Flickering phantom flames fell into the crowd, only to be bounced back out. The basic talismans worn by the soldiers activated shields when triggered, resembling translucent eggshells. While active, these shields were sufficient to completely keep the phantom flames at bay.
These mass-produced talismans were no high-grade equipment; they could only withstand ordinary flames or the scorching heat of basic spirit entities. They were single-use, with a duration of just over a minute. However, when properly coordinated, even the most basic gear could achieve maximum effectiveness. Unlike the foot soldiers of the Abyss, the garrison of Eryan did not fight as isolated individuals.
Soldiers whose talismans have been triggered stand at the very front, charging head-on while shielded by the barrier. Using defense as offense, they force the ghost flames back from their comrades. As soon as the shield's duration expires and it dissipates, another soldier immediately takes their place, repeating the process. The surrounding troops dispersed in a tense yet orderly fashion, opening up corridors for rapid entry and exit exactly as they had rehearsed. Ghost flames, being ethereal monsters, are difficult to deal with using ordinary fire extinguishers; the task of handling them falls to a special "firefighting unit."
Faint, scattered sounds rang out from all directions as figures with terrifying appearances strode into the corridors, looking out of place among the soldiers in uniform. To be precise, they were orcs. Certain professions are tied to cultural heritage; just as paladins are currently exclusively human, practitioners of this particular profession are currently found only in wild orc tribes. Most wore grotesque masks made of wood or bone, wielding long wooden staffs adorned with feathers, teeth, bells, or bone dice, their footsteps accompanied by a continuous rustling and clinking.
They are shamans or witch doctors—different terms for the same profession. Most go bare-chested, their bodies covered in body paint or tattoos. Both their appearance and their magical effects are quite terrifying—during the years of war between humans and orcs, orc shamans struck fear into the hearts of the Imperial army. But now, when they appear on the battlefield, the soldiers' expressions relax.
The watchtower constantly monitored the entire battlefield; every ghost fire's location was crystal clear to Tashan's eyes, like glowing markers on a map. This dynamic map was rapidly analyzed, generating deployment plans, and each shaman was sent to the most suitable position. They took their places at those designated points, driving their heavy wooden staffs deep into the ground, their pendants clanging loudly. Sooner or later, within moments of one another, towering banners unfurled across the battlefield.
The shamans' war songs rang out, and their war dances began. On the wooden staffs driven into the ground, the phantom images of banners suddenly unfurled—their surfaces painted with the totems of their respective tribes, while the angry visages of ancestral spirits materialized on the flagpoles. Giant wolves opened their eyes, mountain lions bared their fangs, and the heads of colossal beasts, bristling with fur and hair, opened their mouths to roar, their echoes lingering long after. As the shaman's signature spell, "Ancestral Spirit Banners" could inspire the tribe's warriors, intimidate opposing enemies, and even cause soldiers from other tribes to feel a pang of dread.
The Ancestral Banner consumes very little mana and lasts a long time, though its buffs and debuffs are relatively mild; generally, it serves merely as a shaman's opening move in battle. However, beyond this, there is another, less conspicuous effect: for low-level spirits, it is a deadly nemesis.
A surge of primal, untamed energy swept across the battlefield. Wherever it passed, all evil fled in terror. Clusters of ghostly flames instantly emitted a sizzling, shrill screech, as if doused with a bucket of cold water. The head-sized blue flames became unstable, resembling a television screen with a poor signal. The position of the flagpole perfectly covered the army, leaving not a single ghostly flame untouched. Within seconds, the battlefield was swept clean; all the ghost flames had vanished without a trace.
A moment of silence fell over the crowd—even the soldiers present hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. Cheers erupted immediately, rivaling the roar of ancestral spirits. Though they had believed the shaman could accomplish the task, such a swift and effortless victory still left everyone exhilarated.
Meanwhile, most of the rangers in the Needle Forest had already dealt with the ghostly flames surrounding them. The advanced archer class, the Magic Archers, took their positions; their eyes were as sharp as hawks, and magic arrows flew from their longbows, striking the ghostly flames that had not yet fallen. They targeted the flames that would fall outside the range of the Ancestral Spirit's banner; even the most basic magic arrows were sufficient to deal with these rudimentary spirits, taking them down one by one with every shot.
So far, there have been zero casualties.
"Zero casualties! Yes! Zero casualties so far!" the anchor cheered, her voice trembling with uncontrollable joy. "All those ghostly flames have vanished! The archers are hunting down the ones still falling, and the little demons continue to plummet endlessly into their final resting places!"
A kilometer away from the battlefield, war correspondents scribbled furiously, and news anchors beamed with excitement. These non-combatants had risked their lives to come near the front lines, eager to witness this war that determined the very survival of all of Eryan and to share firsthand reports with the people of Eryan. While the soldiers could still contain their excitement, these journalists made no attempt to hide their elation.
