The entire second day passed without incident, as did the morning of the third. By the time the sun reached its zenith on the third day, the spatial turbulence swirling around the Abyss Passage began to slowly subside.
Drones circled near the passage, and the observation tower provided Tashan with views from every angle. She kept her eyes fixed on the entrance to the passage, waiting for a "sign."
The nature of the enemies to come was not entirely unpredictable.
After another expansion, the new enemies would be stronger than before. Roughly dividing the monsters into three categories, melee-type enemies would be more powerful than large imps, flying-type enemies would surpass deathbirds and gargoyles, and magic-type demons would be stronger than spectres and phantoms. Victor has yet to pass through the passage, so it is unlikely that a Lord-level demon has entered the Material Plane. Narrowing the scope to those above the former and below the latter, there are not many common demon units that can take on a distinct form.
The spatial turbulence grew increasingly calm, and the Abyssal aura from the other side began to spread once more. The scar in midair twisted and writhed; the space on either side seemed as flimsy as paper, tearing apart at the slightest movement.
It was as if a sack filled with black smoke had been opened, and billowing black smoke poured out. Imps and will-o'-the-wisps appeared in droves. As the Abyss's weakest combat units, they possessed their own advantages—such as sheer numbers and the ability to slip through any opening. As soon as the passage reopened, these old foes began pouring onto the battlefield in an unending stream. Eryan's army mobilized and charged head-on.
The region that had been calm for a day and a half was slowly transforming, hinting that the real trouble lay ahead. The clouds in the sky were churned into spirals, their twisted forms visible from thousands of meters away. The griffins pawed at the ground restlessly, raising their heads to screech; the knights could barely hold them back. The unicorns paced uneasily, nudging their companions with their bodies in an attempt to lead them away. Tasha's spectral doppelganger hovered in the air, sensing the surging waves of magic.
Demons of the magical order.
Several eerie heads emerged.
Their pallid faces were greasy and shiny, with a long, comical nose protruding from the center. The faces were long and symmetrical, yet each bore subtle differences. They bore a striking resemblance to the clown masks worn during certain Day of the Dead festivals in southern Eryan; in fact, it was the Eryan clowns who resembled them—the clowns roamed the streets wearing the faces of demonic sorcerers, symbolizing death's ever-present shadow.
If you were to remove their masks, you would not see faces, only a blur of flesh and blood. These are not masks; they are their faces. These mid-tier arcane demons possess chitinous faces, much like insects. Chitinous plates form every contour of their faces, and a sinister light shines through their grotesque eye sockets, the moist glint of their eyeballs creating an unsettling sensation. The chitinous plates on the lower half of their faces part, and a rustling sound comes from the friction inside their mouths—no one would want to see how their mandibles function. The demon sorcerers cast spells so quickly they were almost impossible to follow—no wonder, for they possessed six hands.
Six clawed hands extended from their chests, moving as one to weave a torrent of multicolored spells. It was the speed of a spider spinning its web; filthy magical ripples coalesced in midair before being hurled downward.
A deluge of diverse spells rained down, preventing any attack against the demon sorcerers from getting close. Some struck the open ground; others struck the warriors.
Under the demon sorcerers' command, soft water became incredibly sharp. Warriors fell for no apparent reason; it was only after a long while that blood seeped through pea-sized cracks in their helmets. Wind blades spiraled downward; the moment people felt the oncoming gust, they might find themselves parting with a limb. The earth of Eryan was tainted by sorcery, and sharp stone spikes rose up, piercing through the bodies of those who failed to dodge in time. Even fire—a succession of massive fireballs—could shatter talismans, engulfing the body in flames.
Screams rang out across the battlefield as people fell everywhere.
Many of them hadn't even been hit directly. A cloud of dust, a pool of murky liquid, a wisp of mist… they landed nearby, merely splashing against the skin. The wounded clutched their wounds in horror; where the spell had grazed them, a string of blisters erupted in an instant, and a putrid greenish hue spread beneath their skin. Even the most insignificant graze could lead to horrific consequences; beyond the magic of the four elements, plague magic was also one of the demonic sorcerers' specialties.
The flame talisman repelled fire spells but was powerless against attacks of other elements; its applicability was far too narrow. The mechanics of magic were incredibly intricate; there was no universal panacea capable of defending against everything. Magical talismans that increased resistance to various spells were worth their weight in gold—they were simply not something that could be mass-produced in a factory. Even with all of Eryan's resources working at full capacity, they could only prepare the most versatile talismans.
But Erian is not without options.
