The next type of monster mingled among the other demons, unnoticed by anyone until the glow of the first soul talisman erupted.
Given the limited resources, members of the special forces and professionals had prepared more talismans, while even the most ordinary soldiers were equipped with at least two types. One, developed by the Archmage's Tower, was designed to ward off intense fire and proved effective against the Abyss's numerous fire-based attacks; the other provided by the Church of Saros, where blessed silver was split into threads as fine as hair and woven into the soul amulets. These faintly effective exorcism talismans lacked the power to harm evil spirits, but they did indeed protect the wearer.
The soldier gasped, staring at the shadowy figure behind him in the faint glow of the amulet. It was light as a feather, taking shape in the amulet's faint glow. It clung so close that its outstretched form half-enveloped the soldier's body; that face—neither human nor beast—loomed right behind his head, close enough that a flick of the tongue could have brushed his cheek. It looked like a giant sheet of plastic cling film stuck to people by static electricity—a thought that was almost laughable.
But the only reason they lingered behind was that they were being held back by the soul amulet.
The transparent specter descended from the sky, approaching slowly and silently, clinging to people's backs and enveloping their bodies. They originally had no face, no limbs, no head—just a chaotic, invisible mist that only took shape and grew when it came close enough to the living. If they cling to a horse, hooves sprout from their bodies; if they cling to a person, the mist takes on arms, legs, and a face.
A face identical to that of the victim.
The phantoms can transform into any living creature they have consumed, taking on a physical form only after feeding. But after just over ten minutes of digestion, they become transparent once more, vanishing into the air, ready for their next meal.
Shadows are not the same as ghosts; the latter are humanoid spirits, while the former are monstrous creatures of no fixed form. Their attacks are not fatal, yet one must never let down one's guard in their presence. These invisible monsters cling to the backs of the living, their formless tentacles burrowing deep into people's bodies, their mouthparts lapping at the victim's soul. At first, your hands and feet grow cold, then your limbs go limp, and even your tongue goes numb. Even the strongest, most well-fed person will collapse to the ground after a feeding, as if suffering from severe hypoglycemia.
Imagine this happening on the battlefield.
The soul amulet glowed faintly, its light bordered by countless tiny tentacles. The soldier was quite brave, yet even he broke out in a cold sweat at the sight, as if he were peering through a submarine's porthole at the mouthparts of a giant octopus. He saw the shadow's "head" writhing, as if it were about to form a face, only to dissolve back into the light.
This scene played out repeatedly across the battlefield: a faint glow would appear, and tentacles would constantly wrap around and then retract, as if scalded—unable to strike, yet unwilling to leave. The shaman's staff rattled and clattered, but it had little effect on the specter. Though both are spiritual entities, the Shadow cannot be equated with a will-o'-the-wisp. A malevolent spirit of this caliber possesses a strength comparable to that of an Ancestral Spirit.
The power of the Ancestral Spirit spreads through the shaman's spells, evenly covering a certain radius. This dilution allows a single shaman to influence an area spanning several kilometers, yet it also prevents the power from being concentrated. How could this dispersed Ancestral Spirit power expel multiple Shadows across such a vast expanse?
"Humility, honesty, compassion, courage!" A roar rang out from the edge of the battlefield, the unison chant growing louder and louder. "Justice! Sacrifice! Glory! Faith!"
Whoosh!
The sound of countless weapons being drawn from their sheaths, slicing through the air.
The paladins' staffs unfolded—clubs to confront mortals, blades to target demons. Now was the time to wield their blades. Battle axes, spears, and maces hidden within the staffs were gripped in their hands, while nameless blades hung at their waists.
Over the years, the Classes have once again become the open and legitimate guardians of Eryan. The number of those with innate abilities has grown, and the authorities have worked to rescue and support various lineages, allowing the traditions of the Classes to flourish in broad daylight. Sealed storerooms have been reopened; weapons and armor from memorial halls have been retrieved, replicated, and put to use. Artisans and factories have forged new gear, and scattered groups of paladins have reformed. The guardians standing on the battlefield today are young and spirited, full of vitality. The small silver hands hanging from their waists gleam like new, clutching radiant pearls.
These "Nameless Hands," symbolizing the grasp of one's own destiny, are not sacred relics passed down through generations, but merely pendants crafted only recently. Yet these paladins' faith is as steadfast as that of their predecessors, and their resolve to defy fate is no less than anyone else's.
"Humility, Honesty, Compassion, Valor!" they shouted, a faint golden light rising with their cries. "Justice, Sacrifice, Glory, Faith!"
The radiance emanating from the paladins shone as brightly as sunlight; all who were illuminated felt a warmth deep within their hearts, as gloom and dampness were swept away. It was the Holy Light—a radiance born of unwavering faith, nearly divine in nature. No, this was the pinnacle of the light of humanity. To protect Eryan, to banish demons, to master destiny… Such unwavering convictions became their creed; they need not bow to any god or demon, for they themselves are the masters of this Holy Light.
