleet was bombarding from a distance of nearly a thousand meters, he had refrained from sending out the dragons for precisely this reason.
During the bombardment, the Alliance ships were lined up in formation to maximize their firepower, with their broadsides facing the Horde ships.
This meant that even if the red dragons attacked then, the enemy would have had ample time to escape.
Such an action would have minimized Horde losses but would not have inflicted a decisive blow on the Alliance fleet.
Orgrim could not accept such a result. If he failed to severely cripple the enemy navy in one strike, they would easily return to harass the Horde's sea routes.
While the red dragons were powerful, they were not numerous enough to protect an entire fleet permanently.
This meant that in future battles, the Horde would still have to contend with the powerful Alliance navy—a scenario Orgrim refused to allow.
But now, everything was different.
With the Alliance fleet launching a full assault, they had to close the distance with the Horde, steering directly toward them.
It was well known that turning a ship at sea was a slow and difficult process—especially for the Alliance, which held the advantage of the wind.
Now, with the red dragons unleashed, the Alliance would require a significant amount of time to retreat.
This gave the dragons ample opportunity to wreak havoc before they could escape, ensuring they would never dare challenge the Horde's naval forces again.
Orgrim's strategy was flawless.
On the Alliance's side, upon witnessing the Horde fleet's collapse, Daelin finally allowed himself a rare smile. Soon, this sea would be entirely rid of the Horde.
At that moment, a lookout suddenly shouted from above, "Admiral! Something is coming our way—from the sky!"
Proudmoore turned to look at the sailor, whose face was pale with terror, his trembling hand pointing northward.
Raising his spyglass, Daelin scanned the horizon and soon spotted what had caused the alarm.
A dark shadow was emerging from the clouds, moving swiftly in their direction. Though still too distant to discern clearly, he could tell that these entities were massive and fast.
He had no idea what kind of aerial force the Horde possessed, but a foreboding sense of doom settled over him—this battle was far from over.
Closer. Closer still.
As the shadows drew near enough for Daelin to make out their forms, his heart sank.
From the clouds, diving toward them, was a dragon—its scales gleaming blood-red in the morning light.
Behind it came a second, a third, and many more. Their powerful wings beat the air as they closed in on their target.
The fleet.
These were the legendary dragons.
Few among them had ever seen a dragon in person, but the legends of Azeroth were filled with tales of their colossal size, impenetrable scales, and devastating breath.
The mere thought of dragonfire against their wooden ships was enough to make Daelin grasp the inevitable outcome.
"By the Tidemother, we need to retreat immediately!" Daelin reluctantly issued the command. "Signal all ships to turn about! We must leave this place at once!"
But in the next moment, he realized his grave mistake.
He had ordered the full assault, and in doing so, the fleet had closed their formations tightly. At the time, it had seemed unnecessary to consider retreat, as the enemy had appeared utterly defenseless.
Now, that decision would cost them dearly.
The close proximity of the ships meant those caught between their allies had no room to turn.
They were left with only two choices—either crash into their comrades, making the same fatal errors as the Horde, or sail straight into the path of the red dragons and certain death.
Though the red dragons had been lingering behind the Horde fleet, their immense speed allowed them to reach the Alliance fleet moments after Orgrim's command was given.
Scarlet flames erupted from the dragons' maws, engulfing the lead warships instantly.
Though massive, the ships were not immediately obliterated by a single breath of fire.
But the intense heat quickly set the decks ablaze, and within a minute, the burning vessels turned into floating infernos.
Before the gunpowder onboard could explode and sink the ships, every sailor on board had already been reduced to ashes.
"Damn them! Those accursed creatures!"
Watching the horrific scene unfold, Daelin clutched his face in anguish. He regretted underestimating his enemy so much—if only he had been more cautious.
But soon, an even more devastating piece of news arrived.
"Admiral Proudmoore, a message from the front lines—it's from Captain Derek Proudmoore."
Derek Proudmoore, Daelin's eldest son, was the captain of a destroyer in the Third Fleet.
With trembling hands, Daelin accepted the note from his adjutant, unfolding it with a sense of dread.
In the message, Derek declared his intent to lead the Third Fleet in drawing the red dragons' attention, buying time for Daelin's forces to escape.
Daelin knew what this meant—it was a death sentence for his son.
Grief and fury gripped him as he clutched the railing, his hands trembling with exertion. He felt that if he gripped any tighter, either his fingers would break, or the wood would splinter beneath them.
But now, he had to suppress his sorrow—if he even survived long enough to grieve.
Casting aside thoughts of his son, Daelin forced himself to focus entirely on strategy. The dragons had torn through his fleet, clearing a path for the orcs below.
If the Alliance continued retreating, the Horde would be able to land at Hillsbrad or Southshore, sealing Daelin's defeat.
He had to do something to turn the tide.
.
.
.
Guys, do leave some power stones and reviews.
✌patreon.com/bobthewriter✌
If you guys enjoy this story, you can support me on Patreon and get access to 30 Advance Chapters, it really helps me to work on new chapters.