Round 30: The Empire’s Attack (Five)

A mage inside an armored war vehicle noticed his colleague’s flying craft crashing not far beside him. He looked out through the observation slit—though the field of view was painfully narrow, another flaw aside from the stuffy and hot conditions inside the vehicle. Though it was designed to defend against the Night Elves’ eerie and terrifying arrows, why couldn’t they add a force field shield? Had the designers in Vatan City ever thought of the low-ranking mages who actually sat inside and fought desperately, aside from just adding thicker armor and more magical weapons?

The falling steel debris interrupted his thoughts. The mage still trapped inside the flying craft’s cockpit hit the observation slit headfirst. The pressure from the steel forced his head inside—not because the slit suddenly widened, but because his head was crushed into a mess of red and white flesh, allowing it to squeeze through the tiny opening, looking like meat forced out of a meat grinder.

The mages inside the vehicle were splashed all over in blood and debris. The mage who had been watching outside coughed violently, clutching his throat, until something the size of an eyeball came out of his mouth—actually an eyeball.

The vehicle jolted violently, as if struck by a boulder launched from a catapult. The loud noise echoed through the cramped space inside, causing the mages’ ears and noses to bleed. If they survived to return, they would surely petition to add shock-absorbing equipment.

Forty-Seven had no mood or interest in knowing what the people inside the iron shell were thinking. He paused briefly before jumping again, unlocking the shackles on his left arm and swinging his giant sword with his right. Under a whirlwind of death, he instantly granted himself the strength of a bull and the agility of a cat, rolling like a gourd to dodge the shackles’ strikes. Yet the armored mount was torn to pieces like paper. Before he could feel pain or relief, emotions of shock and fear overwhelmed him like a raging wave, draining all his strength and leaving him motionless. He watched helplessly as his sternum was crushed—perhaps regretting that he had forgotten to cast a protection spell against fear.

Forty-Seven was like a dark whirlwind storming into the Agus mages’ formation. The armored wands struggled to aim at his illogical movements, and the spells cast by the mages themselves were too slow. So rather than fighting, it was like a group of people using long poles to attack a monkey—one that was armed to the teeth.

The Agus mages began to retreat, as Forty-Seven had thrown their formation into chaos. At such times, the sudden arrows from the Night Elves became extremely dangerous for them.

Finally, an armored war vehicle that Forty-Seven had missed started firing indiscriminately. It moved backward with its six thick, clumsy mechanical legs, knocking over and crushing several abandoned armored mounts. The wands on the vehicle then frantically fired various magical rays, ignoring whether it was friendly or enemy territory. Lightning and flames intertwined into a dazzling display of death, completely annihilating that black figure.

The mage hidden inside the war vehicle peered outside through the observation hole. It seemed unusually quiet around them—the demonic creature must have been eliminated… Even if cast by a legendary mage, it was just a lucky-colored ball, and firing twenty of them in a row could still be devastating.

Before he could even smile, he saw a long black cannon barrel emerging from the gradually dissipating smoke.

“That’s…” The mage couldn’t even see clearly what the cannon looked like before the red light shooting from it blinded him. Screaming, he frantically pulled at the control levers, causing the massive mecha vehicle to spin like a mad ladybug. If it had moved a few more steps, it might have escaped the cannon’s range—but the flaming shells flying in with trails of fire gave it no such chance. They easily melted through the vehicle’s hull. After a brief pause, the entire vehicle exploded, leaving only six thick, clumsy, twisted iron legs and a chassis that continued to melt.

A small mushroom cloud rose into the air. To Fado in the sky, it looked like dust stirred up by a single raindrop.

It had indeed started to rain.

This weather was good for the night elves. The rain, which impaired visibility, not only reduced the speed and intensity of the mages’ attacks but also obscured the sun that had just appeared. It was time to retreat deep into the forest… But first, they had to repel the female commander of the Agus army.

Fado flew through the thick smoke rising into the sky along with the raindrops and landed beside Forty-Seven. “Friend, I’ve found the commander of the Agus army! Please help us defeat her so our warriors can safely retreat to the jungle!”

Forty-Seven glanced at her. Was this him taking the blame? But when he looked in the direction Fado pointed, a strange sense of familiarity arose—the glow of various defensive spells blocked his vision, but Forty-Seven instinctively felt he should go and see what was causing such disturbance in his mind.

“You’d better not just cheer me on from behind…” Forty-Seven took off, the wind and rain he created nearly blinding Fado.

Thane jumped beside Fado, his body covered in wounds.

“Senior warriors and druids who can still fight follow him—” Fado gritted her teeth. “The rest of the elves, go rescue the wounded and retreat to the forest!”

Fado didn’t have inexplicable confidence in that suddenly appearing semi-pyronic creature—it was almost a suicidal order.

