Round 42: Reversal of Effects

Negative effects such as charm, sleep, fear, and slowness had little impact on the demonized elves, so Dagulas simply unleashed all three of the most powerful destructive rays at once—large holes appeared periodically in the stone walls; the dark green dissociation ray completely shattered whatever it hit into dust. The other two rays, gray-white and death-black, seemed to have no effect when hitting walls or the ground, but those struck by them turned into gray-white stone statues or had all their life force sucked away, dying silently.
The elves trapped in the hall suffered heavy losses, while the demonized elves suffered minimal damage.
Fergas landed lightly. To avoid the intersecting rays in the air, she failed to reach her destination during her previous jump. The aircraft was still quite high above the ground, but its enormous size gave the illusion that it was right above them. Yet this nearly fatal height had no effect on Fergas at all. Her body was as light as if she were using anti-gravity technology; the sound of her landing was barely louder than jumping off a bed. She crouched down, looking up at the shadows at the bottom of the aircraft.
Seeing Fergas follow her line of sight and look up again, Agus’s soldiers began falling one after another—some shattered even before hitting the ground.
About half of the demonized elves managed to reach the aircraft’s deck, ready to carry out their orders. It seemed that even the weakest creatures could exert astonishing power with proper modifications—a feat even machines couldn’t achieve. Magic was truly miraculous.
The minor disturbance caused by the flash bombs had passed, and the soldiers and mages aboard rushed into battle. Most of them were prepared to be dropped by parachute or to carry out aerial attacks; they never expected such a thing to happen. They hurriedly rushed up from the lower decks. The warriors, clad in armor, swung their extendable swords as appropriate.
Soon, they realized that these ferocious elves were fundamentally different from those they had encountered before. Their sharp claws could tear through steel armor, their agile bodies could withstand flying magic projectiles, and their immense strength could break incoming swords. Something seemed hidden beneath the elves’ gray-black skin—a boundless, tireless desire for slaughter. In the face of these beautiful demons, the balance of strength seemed reversed.
The red-robed female mage took her gaze off the black armored figures below and grabbed Dagulas, who was almost convulsing with excitement, stopping her from using her tentacles to fire randomly at the aircraft. If that madwoman really did that, all plans might be ruined.
Deep darkness enveloped the massive aircraft, turning the deck gray. Occasionally, purple flames in human shapes ignited—these were the effects of the demonized elves’ spells such as “Dark Magic” and “Demon Fire.” In the darkness, pairs of red eyes kept flashing, and black figures bent over moved in flashes. Screams echoed as these ghostly figures appeared, causing the soldiers to suffer heavy losses until they were nearly wiped out.

The mages quickly realized that fighting in such a relatively enclosed area was tantamount to seeking death. They began to gather together as much as possible, no longer caring about the fate of the ordinary soldiers—after all, they were meant to be living shields. They used summoned creatures to buy time, then cast protective spells on themselves one by one, ensuring as much protection as possible before preparing powerful offensive spells.

Phylgas leaped from the edge of the flying craft, her red gaze fixed on a mage about to cast an Ice Spike. The mage froze for a moment, then an indescribable sense of nausea swept through his body, causing him to curl in pain, completely forgetting how to cast the spell, as if he had never learned it at all. Then Phylgas’ icy claws pierced his skull, stirring through his brain before being pulled out.

Phylgas moved like a cat; even those writhing tentacles at her feet seemed like flat ground. Unconsciously, she licked the blood and slimy brain matter on her hands, savoring the taste of her enemies, feeling immense sweetness and pleasure. The terror she had felt the first time she saw Agus’ mechanical weapons was completely gone. The black blood boiling within her made her crave more blood and slaughter. Her remaining consciousness tried to warn her, but to no avail—the gentle voice in her mind was too weak. Since the entire meaning of her life was now to bring greater pain to the Agus people, what was the harm in sacrificing her soul to darkness?

Perhaps this was what they called “getting what one deserves.”

Dagulas twisted her slender wrist, and a magical energy similar to a flash bomb flashed by, dispelling the darkness around them and sending a demonized elf who had lunged at her flying far away, out of the craft. Immediately afterward, three or four beams of magic shot out from the eyes at the tips of her tentacles, chasing after it.