Mercury, the wings of blue-scaled beetles, fragments of a certain magical shell, and a mixture of fireweed and magic stone dust are poured from countless test tubes. Seeds of magical plants brought back from the ancient mage's tower have successfully taken root in Erian, and in recent years, mages' spellcasting materials have been packaged into convenient kits tailored for each specific spell. The same incantations were chanted by countless mages at the same cadence. The young mages kept their eyes downcast, turning a deaf ear to their comrades' screams and ignoring the magical fluctuations just inches away. Their hands must not tremble in the slightest; their pronunciation must be utterly precise. Though the preparation time was slow, there was not a single error.
The mages' ranks have assembled. These young mages, having recently graduated from the mage academy, lack the signature skills of seasoned mages and are considered weak when fighting alone—but when they band together, the situation changes entirely.
If magical fluctuations were a form of heat, people within a thousand-mile radius of the battlefield would feel the heat rising from beneath their feet. Magic circles rose from the ground, their glow resembling mercury, mother-of-pearl, or the faint light of a unicorn banishing corruption. Milky-white shields rose from all directions, forming a hemispherical dome that firmly enveloped the battlefield.
The moment the massive magical shield rose, countless spells already cast slammed into it. Fire, water, earth, and air—magic of all four elements rushed to crash against the shield, falling like a sudden downpour only to bounce off like raindrops. The shield absorbed the force of each strike; the spells, as if hitting something incredibly elastic, were propelled outward like solid objects, dissipating in midair before landing outside the shield, their power nearly gone. The shield, which looked as thin as a soap bubble, remained unscathed, its radiance not even dimmed in the slightest.
The imps, will-o'-the-wisps, and Eryan's garrison could move freely in and out of the hemispherical barrier, but no elemental magic could pass through it.
The paladins' mounts roared to life; the heavy motorcycles emitted a roar like that of a dragon or a tiger as they charged toward all corners of the battlefield. They were massive, both rider and machine, and appeared as giant targets against the barrage of offensive spells raining down from the sky; they could only move once the magical shield was raised. Plague spells continued to fall, but the Paladins themselves were immune to plague; their blessed aura could, to some extent, dispel the plague contamination brought by the demonic sorcerers. Now was the perfect moment for them to join the battlefield and tend to the wounded.
The torrential barrage of spells gradually slowed. A few minutes later, for a brief moment—perhaps a second or two—the shield was actually at peace; no attacks struck it.
This, however, was a terrifying development.
The imps and will-o'-the-wisps continued to fall in a flurry, yet more and more demon sorcerers hovered in midair, scrutinizing the translucent magical shield. Those strange, grotesque faces were cast downward, and where their masks' eyes should have been, a chilling light flickered.
No, it wasn't a savage glare—horned demons were a hundred times more savage than these, and savagery was hardly unusual among creatures of the Abyss. What was terrifying was…
Rationality.
It was the gaze of an intelligent being, a gaze similar to that of the mages on the ground.
Indeed, the mages were calm and rational, whereas demon sorcerers were a type of demon; their eyes always bore the inescapable madness of Abyssal creatures. But they were also spellcasters; they were no longer mere monsters, but mid-tier demons, their souls and free will having grown within their grotesque bodies. Beyond their frenzied cravings, demon sorcerers thought; they weighed the pros and cons.
So they no longer launch futile attacks.
So they think.
The next moment, scattered attacks began again, as if there had never been a pause. Were it not for Tasha's precise, overarching calculations, those watching only a corner of the massive protective shield would never have noticed this. The demon sorcerers continued their haphazard attacks as if nothing had happened, like inflexible, rigid magical puppets.
The drones had already charged forward. Earlier, the air force had been suppressed by a relentless barrage of spells and was temporarily unable to close in, but now they seized the moment when the demonic sorcerers had slowed their spellcasting to launch a suicide attack against the aerial enemies. Most of the drones were shot down before they could get close, while a few managed to ram into the demon sorcerers, scattering them. Unfortunately, this delay didn't last long; soon after, the spells the demon sorcerers had been secretly preparing finally rained down.
Few noticed it; this spell was colorless, odorless, and came without light or sound.
No film or TV production would ever design it this way, because it's not visually appealing or striking. No video game would design it this way—how would an invisible spell signal to both sides that it had been cast? How would it give the target a chance to dodge? But when magic truly exists in another world, spells that cannot be seen, heard, smelled, or even sensed are not unheard of—nor do they require particularly advanced magic.
Take this one right before us, for example.
Only magical fluctuations can prove its existence. On a battlefield chaotic with spells, and under the cover of other demonic sorcerers' magic, even those with magical vision would struggle to detect it. It belongs to no elemental magic, effortlessly passing through massive protective barriers to land in the midst of the battlefield.
A soldier collapses to the ground, gasping heavily. His limbs are as limp as noodles, and every muscle in his body has lost all strength. His weapon falls from his grasp; the warrior, once as strong as a bull, seems to have turned into an octogenarian, while a lesser demon raises its steel spear behind him.
