Round 40: Everyone’s War

An opponent who can usually be defeated with a single move at full strength can be won with just 80-90% of that strength. If one is forced to go all out, how could they be knocked down so easily? The darkness ahead of Anton grew denser; he could tell even without seeing it.
In the steaming, burning darkness, there was a faint sound of metal grinding—were they gears? Moving slowly and sluggishly, yet it made Anton’s spine tingle. If someone told him this was just a delusional fear arising from humans facing asymmetric information, he would be greatly relieved.
It seemed as if small stones were falling; the sound of the gears grew louder.
The voluntarily demonized elves fell into a brief state of calm. The beetles had mostly scattered, or rather, they had found shelter beneath those swollen, writhing flesh.
“Good heavens… what have you done?”
Zaridan’s eyes were vacant, but now it was Ildris who clung tightly to him. “Whatever happens… this is the fate chosen by them and me.”
The darkness in front of Anton shrank suddenly, then expanded.
The grinding sound of the gears disappeared, replaced by deafening wingbeats—the darkness was blown away like an explosion. A mass darker than any blackness, with two points of red flame at its front, rushed toward Anton.
At the edge of the forest, the command post of Agus’s frontline forces.
A group of mages in various robes were busy around many strange and complex machines, while several completely black soldiers stood in the corner. In this room, their role might not differ much from marble statues, but given their black armor, which symbolized status and allowed those around them to truly feel power, they were still slightly better than mere decorations.
The commander’s solemn seat had been replaced by a Gothic-style recliner. The soft velvet cushions provided exceptional comfort as she leaned back. Dagulas rested her chin on it in an unladylike manner, the velvet covering looking messy after repeated twists.
Her glasses reflected the words and images scrolling on the large screen ahead—all about the Iron Men.
The Empire’s forces had a significant advantage due to their heavy use of mecha weapons, and a complete victory was just a matter of time. Any organized resistance would drain the strength of the elf tribes hiding in the forests until those beautiful creatures were nearly wiped out. The days of relentless attacks had been highly effective, and Dagulas was quite satisfied with the scenes of slaughter and burning.
But where was that Iron Man who could devour mecha?
Her deputy commander remained indifferent, focused on meditation with closed eyes.
How boring. Dagulas sighed, still unable to figure it out.
“Report to the commander! The vanguard has penetrated the jungle and is engaging in fierce battles with the night elves! We’ve also discovered a quite large tribe right in front of us!” a excited voice shouted through the magic amplifier on the command console.
“Should I order a withdrawal then?” Dagulas kept her eyes fixed ahead.

“Sir… I don’t understand what you mean.” It was impossible to tell what the sergeant on the other end of the phone was thinking, but his voice revealed an inexplicable panic.
“Am I supposed to announce the withdrawal now?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what should we do?”
“Seize the elf tribe in one fell swoop, kill all those who resist, and capture the elves.”
“Then do it if you know what to do, sigh.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Before dark.” Daguras wore an impatient expression, as if he thought this needed to be taught to him.
With time to spare for such strange toys, why not focus on improving the soldiers’ skills? Can such a wonderful art as magic be mastered through messy shortcuts… The archmages are all busy flattering the emperor, doing useless things. In the end, it’s just me working. Having women command such elite forces means the soldiers refuse to risk their lives—it’s truly frustrating… On the screen, the Tin Man repeatedly swung his chainsaw to shatter the same soldier’s head.
“Your Excellency, the results are in. Your assumptions were spot on.” The blue-robed mage respectfully handed over a thick data report.
“Is that so? You didn’t just go along with my ideas to please me, did you? If there’s a mistake, it’s I who’ll face the empire’s harshest punishment, not you.” Daguras lazily tossed the report onto a nearby cabinet, almost knocking over the drinks on it.
“How could that be… I assure you, it’s the result of meticulous verification, Your Excellency.” The hem of the blue mage’s robe trembled slightly.
She certainly knew well her status as a standout genius among the younger generation of the empire’s mages.
“I trust you then.” When Daguras’ expression reached the blue-robed mage’s eyes, his pale lips trembled slightly.
The analysis in the report was very detailed and well-organized, with thorough explanations for every figure. Scientists are just like that—whether they know magic or not.
The report also included several pages of analysis on the Tin Man.
This Tin Man, designated as Number 47, had originally housed a core for years, perhaps even decades, so it wasn’t surprising that it resonated with armored weapons.
This hypothesis originated from the information provided by Moriel. Though such information could easily be obtained through the empire’s intelligence agencies, hearing it from her still pleased Daguras.
This child never likes to talk much—it’s really worrying.
Moriel had already opened her eyes, her slender fingers emitting a not-too-bright white light that writhed like a worm, crackling loudly. She simply focused on manipulating her fingers, as if she were a rare and wonderful toy to Daguras.
Daguras held the heavy report and studied it for a while, her face filled with a maternal smile.
Half-pyreflies and purgatory… She giggled.
She stood up abruptly from her chair, flinging the hem of her robe behind her. The lightweight fabric fluttered as she walked quickly.