They had every reason to be happy; they deserved to be happy. Half of Eryan witnessed the fierce meteor shower; half of Eryan's inhabitants saw the falling meteors, dark clouds obscuring the sun, and darkness enveloping the land. They saw the Abyss come snarling and snarling, and then, the first wave of vanguard troops was sent packing back home with such ease.
At this very moment, countless people across the entire continent were anxiously awaiting news from the battlefield—regardless of race, age, or social class. Telegrams were sent to newspapers everywhere, printing presses worked overtime, and news of the First Battle was swiftly disseminated to every street and alley. People in the big cities sat by their radios at home, while those in villages and towns gathered around loudspeakers, straining to hear the announcer's voice. Their faces lit up with the good news, and they repeated the same words to one another—as if to confirm, as if to share—never tiring of saying it over and over.
"Zero casualties!"
"The Abyss came, but we fought them off brilliantly!"
"We beat them so bad they were crying for their mothers!"
"Send those bastards right back where they came from!"
The optimists were elated; in this near-perfect opening, they saw an inspiring future. The pessimists were overjoyed; they had always feared that the true Abyss would crush all life on the surface, yet now the outcome seemed to be the exact opposite. Over the years, awareness of the Abyss has grown significantly. In past victories, some saw the power of heroes; the triumph of ordinary people surprised them, only to fill them with even greater excitement. Others saw the scars left by the demonic calamity and the grim casualty figures; the current zero casualties filled them with hope.
Whether pessimistic or optimistic about the war's outcome, people knew this would be a tough battle. The initial victory had lifted everyone's spirits; it was a triumph worthy of being celebrated in grand style.
Tasha wore a blank expression. She didn't feel particularly surprised—much like an excellent programmer seeing their code run smoothly, she didn't think it was worth celebrating, only that it was to be expected. At most, she was relieved that no mishaps had occurred.
"It looks like this wave has basically stabilized," Victor said. "The Abyss Portal will open gradually; at this stage, only low-level monsters are allowed through. Your army should be able to hold out for three to five days without any issues, right?"
Indeed.
The griffin cavalry carried numerous sets of small mana pools—like high-capacity batteries—sufficient to sustain operations for twelve hours. Once the situation stabilized, flying machines and dragon cavalry could take their place. The combatants had been organized into groups, each capable of rotating shifts. Not only could they hold out for three or five days, but if the intensity of the attack didn't increase significantly, they could rotate shifts and fight for months without issue.
That was to be expected.
"We should be able to hold out for three or five days without a problem," Victor said, but no sooner had the words left his mouth than chaos erupted.
A deafening explosion ripped through the air above them, originating from the narrow abyssal passage. A swarm of imps screamed in agony; their bodies were blown to pieces and vanished without a trace before they even hit the ground. Rainwater sprayed outward as an explosion erupted from the sky, sweeping across the heavens. The shockwave sent the griffin riders reeling; some unlucky riders, too close to the blast, plummeted to the ground along with their griffins. Brown feathers swirled through the air, and amid the griffins' wails, the sturdy electric fence was torn apart in an instant.
It wasn't just the electric fence that was torn apart.
Something was falling from above—a mangled mass of flesh and bone, reeking of a sickening, burnt stench. It appeared larger than a griffin, larger even than a hundred imps combined; the only reason it could pass through the passage was likely because it had already been reduced to countless fragments. The moment this colossal mass revealed itself, it disintegrated into a pulp of flesh. Before Tasa could get a clear look, it vanished into thin air, just like all the dead demons before it.
Behind it, the "scar" suspended in midair began to change.
It looked somewhat strange, as if what had once been a pencil sketch had now turned into marker scribbles. Its height hadn't increased, and its width hadn't changed either, yet it had… grown darker.
"Lava Behemoths? Three of them?" Victor's eyes widened in disbelief. "An evolutionary path even rarer than the Poisonfire Dragon—a high-tier demon that could advance to a Flame Demon with just one more step—and they're using it to play suicide bomber at the entrance?! Even if it can't become a Demon Lord, that's still a bit of a luxury, isn't it?"
"Get to the point," Tasa said, already forming a rather ominous suspicion in her mind.
"Well, um, some relatively high-level monsters might come in right away." Victor said, "If it's just some burly little demons, this wave should be manageable."
The passage that had been endlessly spewing out little demons fell silent for a few seconds, then a massive, crimson-skinned creature poked its head out. At first glance, it did bear a passing resemblance to a little demon; someone unfamiliar with demons might mistake it for a burly little demon… but anyone who thought that would be very, very ignorant of demons.