Many, many years ago, the Knights of the Temple charged toward the demons, shouting their precepts. Many, many years ago, the Paladins charged toward the enemy for the survival of humanity. They may have been unfeeling, rigid, and unyielding, but even their enemies sometimes had to admit that they possessed qualities worthy of respect. Virtue has never died, and the souls of heroes never fade. A new legion of paladins fights once more for Eryan, as if yesterday's glory were reborn. If Alexander, the old knight who fell in battle so many years ago, could see this scene, he would surely be deeply comforted.
The Holy Light radiates from the weapons they hold aloft, a radiance even more stirring than the glow of a soul talisman. The paladins sprang into action, mounting… their bikes.
Did you think they'd be horses?
Horses are too slow.
The latest model of heavy battlefield motorcycles roared to life. Their operating principles were similar to those of magical vehicles (you know, the ones that spew steam and magical energy), but they were much smaller than armored vehicles, far more maneuverable, and far superior to horses in both carrying capacity and speed. The heavily armored paladins mounted their motorcycles with great swagger, secured their weapons in front, started the engines, and sped off into the distance.
This scene… was a bit hard to look at.
Brave paladins riding massive motorcycles, with gleaming swords/battle axes/lances/ mace tucked into a space resembling a bicycle basket—even if the motorcycle is painted in a vintage style, and even if the atmosphere on the scene is grand and majestic, the entire scene still has an indescribable sense of incongruity, akin to a "vacuum cleaner unearthed from an ancient tomb" or "a thousand-year-old jade carving of Doraemon." If any time-travelers expecting a Western fantasy epic were to arrive on this battlefield, they would likely be so shocked by the scene that they'd suffer internal injuries.
For the sake of practicality, the classical aesthetic must be compromised, Tasa thought. Even if it draws criticism, there's simply no other way.
"The Paladins are here!" the host exclaimed, spittle flying as he spoke with rapture. "They wear armor that gleams like the morning light, mounted on majestic steeds as swift as lightning, their faces bathed in golden radiance! Listen! That is the sound of the Paladins' iron steeds! Their roars are like thunder and wind; their speed surpasses that of any mortal steed; they spew billowing black smoke, resembling valiant fire dragons! Ah! These Paladins are just like the dragon-slaying heroes of legend, trampling evil dragons underfoot!"
...As long as you're happy, Tasa thought.
The Motorcycle Paladin Corps swiftly scattered, heading in all directions under the command transmitted through their headsets. Wherever the golden light struck, the transparent phantoms were knocked out of their hiding places; the two were as incompatible as oil and water. Once these monsters lost their invisibility and could no longer get close, they became as vulnerable as snails out of their shells.
The paladins didn't slow down; they charged head-on into the phantoms forced out of stealth, drew their weapons, and cut them down beneath their horses… motorcycles.
The battle remained under control.
Monsters continued to pour out of the rift intermittently, but the Erian garrison's clearance rate maintained a dynamic equilibrium with the rate of their arrival. While keeping the monster population in check, they slowly rotated their various units, ensuring everyone had sufficient time to eat and rest. They were prepared for a protracted war; on the first day the Abyss portal opened, despite some casualties, the situation remained quite optimistic.
The first day passed in this manner. By evening, to everyone's surprise, the monsters had stopped falling.
The Eryan garrison cleared all the monsters that had fallen into the Material Plane within an hour; at most, a few stragglers remained. During this time, the Abyssal Portal remained completely silent; detection equipment confirmed that no Abyssal creatures were sneaking through. The second hour passed without incident, and the third was the same.
Drones sent toward the portal lost their signal before passing through. No special inspection was needed; onlookers could see them falling with the naked eye: the drones hadn't managed to enter the portal; they'd been twisted into a heap of scrap metal right at the entrance.
Spatial turbulence had, at some point, blocked this passage connecting the Abyss to the Material Plane.
"I have good news and bad news," Victor said. "Which do you want to hear first?"
"The bad news," Tasha said.
"They've been tampering with the spatial portal again," Victor said, pointing at the sky. "Once the portal reopens, the strength of the demons that can pass through will jump another tier."
Sure enough, they couldn't count on divine intervention causing the portal to close on its own.
Tasha sighed and asked, "What's the good news?"
"We have at least a day or two of respite before the new arrivals," Victor replied. "Expanding the portal—which previously only allowed minor demons and will-o'-the-wisps to pass—to a size large enough for low-level horned demons required them to sacrifice three lava behemoths. To expand the portal to its current size again, they'll need to pay a higher price and spend more time."
