Round Twelve: Awakening

At first, Kayro hid behind magical ice shields, waiting for the right moment to fire razor-sharp ice projectiles in an attempt to cause trouble for the swarming shadow monsters. But she soon gave up on this futile effort—it was no more effective than throwing torches into a river to try and dry it out; instead, it only drew the enemies’ attention and posed greater threats to Moriel and herself.
So the girl focused all her energy on creating more ice shields for defense. Ever since she awakened from the Lady of Mist’s control, she had clearly felt her strength growing stronger by the day. She didn’t understand why and had asked Moriel about it, but the female mage couldn’t explain either. Out of caution, she advised Kayro to avoid overusing this seemingly residual energy… but there was no time to worry about that now.
Several spiny tentacles lashed out like whips, wrapping around the translucent ice barriers and tearing at them violently, searching for an entry point—as if humans were trying to crack open a clamshell to taste its tender flesh.
Howling steel blades sliced down, severing the head of the shadow monster, which seemed closely related to an octopus, and completely thwarting its plans. The monster let out continuous hisses as dark blood gushed out from its severed tentacles, splashing everywhere, including the ice shields, causing Kayro to shudder.
The disgusting and vile creature refused to accept its defeat. It stabilized itself on all fours, its head rearing up with a mouth dripping with mucus—or rather, it simply spat out more tentacles that had been inside its mouth. Rows of sharp teeth lined its cylindrical mouth; when the shadow monster opened its mouth wide, those fangs could even be seen extending deep into its dark interior—perhaps even its anus, if it had one.
Having a powerful digestive system didn’t mean it wasn’t afraid of violent firearms. Before the creature could finish its deep breath and exhale, Number 47 shot it down completely. Its worm-like body collapsed in flames and smoke, and its two scythe-like claws drooped. They shattered with a crack when stepped on by another approaching shadow monster’s hoof. The claws, once as strong as steel just a few seconds earlier, were decaying at an astonishing speed—faster than an arrow eagle soaring through the sky.
Number 47 turned and swung his sword again. That sweeping strike cut three armored black humanoids in half, cleanly as if cutting reeds. A hoofed monster pounced from behind and pinned him down, its immense weight causing Number 47 to wobble. But its attempt to bite his neck was in vain, as long, sharp horn-like spikes instantly emerged from the steel warrior’s back and shoulder plates, anchoring the shadow monster firmly to his body.

Now, attacks from behind were met by shields, though it wasn’t of much use. Forty-seven strolled leisurely along the shaded path after a full meal in the early spring, swinging his noisy and hot-powered sword to cut off any black claws that dared reach toward Moriel’s bud-like ice shield. The twin cannons on his arms could tear apart an entire area in a single blast, and he even gave a smirk at Kayro, who was staring blankly inside the ice shield.

Well, considering this little girl would think a laser gun focused with a ruby was a magical artifact, her silly behavior wasn’t so strange after all. Still, her help did have some effect. Though the mindless shadow monsters poured most of their attacks at him amidst the chaos created by Forty-seven, without Kayro’s Million Frost Punches… Was that Kamui’s move? Never mind. It was still quite troublesome to protect Moriel, who suddenly started staring blankly.

Despite Forty-seven killing one or more grotesque shadow creatures with every shot and sword strike, he was still surrounded—those things rushed forward like a collapsed coal pile, filling the entire valley. More indistinct black shadows climbed over the rock cliffs to join this insane black tide, turning into an endless nightmare that seemed determined to devour the last island of resistance in the middle, as if driven by some unconscious will.

Waves can indeed grind rocks into sand and sweep everything away, but that takes a very long time—longer than most people will ever see. So if the monsters wanted to kill Ironface, who had just started warming up, they’d need to work harder.

A black-armored giant, roughly the same height, width, and thickness as an enhanced version of a black soldier, charged forward despite being surrounded by boiling fragments of black blood. Carrying a shield as tall as himself, he managed to withstand the wildly spinning sawblade, even though the chainsaw sword was already embedded halfway into his body. The black-armored monster’s face twisted into a rather difficult expression—its features, which weren’t properly positioned to begin with, spun like a vortex—before it raised its double-bladed axe and swung down fiercely.

Forty-seven raised his hand to block the axe, sparks flying high from the barrels of his arm cannons. He increased the power of his chainsaw sword and swept it down hard, knocking his opponent to the ground, only to be instantly engulfed by seven or eight flying purplish-black lava balls. Dark flames instantly surrounded the entire ice shield, scaring Kayro into a scream as he hurriedly added another layer of barrier.

As the fire cloud expanded, the monsters rushed in like they were competing for the jackpot.

A massive exploding fireball soared into the air, reaching nearly a hundred feet high, blowing away the front rows of attackers. The burning Forty-seven used his own heat to extinguish the shadow flames, his figure growing nearly twice as tall as a normal person, resembling a demon guarding a treasure. His body was covered in spikes and grotesque faces, their eyes and mouths glowing with fire, illuminating his snarling fangs and highlighting his abyssal red eyes.