Forty-seven still stood on the ground below, not intervening. He looked up, seemingly assessing the combat strength of those demonized elves, and the results seemed to satisfy him greatly.

But perhaps there was another reason he didn’t join the battle right away—one he himself wasn’t fully aware of: Morriel was also on the flying craft. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to confront head-on the first person he had truly gotten to know and communicate with in this world.

The red-robed female mage continued to fight in her prescient manner—but because the demonized elves were incredibly agile, it was quite difficult for her to strike them.

“What are you waiting for?” the female mage snapped, pushing back a demonized elf and forcing it to hide in the darkness again, clearly annoyed.

“Hehe… Is it really starting now?” Dagulas laughed like a little fox that had just stolen a chicken. “That’s so evil… I thought I’d be able to see it…”

“Whatever you think, you’re wrong!” The female mage ignored Dagulas and spat out a series of spells—

The floating machine trembled slightly. Two dog-shaped statues, one black and one white, rose from either end of the flying craft. They creaked as they rotated until their faces faced each other. Mysterious magical power instantly crossed through the layers of darkness and chaotic fighting on the craft, connecting the two dog-shaped statues as if they were nothing but insignificant dust.

The corrupted elves involuntarily stepped back. An invisible yet extremely powerful force field erupted from the aircraft, pushing away all beings not belonging to it—except for those Agus mages—by supernatural means. Some corrupted elves tried to grasp something to stay on the aircraft, but to no avail; this was not something that could be fought against with strength or agility.

The aircraft seemed to be rising, and the corrupted elves jumped away. The eyeballs, several feet in diameter, on their twisted tentacles began to glow—could a mere enhanced anti-biological force field have changed the course of battle?

Construction cannons extended and assembled on its left arm. The longer transformation time resulted in even more terrifying heavy weapons. After brief, intense red flashes, the beast-like barrels emitted a dark red light, swelling like bubbles before suddenly contracting. A searing beam instantly struck the bottom of the aircraft, causing a massive explosion and shaking that nearly collapsed the entire underground hall.

The flames spread like liquid, covering the dome and casting a sea of fire over the hall.

“It’s so dangerous… so dangerous…” Alarms blared one after another. Dagulas placed a hand on her chest, staring at the hellish scene around her that seemed ready to engulf the aircraft: “Thankfully we have shields… One more hit and we’d be done! He really isn’t holding back! Moriel, don’t you think?”

“Hurry up and start, stop talking!” the female mage cut her off coldly.

“Such a lack of fun… Fine…”

The flames subsided slightly, but the massive hull of the aircraft remained firmly afloat.

Forty-Seven spread his wings, and his great sword and chainsaw were also ready. Before he could fly up to engage in close combat, the aircraft underwent a change. Colorful lights shot out from those eyeballs, jumping from one to another, their colors constantly shifting and deepening. After completing a sequence of refractions almost like a magic array, the light that descended was completely black—or rather, devoid of any color. It contained absolute nothingness, even more like a rift tearing through space, erasing all color and sound as it fell from the sky—

Yet its accuracy and power seemed rather lacking.

The light hit the ground and vanished without causing any disturbance.

Forty-Seven glanced at the spot hit by the light, puzzled. What kind of ultimate move was this? Couldn’t those two women above do anything proper other than act foolishly?

But Ildris clearly didn’t think so. Her heart seemed to sink into the abyss along with that black light that disappeared underground. With her knowledge, she naturally understood what the Agus were doing. They were using this ritual to reopen the interdimensional portal to Hellgate Fortress!

Ildris stared intently at that spot on the ground. The elves who could still move seemed to realize something as well and gathered around her. Castor and Milia supported Zalidan and Anton beside her. Zalidan breathed heavily, muttering curses under his breath, while Anton remained silent—utterly motionless.

The color of the ground began to darken. Like dry soil soaked in water, that area quickly started to sink, covered by an indistinct shadow.