"If it could stop for a year or two, that would be good news. A day or two?" Tasha shook her head. "We can't make more preparations, and it won't have much impact."
"Actually, there might be even better news, though that's just my speculation," Victor said. "Do you want to hear it?"
He was referring to the very thing Tasa had previously told him to stop speculating about. To be so particular about such matters at a moment when the fate of the world hung in the balance—that was typical of Victor. Tasa gave him an amused look and nodded.
"Regarding the expansion of the passage—in past invasions, we've never done this," Victor said. "There is a lack of discipline within the Abyss; no demon lord is willing to sacrifice their own power."
The Abyss's creations were a chaotic mess, each fighting on their own. Tash had already felt this acutely during the first day of defense.
There were no commanders; these Abyssal demons were driven solely by instinct: the instincts of slaughter and devouring projected by the Abyss's will, and their own instincts regarding the balance of power. The portal in the sky would not send out a well-coordinated army. The first wave of fire salamanders crashed to the ground, followed by the second, third, fourth... all the way to the very last one—a steady stream of cannon fodder, with no coordination whatsoever. Most Abyss units emerged in a haphazard mix; the only reason waves of the same species appeared in succession was due to the limitations of the portal itself.
As Victor said, the Abyss army's sole strategy is "if you can squeeze through, squeeze through."
The passage between the Abyss and the Material Plane opened slowly; at first, only imps and will-o'-the-wisps could squeeze through, so the first wave naturally consisted of only those two types. The explosion of the Lava Colossus widened the passage, allowing higher-tier monsters to pass through. So when larger imps, spectres, and other slightly higher-tier units scrambled to squeeze through, the number of imps and will-o'-the-wisps coming through naturally decreased, because the passage's throughput is limited.
It's similar to passing through the narrowest part of an hourglass: when heavy iron balls begin to squeeze through, the amount of sand that can pass decreases from its original volume—but it doesn't disappear entirely, since there are still gaps between the iron balls.
Biological instinct causes lower-level monsters to gather together and form rudimentary cooperation, much like companies boarding a train as a group. If one company holds the advantage at a given moment, that wave will consist entirely of members from that company. This is the reason—and essentially the only reason—why large numbers of monsters of the same species appear together.
"Isn't it possible to attack the other side and force one party to sacrifice itself to widen the passage?" Tasha asked.
"It's possible," Victor replied, spreading his hands. "But everyone is prepared for that. The cost of forcing one side to sacrifice itself would be too high, and in the end, it would have no effect."
"In other words, for the current Abyssal Lords, 'opening the portal early' has become more important than 'paying a high price,'" Tasha said.
"Exactly," Victor nodded and smiled. "The Abyss has abandoned the most common form of attrition warfare. They likely can't afford the losses any more than we can."
This was a pleasant surprise.
The Abyss had been cut off from the Prime Material Plane for centuries; demons knew nothing of the human world, and the inhabitants of the human world knew nothing of the Abyss during those centuries. The information obtained from Victor, a traitor to the Abyss, was not encouraging; the internal strife within Eryan over the past few centuries was cause for concern. But considering that a similar decline had occurred within the Abyss itself…
The severity of the Main Material Plane's internal strife is heartbreaking, while betrayal and civil war in the Abyss have been a constant, endless cycle since time immemorial. The Main Material Plane has suffered a decline in magical power, yet as the "Main Material Plane," the human world is absolutely unable to escape the reach of the World Tree's "branches" and is also the primary recipient of their nourishment.
This war might end sooner than they anticipated.
That doesn't mean it will be easy.
The Abyss has reached a moment of life-or-death crisis. Demons are already mad; once cornered, it's hard to imagine what they might do. Demons in such a situation are bound to fight with everything they've got. The faster this war progresses, the sooner they'll face their greatest challenge. This is likely to be a brutal battle.
"We'll take it one step at a time," Tasha whispered, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
The news that they had "a day or two to rest" spread quickly, and everyone made the most of this intermission. The results of the first battle had already reached all of Eryan via newspapers and radio, and everyone was discussing the same thing. Soldiers who had emerged unscathed made phone calls to their families far away, letting them know they were still alive and well.
The infirmary was once again overflowing. Taking advantage of the lull, every wounded soldier passed through its doors, regardless of the severity of their injuries. Those with only minor wounds might grumble, but they cooperated fully; everyone hoped to recover before the next battle and return to the front as soon as possible.
One warrior had his abdomen pierced by a Horned Demon's chain; the filthy, spiked weapon had left a mass of rust embedded in his internal organs, and the risk of infection was greater than the danger of blood loss. The Holy Son of Saro prayed at his bedside, and a gentle light flowed into the warrior's abdomen, causing all the rust that had been impossible to remove to evaporate like snow in the sun. Saro's divine magic targeted demons; anything tainted by demonic power could be purified by it. Priests moved through the ward, and the dragon-slaying skills of the past finally found their greatest use.
