Call Me the Human Turret (3)
But once the party members handled everything on their own like that, and I'd finished reloading my ammo with everything I had.
Just as I wrapped up all the preparations to be ready to fire at a moment's notice in case shit hit the fan, that's when I spotted the third convoy rolling in.
And the moment I laid eyes on that third orc convoy? Well, what can I say.
Clack, clack, clack.
'No way in hell do those look like orcs.'
It was downright ridiculous. These new bastards were decked out in gear that made the first and second waves look like absolute jokes by comparison.
No exaggeration—the first and second had armor, sure, but it was straight out of the "classic orc" playbook. Or at best, like the party said during the second raid, they'd just looted some human gear and slapped it on.
But this third wave? They were rocking genuine orc-style full plate mail. And forget the wooden shields reinforced with iron from the second wave—they were hauling legit tower shields.
The supply wagons were armored up like goddamn tanks, wheels beefed out like monster trucks with thick steel plating. And the ones pulling them? Not like the first or second waves—these were Armored Lizards, those scaly fuckers from the hunter community boards with scales as tough as steel all over.
And to top it off, not one but three shamans this time, unlike the second wave.
The second I saw that, I could feel the words 'What the fuck makes those orcs?' bubbling up unbidden.
And right on cue, even if our party thought they were competent, no way in hell were these pushovers we could ambush with just four people. It hit me then just how batshit insane Hardcore Difficulty really was.
But whatever—shit happens, and there's no turning it back now.
While I was stewing on that internally, the party chimed in.
"Looks like the Orc Empire's main force is finally on the move."
"Makes sense they'd throw elite troops into the convoy now. Plus, with the first and second wiped out, their supply lines are fucked—panic city's probably in full swing."
"That so?"
"Damn right. To them—or rather, since the mage wiped their convoys—we forced their hand. No more bandit bullshit; they had to send a proper elite squad for the third."
"Fair point."
They were acting like it was the most obvious thing in the world, not a hint of panic. Watching that, I realized I was the one overreacting for nothing.
Anyway, once we'd sized up the situation and gauged the enemy's level, it was time to cook up a plan to take down that orc convoy.
Originally, I figured we'd just do what we did before—unleash a mindless barrage of 20mm and 30mm and call it a day.
But...
"Alex, how thick you reckon those shields are?"
"Mostly wood, but still... looks like at least a finger-width, y'know?"
"So, roughly 5-6cm, maybe thicker."
These elite bastards were each lugging massive, chunky tower shields, true to their name.
I had no clue exactly how tough they were, but... well, tower shields or armor, 30mm would punch through either no problem. But if they hunkered down behind both? That'd be a bitch to crack.
And the wagons? They screamed "armored vehicle" from a mile away.
Whatever else, I needed a plan to make those orcs ditch their tower shields. So I racked my brain double-time.
Thankfully, all that head-scratching paid off—I came up with something solid, by my standards.
Here's how it went: The three party members would hunker under the rock, each packing a 7.62mm light machine gun loaded to the brim.
Using those, we'd make the third wave think, 'Hey, that shit can't pierce our armor, not even close!'
But that was just step one. Ride that thought train to get them to yeet those heavy-ass, annoying tower shields.
Or if not, at least lure them into complacency—charge in defenseless, and I'd rain 30mm and 20mm hell from above, turning them into meat paste.
Once the plan was laid out, our fellow DPS, the human archer Alex, piped up.
"Kinda weird to say, but y'know... your plan doesn't mention the shamans riding in the wagons at all, right?"
"Huh? Yeah, I guess it looks that way."
I hadn't breathed a word about the real threats—the orc shamans—so no wonder he was tiptoeing around it while basically yelling, 'Why the fuck aren't you worried?'
Plus doubts if the orcs would actually drop their shields and rush like I hoped.
But those questions? They evaporated the second combat kicked off.
The orcs grabbed one machine gun each like it was nothing, topped off ammo boxes like pint-sized mages, and started hosing bullets like maniacs.
A few unlucky orcs and the Armored Lizard up front got swiss-cheesed, twitching and flailing.
But the rest? Bullets pinged off their armor with clean tings, or whizzed harmlessly into trees and dirt—pa-ba-ba-bat!
"Fuck, incoming!"
"Just like the guy said—armor holds, so they're charging melee!"
"Gotta watch ourselves, y'know."
Perfect—they weren't deviating from my script one bit.
From atop the rock, I grinned in satisfaction.
Orcs might be fast, but dodging our party's wild bullet storm in zigzags slowed them right down.
That's when I whipped out the Ala Bong, aimed straight for the shamans' wagon, and fired.
Obviously, that warhead flew faster than any spell bullshit.
The shamans, mid-massacre watch or whatever, heard the launch and scrambled—but no time to weave their mudras.
Boom—the warhead slammed home.
"Whoa!"
"Fireball! Never gets old—that firepower's top-tier!"
The three orc shamans on the wagon? Blasted into chunks along with it.
And yeah, seeing me pop out and one-shot their shamans with the Ala Bong?
The charging, shield-tossing armored orcs froze like their brains bluescreened.
Which meant, for me—freshly swapping to 30mm and 20mm—they were sitting ducks.
"Die, you green-skinned shits!"
I popped up, unleashed the autocannons, and they got mulched like crazy.
Some held up arms to shield faces—their armor was quality, sure.
But one or two rounds? Nah. Dozens? Joints shattered, pieces flew—total carnage.
I kept the barrage going, and in under 10 seconds flat, the third convoy was wiped clean.
Even the leftover Armored Lizards, still hitched to the wagons, turned surprisingly docile—listening to me and the party like good boys.