Another soldier clutches his chest as he falls, staring in disbelief at the killer who was fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with him just moments ago. The killer's expression is even more shocked than that of the victim. A warrior's blade was stained with the blood of his comrade. He wanted to let out a howl, but his tongue was numb; the long sword was raised once more.
This was happening all across the battlefield. The unfortunate fell by the swords of enemies or comrades, while the even more unfortunate—their bodies having grown cold mere moments before—fought on with numb, unresponsive limbs, swinging their weapons time and again. They had not entirely defected—spells capable of fully controlling a person were too advanced, consumed too much energy, and offered poor cost-effectiveness—and their attacks still struck the demons. Yet the once-clear-cut battle had devolved into indiscriminate slaughter.
The Curse of Weakness, a curse that allows a child to defeat a strong, healthy man. The Curse of Chaos, a spell that, in theory, possesses no lethal power, yet can inflict immense damage.
The latter is precisely why only drones could be used to attack the demon sorcerer. Dragon Knights, the Griffin Legion, or dragons—the greater the destructive power of these aerial forces, the more disastrous the consequences if they were to be controlled. Such spells could not be prevented at all; one could only wait for them to happen.
The magical environment of Eryan has never fully recovered to its former glory. Although the number of practitioners has risen, the power of individuals is not what it once was, and their stamina cannot be compared to that of practitioners of the past—especially spellcasters. Spellcasters have limited mana that regenerates slowly; a mage's protective barrier begins a countdown the moment it is activated and must be used sparingly, as it cannot be sustained indefinitely. The same applies to bards' spells—they cannot be cast continuously.
But they could adapt on the fly.
Armored vehicles equipped with massive loudspeakers had long been lying in wait at the edge of the battlefield.
They had conducted extensive experiments to determine which type of loudspeaker resonated best with the bards' songs, how far the magical resonance of the arcane devices could extend their extraordinary power, and how to account for terrain, weather, and other battlefield conditions. The battlefield was divided into smaller sections, each covered by the effective range of corresponding loudspeakers. Once the order was received, the armored vehicles could charge into their designated positions.
Even before Tasa detected the demon sorcerer's movements, the armored vehicles had already charged onto the battlefield. In just a few minutes, they were in position.
A wave of sound swept through the area, which was beginning to descend into chaos.
The ballad Jacqueline sang had no lyrics—only melody, only tune, only the gentle magic that soothed the nerves. The lullaby that dispelled negative states was not a specific song, but a medium through which the minstrel conveyed emotion; it could be any song, performed with any instrument. The lead singer, of elven descent, began, and the other bards followed. The solo became a chorus, and the threads of magic converged, twisting into a slender yet sturdy rope.
The invisible rope lashed across the backs of the weakened, flogging away the curse of weakness and restoring their strength. The five-starred rope catches the falling soul; those controlled by chaotic spells once again feel their limbs, as if bathed in warm sunlight after a blizzard. The bone-chilling cold is dispelled; they reclaim control of their bodies, and then another wave of warmth washes over their hearts, temporarily banishing their grief.
The bard's song was merely a medium; what truly worked was a different kind of magic—thus the chorus was not a single "song." Among the different voices were not only lullabies to dispel weakness and confusion, but also battle hymns to inspire the spirit.
"It's not your fault," the encouragement in the battle hymn soothed the unfortunate souls who had just been controlled. "The true culprit is the demon in the sky; you are victims just like us." Now is not the time for grief. Do not abandon your fighting spirit or yourself. Fight! Fight! Wash away your sorrow with the blood of demons!
Armored vehicles equipped with loudspeakers roamed the battlefield, their onboard broadcast systems relaying messages, guiding them to avoid enemies who might destroy the speakers and to reach those most in need of rescue.
The spells cast by mages and bards begin a countdown the moment they are activated. Merely defending will only lead to attrition, while on the other side, the arrows of attack are already nocked.
"Don't die here," said the nameless shadow witch. "I've already reserved your body—protect it."
"That's exactly what I was going to say, Mom," the fire witch Abigail laughed. "Don't die yet—I'm still waiting for next year's showdown!"
With the magical environment restored, witches no longer have short lifespans. The nameless Shadow Witch remains in a state of limbo, having not yet taken over Abigail's body—but this does not mean they will remain mother and daughter, living in harmony forever. The nameless witch has agreed to act against Tassa by the deadline, and next year marks the end of her existence. They will eventually kill each other—if they survive this war.
The witches bid each other farewell before the battle and boarded the airship.
These half-magical creatures possessed extreme resistance to magic; they feared few curses, and neither chaos nor weakness could harm them. The rune-protected, invisible airship carried them to the battlefield in the sky. While drones continued to divert the attention of the demonic sorcerer, the witches struck.