The shadow creatures quickly filled every direction around him once again. Though they didn’t come with a lifetime warranty against fire and bullets like Forty-Seven, they also cared little as the flames roasted their bodies, turning their flexible black muscles into charred scraps that fell away. Instead, they attacked the towering steel warrior even more frantically, stabbing and slashing with claws that resembled swords or swords that resembled claws.

The chainsaw sword slashed at a jagged head, cutting off half of its face along with a dozen eyes. After swinging its forelimbs a few times, it collapsed weakly forward, submerged in the endless stream of legs and claws from those following. As if attacking and devouring each other at the same time, even larger and more ferocious monsters began to surge out of the darkness. Their bone-encased joints and torsos gleamed black, and their thick, long limbs were equipped with twisted killing instruments akin to Inquisition torture devices.

Even Forty-Seven encountered some obstacles—after all, there were too many enemies, and taking them down one by one took time. They came at him tirelessly from all directions, with the sole purpose of delivering a few bites or scratches using their teeth or claws, even if it meant piercing through their own kind standing in their way. Strangely, this disorganized and undisciplined attack not only failed to collapse their ranks but instead grew like a snowball, increasing the pressure further.

From the sea of claws and fangs, a terrifying figure emerged—three times taller than the other creatures around it. Its disk-shaped mouth was stretched to its limit, but all that came out was a hissing sound like a snake’s, looking like nothing but a hole filled with sharp teeth on its neck. The black giant pierced through the still-thick smoke and fire walls, using the tentacles on its back to grab a shadow beast blocking its path and fling it away. The barbs at the tips of the tentacles pierced the beast’s belly, spilling its black internal organs everywhere as it flew. The giant then aimed its pair of crescent-shaped, scythe-like horns at Forty-Seven, still smoldering with flames. Two thinner, human-like arms beneath its armpits began to make rough movements, with black lightning crackling between them, and all the spikes on its body flashing as well. Then the monster stretched out its other thick, deformed forelimbs—sawtoothed keratin layers extending from its chest to its fingertips, like the maw of a megashark. The powerful muscles in its two hind limbs tensed, building momentum before launching into a furious charge that sent waves of splashes across the hard rocky ground. Even Forty-Seven’s gunshot couldn’t stop its unstoppable, brutal assault.

It crashed into Forty-Seven and wrapped its claws around him. An explosion erupted joyfully from between the monster’s legs, spreading to the cluster of tentacles on its back. Countless fragments of bones and shells couldn’t hide the hissing chainsaw sword. If shadow monsters had human-like reproductive abilities, this attack would have surely wiped them out forever.

But the price of being temporarily disabled was being overwhelmed by this living tide of darkness. Swarms of claws, arms, and bodies formed a suffocating net, quickly enveloping the steel warrior.

At that moment, Forty-Seven had to lean back against the ice shield behind him—the ice wall emitted a piercing, cracking sound as it could no longer bear the weight. No matter how strong a warrior was, they were helpless once they lost their balance, but Forty-Seven was not just a warrior. His waist and leg joints immediately responded, hardening into unshakable iron masses, while countless activated metal fibers rapidly spread throughout his body. Each one exerted unimaginable strength and resilience, stretching, contracting, splitting, or joining together, slowly but irreversibly allowing him to straighten up.

A series of violent steel explosions carved a path through the swarm of shadow monsters that had regrouped. The “Improved Atlas” heavy bomb gun, transformed from a chainsaw sword, emptied all its ammunition in one go. Under the light and flames that tore through the shadows, carbonized flesh and black blood sprayed everywhere like a meteor shower. The utterly transformed Forty-Seven emitted heat and steam from melting ice and snow. The monstrous faces on his armor still clung to pieces of the shadow monsters’ flesh, while twisted, tangled pipes extended from his body and snaked around, some connecting to massive gun bodies to recharge.

There was a brief pause on the battlefield. The heavily damaged monsters regrouped and faced Forty-Seven across a buffer zone filled with corpses.

“How… can they keep coming?” Kayro peeked cautiously through a gap in the ice shield, only to be immediately blocked by Forty-Seven’s terrifying silhouette.

“Don’t look around. Seal it.” Forty-Seven turned his head, producing a bone-chilling sound of steel grinding together.

The firearms still needed cooling time, and the encirclement began to tighten again. Hundreds of lifeless black eyes stared coldly, reflecting faint light under the red flames—emotionless, devoid of any individuality.

Forty-Seven could certainly grow larger and use more powerful firepower in retaliation—but then it would be hard to say whether the swarm of shadow monsters or he himself posed a greater threat to Morriel and Kayro. The saying “two fists can’t beat four hands” isn’t just a joke, even when invincible. For a moment, Forty-Seven realistically thought about how useful those demonized elves used to be as runners for Philgas… But he dismissed that pointless thought and began transforming the heavy machine gun on his arm back into a deadly chainsaw sword.

In the darkness, the entire city of Sel was shrouded in smoke.