Orcs should be referred to druids whenever possible, as potions with natural properties are quite effective for them. Several orc warriors exhibited signs of atavism during the fierce battle, requiring the attention of specialists—their physical structures had begun to differ significantly from those of humans, and their body temperatures had risen by several degrees. This sudden change both puzzled and delighted the doctors. All those specializing in orc medicine crowded into the special ward, surrounding the patients with such intense, piercing gazes that it made the orcs feel a bit uneasy.
"Doctor, I just twisted my ankle. I don't need to be hospitalized, do I…?" said a burly man, shrinking his neck. His expression remained relatively calm, though his round ears twitched uncontrollably.
"Sir, although you and your companions are exceptional cases now, there will certainly be more of your kind exhibiting these symptoms during the fierce battles to come," the head of the Orc Department said solemnly. "We have a precious window of opportunity now. Observing your condition could save many lives in the future."
Moved by these words, the giant couldn't help but grab the doctor's hand and shake it repeatedly. The chief physician's slender hand looked like a little girl's in the man's massive, pot-bellied palm. Tears welled up in his tiger-like eyes, and he boomed, "Thank you, doctor! I'll stay in the hospital!"
"Good!" The chief nodded quickly, pulled his hand away, and said excitedly, "Come on, bring in the anesthesiologist!"
"Wait, wait! Why the anesthesia?!"
The soldier's agonized scream faded into the far end of the ward.
Compared to the surgeons wielding scalpels, Mavis and her apprentice, who provided medical treatment, were far more popular. Wherever the pharmacist wearing the green leaf badge walked, people would lift their heads and instinctively start swallowing. They jokingly called it not treatment, but a special treat. During wartime, the half-elf had long since left the mess hall, channeling all her culinary passion into compounding medicines.
The fragrance of the potions wafted for miles. It was astonishing that the same medicine could be made to taste so differently. Thankfully, children and Dwarf craftsmen didn't go to the front lines; otherwise, the nurses wouldn't have had time to stop the patients from swapping samples to taste.
Tasha had a rare chance to lend a hand. Her [Add a Spoonful of Sugar] skill was so potent it could cause an ordinary person to spit blood and die, but the skill description had clearly stated that dragons could eat it. She poured the soup into the flying dragon's mouth. The dragon twisted its neck, and the areas of its body contaminated by demonic magic slowly returned to normal. This was for the best; the consumption of ingredients was far less than what it would take to recreate a dragon from scratch.
While Tasa was cooking, Victor wandered curiously around her. A demon's physical resilience is comparable to that of a dragon. He watched the lively flying dragon, took a spoonful of soup himself, and then stood motionless in place for ten minutes.
"How does it taste?" Tasa asked him after finishing her work.
"Delicious," Victor slowly offered a wry smile. "Though my stomach just got scorched through."
"..."
So that's why the flying dragon was writhing around—it wasn't to expel the taint after all…
"Now, I'm the only living being in this world who's ever eaten your cooking," Victor announced proudly.
"Are you even human?" Tasha shot back.
"Fine, then I'm the only living creature in this world who's eaten your cooking." Victor said.
"The dragon ate it too." Tasa pointed her soup spoon at the listless dragon beside them.
"Whatever! Can they even compare to me?" Victor snapped. "We've both eaten it, but would you really put me on the same level as those brainless pseudo-dragons?"
"No, I wouldn't," Tasha said. "If I didn't have to eat that stuff, no one could compare to you."
Victor chuckled and gave her a loud kiss.
On the battlefield below, the lights came on.
In the distant city, the lights shone brightly. That night, many people slept soundly in their exhaustion, while many others stayed awake all night, either from excitement or worry. Vines called "nightlights" wound around the vegetation near the battlefield and grew on the ground itself. These plants, modified and optimized by the Druids, were fire-resistant, trampling-resistant, and easy to maintain. They remained dark during the day but emitted a faint glow at night, sufficient to illuminate the battlefield. If night combat was necessary and night-vision goggles were in short supply, these plants proved extremely useful.
Unicorns roam the battlefield, their pure white bodies resembling moonlight. Those chosen by a unicorn and awakened to the Beastmaster class are exceedingly rare, making it difficult to form a military unit; it is therefore best to utilize them for non-combat purposes.
Unicorns have no masters, only companions; when their companions call upon them, they come. As these beautiful, noble creatures walk across the battlefield, black mist rises from the ground—a land tainted by demon corpses, blood, and magic. The unicorns' horns glow with starlight; wherever they pass, malevolent and impure energies cannot linger, and the plagues brought by the Abyss cannot infect this plane.
The moonlight is bright tonight; tomorrow will surely be a clear day.