Descending the steps, she walked toward the control panel.
“Connect me to the Empire! The bigwigs back there need to do something too!” There was a subtle yet profound change in her expression.
Anton sidestepped, the holy light illuminating the darkness ahead as well as the metallic face of 47, but as their weapons briefly clashed, the surrounding darkness swallowed the light. Amidst these flashes of light and darkness, Anton and 47 exchanged a few blows, and when the situation once again reached a temporary stalemate, Anton appeared exhausted, like an ordinary old man in his sixties or seventies who had been busy all day—his once formidable holy power, which had once made 47 wary, was now overwhelmed by a raging fury, like a candle in the wind on the verge of going out. The anti-evil aura surrounding the holy warrior had been compressed to the point where it could only protect him himself.
What kind of demonic energy was this?
The spiked chains fell with a clatter. Now, it seemed every breath 47 took was black. He had many wounds, likely from battles with the elf guardians, and those wounds seemed to suck in and expel black smoke as they gradually healed.
“You’ve been influenced too much by the forces of the abyss, and you’ve become a medium for this dark ritual… I must find a way to stop you, even if it means destroying you—you have to understand, I have no choice!” Anton gripped his long sword tightly, ready for battle.
“Understand?” The chains swept forward; Anton ducked to avoid them. The fierce wind above his head made him feel as if he were escaping from a dragon’s mouth.
“Hiss—” 47 let out a sound similar to that of a lizard, but amplified many times over. This sound, tangible as if it had form, echoed throughout the dark hall like a plaza, forcing everyone to retreat—except for those demonized elves who seemed dead.
“All I understand is destruction and death!” Like a demon’s declaration, 47 raised his giant sword: “I’m tired of these trivial games! Those who try to destroy me will be destroyed by me! I love those I love, and I hate those I hate—this is what the Count of Monte Cristo said!”
The Count of Monte Cristo? What a filthy title! Was it the name of some great abyssal demon?
Milia stepped forward, trying to help Anton.
“Don’t come over!” Anton shouted, blocking the sawed-off sword with his sword, but its speed and strength exceeded his imagination—or perhaps he simply couldn’t imagine them. When 47 went all out, his techniques of using others’ strength were useless—superhuman strength might be enough to bring down an angry bull or uproot fallen trees, but could it withstand a roaring avalanche or a raging flood? His body slid along with the swing of the sword, maintaining a defensive posture, his arms trembling nonstop. The holy power on his sword had almost completely vanished, and the hall was once again dark. The elves, who had retreated far away, still had glowing eyes, like stars in the night sky—some white, some red.
Now, even Milia’s holy light couldn’t penetrate the increasingly dense black mist. Anton and 47 were both submerged in darkness, and the others could only guess where they were and what they were doing by their voices. God only knew what else they could do besides fighting.