The firebird charged headlong at the Abyssal Mage. Compared to when Abigail first awoke, this bird had grown far more than just a little. Its broad wings radiated intense heat, and the air swirled wherever the firebird flew, with small whirlwinds causing the demon sorcerer's body to bob up and down in the air. Paying no heed to the spells cast upon it, the bird plunged into the thickest cluster of demons and suddenly exploded.
These were no harmless fireworks. Scorching flames licked at the demon sorcerers' twisted limbs, gnawing at their flesh and interrupting their spells. Even though, as creatures of the Abyss, they possessed some degree of fire resistance, they were still thrown off balance and their attention drawn away.
The demonic sorcerers, realizing what was happening, launched their attacks; curses rained down on the witch, but failed to make a single ripple. Elemental spells struck the airship, only to be blocked by runes and shadows. The airship's exorbitant cost and massive size allowed for various resistance runes to be engraved onto its hull, providing a hiding place for the Shadow Witch. Countless shadows leapt between the airships; the spells struck a wall of gloom, vanishing without a trace, as if swallowed by the sea.
Just as the Fire Witch drew the brunt of the firepower, the Echo Witches completed their spell.
Ice elements coalesced mid-air, forming a miniature iceberg suspended in the void. Two fists, each as large as a small cottage, smashed into the demonic horde, hammering them away. Pure frost encircled the colossal fists, and the attack carried a freezing effect; the sorcerers struck by them instantly turned to ice, shattering into countless fragments upon impact. Witch Meng Sha, still unsatisfied, clenched her hands into claws, veins bulging as if she were slowly dragging something from the void.
Ten meters away, a raging lightning elemental was being pulled into existence. It stood as tall as a two-story building—a massive target—and was immediately struck by several stray bullets from the demon sorcerers the moment it appeared. The furious elemental creature crackled with energy and whipped around. Once it broke free, those who had drawn its wrath would certainly meet a grim end.
The eldest witch—that is, the oldest among the living witches—Ophelia was surrounded by tiny winged creatures. They were no bigger than a thumb, resembling fairies from a fairy tale, yet they possessed rows of sharp teeth. The Elemental Specialization granted her access to a vast array of summons. Among the fairies, there were countless subspecies; the ones before her, setting aside their lengthy scientific names, were once known as "Mischief-Makers."
"Go cause some trouble, darlings!" Ophelia raised her index finger, its nail studded with sparkling rhinestones. "Give those ugly creatures a taste of their own medicine!"
Hundreds upon hundreds of pranksters joined the fray. They were barely larger than flies, yet more of a headache than wasps—and a headache for non-human creatures as well. Their magic wands could only inflict a palm-sized area of paralysis, but they were virtually untouchable, susceptible only to the powder of their natural enemy—another subspecies of fairy. Presumably, these invaders who had crossed the dimensional barrier didn't have that powder on hand. For the duration of the summoning, this swarm of little creatures was invincible.
With a wave of their wands creating palm-sized areas of paralysis, the swarm of missile-like creatures could turn an entire demon sorcerer to stone. Flight was not the demon sorcerers' natural ability, but a spell they cast; once paralyzed to the point where not a single hand or tongue could cast a spell, they would plummet to the ground—thud!
A group of stone gargoyles suddenly materialized mid-air, causing some surprise among the nearby demon sorcerers, as that was not the designated portal area. The gargoyles' faces were as rigid as ever; the moment they appeared, they lunged at their own kind. Their stone arms seized the demon sorcerers' small bodies—snap—one grab, one kill, splitting them in two.
"How does it feel to be dealt with by your own 'kind'?" the Echo Witch Afra chuckled.
Before the portal between the Abyss and the Material Plane opened, Afra was the most useless witch—she couldn't summon a single thing. She had once despaired, believing herself to be a crippled witch. But just two days ago, when the Abyss portal opened, Afra had a sudden epiphany.
A witch's abilities are predetermined at birth; each has a specific focus, and even among Echo Witches, there are distinct specializations. Meng Sha specializes in elemental creatures, Ophelia in spirit beings, and Afra—she specializes in Abyssal creatures.
The moment the portal opened, her domain opened as well.
Eerie patterns constantly coursed across the Echo Witches' skin, while faint voices whispered and screamed in their minds, only to be suppressed. They were the masters of their summons; the commands in their bloodline commanded their slaves.
The scent of the Abyss was incredibly thick beyond the portal, and Afra's summoning pool was so close to her. The excitement of the other Echo Witches had already passed, but for her, this was the first time—the very first time in her life—that she had felt her innate power. Just how powerful a demon could she summon? Just what kind of enemy could she control? She would find out little by little. Standing before the gates of the Abyss, Afra flashed a mad, ecstatic smile.