It stood as tall as three imps stacked on top of each other, and its long, curved horns were far more menacing than those of an imp. This demon did not wield a trident, but a thick, long chain—thicker than an ordinary human's arm—with sharp spikes on every link. Compared to an imp, it bore a stronger resemblance to the rage demon Simon.
This was a Horned Demon, an intermediate-tier demon evolved from a Little Demon, one step away from becoming a Raging Demon.
"The Raging Demon's evolutionary branch has only three stages: Little Demon, Horned Demon, and Raging Demon. So the Horned Demon stage is quite long. The original plan to smoothly harvest the Little Demons in three to five days might not necessarily…" Victor's voice trailed off, and he fell silent under Tasha's unspoken gaze.
"Don't say another word," Tasha said heavily. "Please, I'm begging you."
"I suppose dying once has a massive impact on a demon's luck, huh." Victor gave a dry laugh, making a sewing-stitch gesture with his fingers over his mouth.
The ground trembled slightly.
The narrow passage, barely wide enough for a small demon and a will-o'-the-wisp to pass through, had been torn open into a much larger gap by the explosion. The wings that had once allowed the small demon to fly had atrophied upon its evolution into a Horned Demon. The moment the Horned Demon squeezed through the fissure, it plummeted from the sky.
The Griffin Corps' electric fence was no more, leaving the Horned Demon's descent unimpeded. For the moment, its only enemies were gravity and the thorn tree. The towering red-skinned demon plummeted straight downward, failing even to shield its vital areas; it looked as though it had merely leaped down a single step.
Directly below it stood a thorn tree.
Ten meters, five meters, two meters… The distance closed rapidly; the triangular spike was about to pierce the Horned Demon's massive foot. Boom! In the blink of an eye, the Horned Demon had hit the ground, causing the earth to tremble slightly and a large section of the ground to collapse. The towering demon roared as it stood up, covered in dust and dirt, yet completely unscathed.
Bystanders could hardly make out what had happened, but Tasha saw it clearly. The thornwood had indeed pierced the Horned Demon's body, but its thick hide remained unpenetrated. Under the force of gravity, the hard thornwood tilted, bent, and snapped, as if a toothpick had been snapped by a falling rock.
The Horned Demon, still clutching the iron chain, stood up. It shook its head, took a few steps, and was no longer affected by the fall. One ranger was unfortunately too close. The middle-aged forest ranger had lost his balance in the shockwave and fallen to the ground. Before he could get back up, the iron chain came crashing down on him.
Death toll: one.
The ominous fissure did not stop.
A hideous head emerged, its horns not particularly large, followed closely by a massive, bloated body. Its body was disproportionate to its head; the layers of fat quivered with every movement, as if they might fall off at any moment. Large imps were once known as fat imps, ghouls, or ogres.
Large imps are weaker than horned demons, and as a result, they emerge much faster.
Hordes of ogres were falling.
Boom! Crack! The sounds of their descent were incessant, as were the sounds of snapping trees. The imps had lost their wings during their evolution, but their bodies had been strengthened many times over. Their skin, which had the strength of ordinary leather, now resembled the magical effect of petrified skin after their evolution. The forest of spines that had just skewered them like meat on a skewer now looked as if it had been struck by hail; within minutes, more than half of it was destroyed.
The Tree-Speaker Druid acted decisively, no longer wasting energy on repairing the forest of spines. Thick vines sprouted from the ground, and iron-spiked thorns blocked every passageway, tenaciously entangling the demons and buying time for those around them.
The rangers were retreating rapidly; most rangers relied on agility for their advantage, and these thick-skinned, tough monsters were a significant disadvantage to them. The nearby garrison was retreating; while they could easily handle lesser demons, this was no longer a battlefield for ordinary men once they faced new adversaries. The backup plan was put into action, with new and old forces taking turns to confront the enemy.
When the last vine blocking the path was torn apart, the Horned Demon encountered the charging warriors.
A towering warrior led the charge. His muscles bulged; he was in the prime of his life. Interestingly, he also happened to have a pair of horns—the orc warrior Sevir, nephew of the orc chieftain Terence, had finally fulfilled his long-held ambition to become a top-tier warrior. His broad battleaxe swung down, aiming straight for the Horned Demon's chest.
Clang!
The clang of metal rang out suddenly as the iron chain blocked the warrior's axe. The Horned Demon grinned hideously; the chain coiled inward, wrapping around the battleaxe, and yanked it violently toward him. To his surprise, the axe flew right out of the warrior's hands. The Horned Demon staggered backward, clearly not expecting it to be so easy to disarm him.
Sever let go with a crisp, decisive motion; he had no intention of wrestling with the demon. The orc warrior drew two short-handled axes from his waist with a backhand motion, spun his body, and in an instant, the axes formed a blurring whirlwind. A whirlwind slash flew straight at the Horned Demon, and Sever transformed into a deadly spinning top, seizing the moment the Horned Demon lost his footing to ram into him with ferocious force.