Sparks of light burst forth with each crisp sound of swords colliding, as if someone were falling, rolling to their feet, then falling again, yet the heavy, rapid footsteps of metal could still be heard. In the darkness, Anton gasped heavily with each attack from Forty-Seven, as if brushing against death. Though Forty-Seven revealed his position and movements without hiding them, even knowing all this didn’t mean one could withstand it—this was the result of nearly sixty years of accumulated experience. If it were some inexperienced knight blessed by the gods, her blood would likely have dried up by now. Although the time and place were utterly inappropriate, Anton suddenly remembered her first encounter with Druid Uther. Back then, she was younger and stronger, almost as energetic and reckless as Milia. The giant grizzly bear summoned by Uther slammed its heavy paws, tearing the wind apart. Though time might exaggerate memories to preserve that sense of awe, there was no doubt that even such a bear’s strength paled in comparison to Forty-Seven’s unrestrained assaults. What was Uther doing now? If she died here, would he remember her as an old friend through the battles they fought side by side? The fiercely fighting Druid Uther might be pondering the same question. A gorilla-like construct used all four limbs to break through a tree as thick as a human arm at incredible speed, charging at him with its massive arms made of brass and pig iron, capable of applying acceleration and stone-skinning spells, making it impervious to weapons on the battlefield. Uther dodged swiftly. Before it could launch a second attack, divine energy, along with his chants, poured onto the construct, covering it. After the spell, the construct stood up briefly before collapsing, its steel body completely transforming into green wood upon hitting the ground. This was the last spell to turn iron into wood. Uther sighed, placing his thin hand on an oak tree nearby. The tree shook violently, almost toppling itself, and when it broke free from the ground, it had become a tree demon over ten feet tall, rushing at the enemy. That tree was done. It could no longer take root in the earth; its thousand-year-long life had been reduced to the glory of this brief slaughter. On another tree not far away, a vague human figure suddenly appeared—a druid seemingly growing out of the trunk, covered in wood-like patterns, only assuming a normal appearance after separating from the tree. “How are the wounded and our people evacuating?” Uther asked. “There are still many…” The druid looked angry and anxious. “Great Druid, please retreat first!” “If I retreat, the situation on the battlefield will become even worse…” Uther then summoned a moist cloud, almost like a mass of water, which surged toward a large area of forest set ablaze by the Fire Cloud spell, acting like an insulating blanket to prevent the fire from spreading unchecked.

For some reason, Agus’s attacks have been unusually fierce these past few days—they’ve even penetrated deep into the forests they’ve long avoided, employing tactics that border on a scorched-earth strategy. Have they even stopped caring about the powerful Treefolk who have always lived in peace?

It seems there’s some urgency to break the deadlock, as the troops deployed in these attacks far outnumber those used before. Although there haven’t been any major breakthroughs in weapons this time, the superiority of steel versus flesh has always been obvious.

The elven warriors’ only option is to avoid the sturdy armor or shells and attack the more vulnerable parts to undermine their protective advantages. They can either cripple the moving weapons by attacking their bases, making them unable to function, or tear apart the flesh and blood inside to destroy their core. The latter is more effective in terms of lethality, and with the help of earth elements or tree goblins summoned by the druids, the former becomes easier. But in any case, they must endure Agus’s army’s nearly sweeping magical bombardment. A common joke among mediocre mages is that such a person can only do two things: use a human shield to take hits while firing fireballs from behind. Yet undeniably, this method is often the most effective.

Uther suddenly sensed something and turned to look into the depths of the forest. Could it be that Eirdris has already… Before he could finish thinking, another wave of Agus’s attacks arrived. On this battlefield of blood and fire, he, the holy warrior Josen, the still-injured Jolice, and all the other elves were caught up in a desperate struggle.

“Report! News from the rear—location identified!” The white-robed mage turned excitedly from the control panel, only to find Dagulas carefully trimming her fingernails. The hem of her silk mage robe couldn’t cover her perfectly round ankles, and the bright red nail polish on her snow-white, smooth toes momentarily distracted the mage…

“What are you looking at?” A cold voice poured like a bucket of cold water over the white-robed mage, who even shuddered at the thought of the tragic fate this brief lapse in discipline might bring him.

“What location?”

“I asked what location!” Dagulas repeated angrily, wondering whether she should send this mage to the front lines—no, that would be too kind to him.

After everything was prepared, she asked her assistant, who still hadn’t stopped meditating, with a coy smile, “Darling, do you want to go?”