Fergas and the other demonized elves trembled involuntarily, even feeling somewhat restless—the aura emanating from there seemed incredibly familiar to them, as if their true homeland wasn’t the Sleeping Forest but that small shadowy area. Yet the shadow of Forty-Seven loomed over their hearts, suppressing their restless emotions. To some extent, their dark bloodline stemmed from this construct; it was part of them, and they couldn’t resist it, just as a client machine relies on a server… Forty-Seven himself also felt that abyss-like void calling to him. He took an involuntary step forward but quickly steadied himself, the force being so great that his feet even sank slightly into the ground. Something was wrong. Forty-Seven snapped out of his overly excited and fervent state and began to examine himself. Nothing seemed abnormal. Every gear and component was in order, functioning properly. The injuries sustained from fighting the Elf Guardians had mostly healed, and the sword wound from the Elf Warrior wasn’t serious either. His condition was actually excellent—even comparable to when Meigang had just climbed out of the molten lake in the abyss, her flesh still full of strength… No. It was the hellish flesh fused into his metallic body that kept stirring, growing louder and more intense. It screamed frantically, forming grotesque faces invisible to others in the surrounding dark mist, desperately tempting Forty-Seven to head toward that abyss. The largest and most prominent of these faces had burning red horns—a face belonging to Melganis! Forty-Seven jolted awake. A mix of anger and resentment surged forth, making the demonized elves tremble. Forty-Seven never cared whether evil forces resided within him; in his view, power was simply power, unrelated to anything else. But then again, it was another matter if you installed a hard drive only to find it infected with a virus. “What’s going on?” Dagulas on the aircraft poked her head out to look down, clearly frustrated. She saw no nightmare-like monsters swarming out as she had expected, nor any raging flames of hell—after all, she had never truly been to the Abyss. Forty-Seven was still fighting the virus. Fortunately, those menacing illusions couldn’t cause him any real harm, so he didn’t take these annoying thoughts too seriously. He wasn’t a man of weak will; it was merely the intense aura of the abyss that had temporarily allowed these long-dormant bastards to take advantage of him… They still hadn’t died completely—how stubborn! The aura of the Abyss activated the devilish flesh, which recklessly bared its fangs, trying to break free from its prison. Forty-Seven realized the real problem was the flesh beneath his metallic shell, which was eager to leave his body or seize control of the rest, showing no intention of giving him a choice or power—purely arrogant.

It’s a pity he doesn’t possess the legendary Eight Cries Palm or the Divine Skill of Drinking Wine, which could use his omnipotent internal energy to expel those troublesome conditions and all common sense from his body. This once again proves that once there’s a problem inside a seemingly indestructible body, the situation becomes extremely dire. In the end, no one can help. Things are heading in an increasingly worse direction. The dark flesh of Hell seems to have gained immense power, slowly but relentlessly eroding and disrupting 47’s body—as if the glue binding two different materials has failed and cracked, leaving iron and blood unable to coexist harmoniously. Now, either the east wind overwhelms the west wind or vice versa, and protrusions resembling tendons or blood vessels even begin to appear on his armor. All the parts of 47’s body that can still be controlled spin wildly, fighting against the spreading flesh. To outsiders, his current form is almost nauseatingly ugly; ink-like liquid oozes from every crack and those dark red symbol patterns, emitting a foul, hot smell like scalding tar. The weapons on his arms constantly break down and reassemble into various strange shapes, none of them decent. “Was he already this erratic when you met him?” Dracula asked the ever-serious deputy commander, pointing at 47’s bizarre state on the ground. “His body wasn’t as ugly or changeable back then.” “I’m not asking about his body. That’s a too-clever answer,” Dracula snapped, leaning on the railing in frustration. “Besides, he looked more presentable back then.” With that, he turned away gracefully—having spoken quite a bit for such a day. “No wonder the two of you can get along,” Dracula said, disheartened. Since nothing was happening, they had to redouble their efforts. All success comes from persistent perseverance. Dracula temporarily gave up on witnessing Hell’s arrival firsthand and started thinking of a solution. 47 still stood there, lost in his own thoughts. No one knew what he was doing—seemingly just daydreaming—but the high-speed noises coming from his body suggested it wasn’t that simple. “Let… let me pass…” Anton, who had remained silent, finally spoke, but his weak and powerless tone made Milia think he would collapse after just a few steps. The demonized elves were at a loss, with chaotic thoughts flooding their minds through the thick black fog—most of them calling for slaughter and destruction. But just as they were about to give in to these desires, the pressure of overwhelming anger held them in place, preventing them from moving.