Saver was not alone.
The ranks of warriors charged forward with a roar, like wildebeests charging head-on against jackals. The shamans had not departed; their banners now glowed with a golden light. The inspiring spell known as "Ancestral Protection" enveloped the warriors, making their courage bolder, their fury more intense, and their stamina inexhaustible. The sky was brightening, and the rain that had been hindering them was subsiding. Chanting echoed from the hilltop; another druid stood there, a weather manipulator driving the dark clouds apart. Visibility in the area rapidly improved, and the defenders of Eryan would no longer be hampered by the weather.
On the ground, skirmishes broke out one after another as Eryan's defenders engaged the demons in close combat.
The large imps looked incredibly clumsy and moved very slowly, but their attack speed was surprisingly fast, resembling a hippopotamus's short-range charge. Each ogre wielded a bone club, wooden staff, or mace in one hand; if the impact of these massive bludgeoning weapons landed squarely, even a warrior might be temporarily incapacitated—which is fatal when facing large imps. Erian's defenders are not without their own counterattacks: charges, heavy strikes, leaps… These combat techniques are enhanced by the extraordinary strength of the warrior class and, bolstered by the shaman's inspiration, become faster, fiercer, and more powerful. If they strike at the right moment, they can tear through the demons' tough hide and pierce their thick layers of fat.
The clash between melee demons and warriors is the simplest, most primal, and most brutal—a collision of raw power. Swords, spears, and battleaxes clash against chains and maces; casualties often occur within the first few exchanges.
An unfortunate warrior tumbled to the ground; his enemy sat upon him as blood and entrails gushed from the warrior's body.
A berserker of giant descent stands face-to-face with a large imp. Roaring in seething fury, she swings her blade, cleaving the demon from the top of its head down to its chest.
An ogre's mace becomes entangled with a warrior's weapon. After a brief struggle, both weapons fly from their hands. The ogre's fan-sized palm sweeps toward the warrior, smashing the human's head off in a single blow.
Archers ran and fired, coordinating with the warriors to secure victory or a chance at survival for their comrades. Druids' vines struck suddenly, snatching the wounded from the battlefield as quickly as possible.
The battlefield, which had been clean just moments ago, was now covered in blood within minutes.
The sky was no less active.
The fissure continued to spew out demons one after another—besides horned demons and large imps, there were other grotesque faces.
One type of demon had a face far more symmetrical than the previous two, yet it looked even more repulsive—because it resembled a human too closely, yet was not quite human; that face hovered right on the border between human and inhuman. One step back and they were hideous monsters; one step forward and they were enchanting beauties. Now, however, they were so grotesquely hybrid that they made one's scalp crawl. These demons possessed eagle-like talons and lower bodies, with feather-covered humanoid torsos and heads of flowing hair. Tasa had once seen a modified variant of this species in the ancient mage's tower. The harbingers of death flew out of the passageway, their wings powerful, their movements agile, and their talons razor-sharp.
One type of demon looked as if carved from stone, reminding Tasa of the gargoyles atop cathedrals. That heavy stone body could actually take flight; its stony bat-like wings flapped through the air with enough force to knock off a roof or two. The stone body itself served as a weapon; the demon known as the Stone Golem was as heavy as a dancing warhammer. This could be described as a failed evolution of demons; the gargoyle itself is already the pinnacle of this evolutionary branch, with no possibility of becoming any stronger. Nevertheless, at this stage of power, they are by no means weak; on the contrary, they rank among the strongest.
The griffin corps scattered amid the explosions, many of them wounded and temporarily unable to return to the battlefield. The air force units took their place in succession.
Swarms of drones darted through the sky; many were crushed by the demons the moment they drew near, while others managed to strike effectively. One type of drone released electrical currents, operating in groups of three to deploy small, electrified cages in the air, trapping the encircled Deathbirds inside. Since the gargoyles' bodies possessed extreme resistance to electricity, another type of drone specifically targeted these demons' stony forms by ramming into them.
The cockpits of the suicide drones were all packed with magic bombs; their sole purpose was to locate an enemy and crash into it. Boom! The gargoyles' bodies were incredibly hard, impervious to blades and bullets, so the explosion of one or two drones rarely made a dent. However, they were also quite fragile. If their wings could be successfully severed, the falling gargoyles would shatter into pieces upon impact with the ground.
The demonic legion in the sky was rapidly taking shape. The drones were confining more and more flying monsters to a single patch of sky, temporarily preventing them from scattering or diving. However, the drones were utterly incapable of effectively eliminating the enemy, and they themselves were being depleted at a rapid rate. Before long, the drones lost their numerical advantage, and soon after, they would struggle to contain the demons any longer.
The Dragon Cavalry had arrived on the battlefield just moments earlier.