The Agus army began to counterattack. Wall after wall of flaming barriers rose, turning the battlefield into an ocean of fire.

The mages proved with their strength that they were more than just capable of operating mecha weapons.

The ground cracked, and tall skeleton warriors shook off the dirt on their bodies and stood up, staggering forward with their giant swords. Fire dwarfs, fire lizards, and other fire-resistant creatures also jumped out from the gaps created by the mages. Even hellish creatures like lesser demons and demon forgers appeared—

Forty-Seven swatted away a reckless lesser demon that charged headlong into danger, watching as that disgusting mass of flesh rolled into the fire, pieces scattering along the way.

Thicker and thicker rain fell from the sky, hitting the burning land and producing wisps of steam that mixed with the yellow-green clouds of death, forming a strange and inexplicable shape.
“What do we do?” Thain jumped over a wall of fire and stared at the mist symbolizing death ahead, asking Fado, who had transformed into a sleek black panther.
“I can no longer control the wind direction… We have to charge in headfirst; otherwise, they’ll spread those deadly clouds throughout the forest soon!” The panther’s eyes shone like two morning stars. “Follow him!”
Forty-seven struggled to defeat the skeleton warrior before him. This skeletal monster, slightly taller than him, was completely unaffected by the deadly mist around them. Its hollow eye sockets burned with a cold light; it was strong and powerful, though a bit clumsy.
That familiar feeling grew stronger. It was right ahead. But the mist and flames blocked Forty-seven’s vision, along with those annoying summoned creatures—though many of them were trapped in the mages’ deadly clouds. Forty-seven didn’t like guessing, so he spread his wings and leaped out of the cloud cover. He had to see what was ahead, no matter if it meant becoming a target in midair.
Twenty silver-white light balls rushed toward him—Forty-seven only managed to curl up in time. Those twenty magic missiles bombarded him from various angles, sparking dazzling silver-white flames. Hit by a barrage of rays, Forty-seven rolled twice in the air before landing back on the ground, kneeling on one knee, temporarily unable to react.
An elf warrior running alongside Fado, with a cloak covering his mouth and nose, suddenly collapsed. The deadly poison gas claimed his life. No one stopped; the elves behind him leaped over him. These dozen elves were elite members of the patrol team, their assault meant to buy time for others to survive—
“What’s this guy doing?” Thain ran past Forty-seven and glanced back at the black creature, who had stood up but still kept his head lowered. He was puzzled, but there was no time to think further—they were about to break free from the cloud cover!
Forty-seven stood there, ignoring the night elves rushing past him one after another.
In the moment he was knocked down by the missile storm, he saw the face of his attacker—the surge of magical energy made the red robe of the female mage standing on the spider’s back flutter. Her hood fell back, revealing silver hair, and the patterns covering half of her face twisted and moved. Her gray-brown eyes, clear yet expressionless, stared at Forty-seven in the air, as if what was approaching her wasn’t a Star of Death but just a fleeting storm.
Forty-seven’s face showed no discernible expression. His charred lips moved for a long time before he uttered three syllables: “Moriel…”

The first to emerge from the deadly clouds were two druids transformed into tigers. To their surprise, there were only a few mage Aguses left—waiting for them at the forefront was a giant steel spider. Faint glows emerged from its metallic seams, and the patterns covering its body seemed to flow and flicker constantly. The female mage in red robes on the spider chariot stared at them expressionlessly, as if those two colorful tigers were merely mischievous kittens.

Without pause, the two tigers roared and lunged from either side.

The steel spider beneath the mage moved with the agility of a real spider, its size in no way slowing it down. The mage leaned back to avoid one tiger’s attack, then spun around and swung her long sword at the other tiger’s shoulder—her movements were fluid and flawless, but they seemed to lack the most crucial element: lethality. The sword appeared more like an ornamental item than a weapon.

As a result, it only managed to leave a shallow wound on the tiger’s side.

The tiger fell from the air along its trajectory of attack. Perhaps it was an illusion, but its fur, scorched by fire, began to dull like dead ash after that strike—there was no blood from the wound, only a strange grayish-white substance spreading rapidly. It landed on the ground not like a nimble feline but heavily, like a rock.

Its front legs broke under the impact the moment it touched the ground, followed by its head losing support. The grayish-white tiger rolled around, and by the time it stopped, its body was covered in cracks, turning completely into a gray stone stuck with mud.

The other tiger rolled on the ground. After standing up, it saw its companion’s miserable state, and blood welled from its eyes. With a mournful roar, it lunged again, only to be met by the spider’s two scythe-like front limbs.

Next, Fado charged forward amidst a shower of blood and internal organs—had Forty-Seven not rushed at her from behind with unstoppable force, pushing her aside in an instant.

She landed on the back of the steel spider, her feet pressing down and causing the spider chariot to sink.