At least one-third of the buildings had been damaged in the war, with some places completely razed, such as the magnificent Gothic-style council hall of the Red Robe Mages.

The enemy had retreated to their last stronghold—the lich’s icy fortress. But this was merely a desperate struggle. Without their master’s leadership, the seemingly powerful undead army could only retreat under the relentless attacks of the Red Robe Mages.

Their supreme master, Victor, the chief necromancer who had ruled the Red Robe Mages for thousands of years, had been destroyed in a fierce magical battle that took place in the council hall not long ago. It was indeed a pyrrhic victory, Morriel thought weakly from the terrace of a mage tower serving as a temporary command post across from the fortress.

Since not much time had passed, the Prophet Mentor could still recall many details. In that siege, almost all of the high-ranking Red Robe wizards she brought with her were killed, including the two chief mentors in the fields of enchantment, Seth, and transformation, Jali. The Lich could claim a life with every cold touch of his, not to mention his bizarre and devastating magic.

Yet it was still Moriel who ended up laughing last. The fates had already decreed this; no one could change the course of destiny, not even someone as powerful as Victor—just a slave to fate.

Of course, the battle wasn’t over yet. Moriel was certain that somewhere within Victor’s fortified stronghold lay the Lich’s immortal source of darkness, his soul container. If they couldn’t find and destroy this mysterious vessel that held the essence of Victor’s soul, then in just three or two days, or even less, the Lich would reshape himself using negative energy and lead his loyal army in a counterattack.

While this wouldn’t change the ultimate outcome, it would at least reduce the trouble.

Engineers operated catapults to hurl buckets of flaming oil onto the high walls or smash them right on the battlements. Cavalry riding battle griffins circled in the sky, continuously dropping incendiary bombs and turning the entire stronghold into a sea of fire. Goblins, armed with few decent weapons, joined forces with well-equipped orc battalions to enter the siege towers powered by forged-iron bearings. These towers were positioned using pulleys and ropes pulled by slaves, waiting for the Lich’s armed skeleton army to be wiped out by the flames before launching a fierce assault. Red Robe mages served as supervisors and commanders, having just repelled a suicidal attack by a group of necro knights aiming to storm Moriel’s tower with several blinding flash explosions.

“The fortress’s defensive strength is much greater than we thought,” said Abdel, the fat man, his face pale and skin sagging on his cheeks—his mental state was extremely poor. He had lost a significant amount of his power during the battle in the council hall due to a powerful necromantic spell cast by the Lich, and he still hadn’t found an effective countermeasure.

“It’s not beyond my expectations, Abdel,” Moriel said hoarsely, too lazy to use formal speech, let alone bother pretending to comfort someone she used to look up to.

“But at such a cost… Since Mr. Di has secretly joined our side, we could take a longer-term approach… Of course, I respect your decision, wise and powerful Mentor Moriel.” Abdel retorted defiantly, but when he saw the mage’s emotionless brown eyes, he quickly added words of submission.

The mage gave a cold glance at the vampire standing solemnly beside her.

“A longer-term approach? Unfortunately, I’m used to decisive action.” Moriel pointed at the Blackstone Fortress shrouded in flames and smoke. “Di, take your men underground.”

Di said nothing and turned to leave—perhaps he knew it was useless to speak.

Morrill stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony, which had no railing, carelessly leaving the entire back side exposed to Abdul. The chief sculptor mage certainly didn’t dare attack her suddenly, though he must now regret having chosen to work with her. Morrill refused to ponder his feelings. An uncontrollable madness burned within the female mage, and she didn’t want to suppress it—instead, she examined it with a hint of delight, indulging it, as if it were her first genuine instinctive rebellion against decades of a life destined for her as a Red Robe mage.

Fierce bats, as big as wyverns, flew overhead toward the fortress, while the tall, bulky siege towers began slowly moving toward the still-burning city walls. It was a mindless attack, as proven by the countless slaves and soldiers knocked down by the waves of negative energy fired from the fortress. The defenders’ last trump card—tall, skeletal golems—also appeared. Powerful and agile, their bodies made entirely of corpses made them nearly immune to any magical attacks; only soldiers with flesh and blood could overwhelm them through sheer numbers. But Morrill cared about none of this. Her cold, fanatical gaze swept over every person and creature fighting, allowing the madness in her heart to resonate with the battlefield, intensifying ever more.

“Abdul,” after a long gaze, Morrill suddenly turned her head. “As the chief sculptor mage of the Red Robe order, shouldn’t you do your part too? Stop sitting here and go fight.”

“What?” Abdul’s bulbous body jumped up. “Mentor Morrill, I’m very weak right now! What exactly are you trying to do? There’s no need for this!”

“Fight,” Morrill said, pointing at him as dark energy flickered and gathered at her fingertips. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

“Morrill! You’re fucking insane!” Abdul could no longer bear it.

“Insane? Yes.” Morrill smiled.

“How else could one wake up if not insane?”

As these words were spoken, everything froze—the flames, the smoke, the clashing swords—The whole world began to fade.