"Boring." The heavily made-up woman paced back and forth in the hospital room, muttering under her breath, "Boring, boring, so boring!"
Doctors and nurses wore white coats, priests wore cassocks, and pharmacists wore badges, but this woman was dressed in a tattered black outfit. In the past, people might have said she looked like she was rushing to a funeral; today, they'd likely mutter that she was probably a death metal fan. Her long nails were painted black, her lips a vivid red, her nose pierced, and her eyes heavily lined with smoky makeup. Her high heels clicked against the hospital floor as she muttered to herself. If it had been anyone else, the staff would have escorted them out of the ward long ago, but no one came to shoo her away.
On the contrary, the people in the ward had been eagerly awaiting her arrival, and their faces lit up with joy the moment they saw her.
The Plague Witch Lesley hadn't set foot on the battlefield; she had some complaints about not being able to wreak havoc ("I'm a Plague Witch, for heaven's sake! The Plague Witch who plays the main villain in ninety percent of evil witch stories!") , yet she had chosen to remain behind the lines. Oh, Lesley had certainly chosen this herself; a prison cell could stop her from wreaking havoc, but not even Tasa could force her to do anything. Even as the Plague Witch grumbled and scowled, looking as if she were owed eight million, she still carried out her work flawlessly.
Those gaunt fingers made a virtual grasp over the patient's body, and the spreading purplish-blue discoloration ceased to spread; the raging blisters became subdued; the person tossing and turning in high fever relaxed their brow and was finally able to sleep soundly. The source of corruption was drawn out of the body, as if fulfilling the charlatan's claim of "capturing the demon of disease." The reality wasn't quite so mystical. Lesley was a plague witch; she could cast plagues, and she could extract them.
The plague is Lesley's accomplice, her subject; she merely flicks her finger, and the disease flocks to her.
Natural pathogens may have their limitations, but the plague attacks crafted by demonic sorcerers are merely artificial, malleable creations. In this regard, witches and demonic sorcerers stand on equal footing. As a plague witch whose entire skill set is dedicated to plagues, compared to those demon sorcerers who merely "know how to use" plague spells, Lesley shows no fear even when facing thousands of enemies.
"No one can let anyone die of disease right under my nose," she says arrogantly. "Not even demons."
The battlefield is like a human circulatory system: those unable to continue fighting are evacuated, and fresh soldiers take their place. The dungeon's immune system works at full capacity, ensuring the wounded remain merely wounded—never becoming statistics of death.
Within this cycle, certain things happen quietly.
It appeared to be nothing more than the corpse of a demon sorcerer.
It plummeted from the sky, mingling with the myriad spells, drone debris, and other corpses in the air. Even with a bird's-eye view, it was impossible to single it out amidst the ever-shifting chaos of the battlefield. The corpse drifted down beside a wounded soldier. The force of the impact sent both the human soldier and the demon sorcerer's corpse tumbling together; after a few rolls, the demon's corpse vanished.
At least, that is how it appeared.
The "wounded soldier" lay face-down on the ground. Out of sight, the final piece of armor on his face was dissolving, transforming into the soft cheek of an ordinary human. As the medical team approached, "he" let out a pained groan. The team rushed over, quickly loaded "him" onto a stretcher, and carried him away from the battlefield.
"He" was covered in blood and dirt; any traces of a stiffened expression were completely obscured beneath the grime, and no one would notice anything amiss. "He" kept his eyes tightly shut, merely groaning and shaking his head, ignoring every question. Even relatives of this face would be unable to detect anything unusual—who would blame a severely wounded soldier for neither opening his eyes nor answering questions?
They entered the dungeon's entrance.
The Abyss Detector was useless; wounded soldiers with contaminated wounds would still emit the scent of the Abyss. The dungeon's sensory systems detected nothing, and though Tasa's vision could pierce every blind spot, it was powerless against certain spells—such as the concealment power of the divine artifact "Distant Starlight" candelabrum, or the deceptions of a demonic illusionist.
The progression of demonic sorcerers appears rather ambiguous. These demonic spellcasters seem to be quite cunning in their evolution, quietly amassing power while pretending to be weak—they excel at playing the fool to catch the wise. Whether they evolve into the Law Demon branch or into the Mind Demon or Succubus branches, when a Demon Sorcerer evolves into these higher-tier demons, their appearance remains unchanged—only their power transforms.
Spell-casting demons possess a wider variety of spells and sharper intellect than demon sorcerers, much like a mid-level mage on the Material Plane ascending to high-level status. However, if the path taken is not that of a spell-casting demon but rather that of a demon trickster, the evolved demon sorcerer loses all other types of spells. In exchange for abandoning a vast array of spellcasting abilities, they gain nearly flawless "deception."
"He" used illusions to conceal the scene of devouring a human casualty. In broad daylight, the Demon Deceptionist consumed the casualty and then became an exact replica of that person. Under a disguise impervious to any spell, its abdomen swelled as it chewed and digested the victim. With every morsel digested, the demon illusionist's illusion grows a little more perfect.
"He" takes on a natural expression; his appearance—from his face to his scars, from his wounds to his birthmarks—is a carbon copy of the human casualty. As it devours the memories of its prey, "he" mimics the human language like a parrot. It knew exactly what his wife and children looked like; if given the chance to see them, it would call out their names with the same tender tone as that soldier.
The squad carrying the stretcher entered the entrance and made their way down a section of the corridor, where they carefully set the stretcher down. The Demon Trickster continued to play the part of the suffering casualty. It felt no anxiety; this was how things were meant to be: the weak creatures of the Material Plane were here to relieve the others. Those who had brought it would turn to find more casualties, while the medical staff underground would be responsible for delivering the stretcher to the appropriate ward—if the ward was crowded, it could strike suddenly and devour every last one of those "little treats"; if it was empty, it would simply wait.
The Demon Trickster lay still on the stretcher. The beam of light on the corridor floor was both bright and swift, leaving no room for evasion. Resembling the magic lances of a dragon knight, the light blade shot out from a trap on the floor, slicing the stretcher and the Trickster lying upon it in two, then in four, efficiently reducing them to a pile of fragments. Until he turned to ash and returned to the Abyss, the Demon Illusionist maintained the illusion of a human casualty. "He" wailed in bewilderment, mistaking the pain in his back for some sort of test, and still tried to keep up the act.
Every entrance to the dungeon had a corridor like this. On the trapdoors lining each corridor were tiny, invisible magical devices that transmitted images of the corridor to the monitoring room. Here, the Evil-Eyed Witch Medusa sat in a swivel chair, a hairpin lifting and securing her wine-red hair to reveal the wine-red eye beneath. The wine-red pupil blinked, scanning the rows of large screens.
The witch's eyes cast a hypnotic spell; the witch's eyes see the truth. Within Medusa's field of vision, various magical energies dance in the air—her right eye perceives illusions, while her left eye sees through them. Her gaze settles on a screen, where she sees yet another obese demon with a distended belly lying on a stretcher, striking a comical pose as he writhes and cries out in pain. Medusa kicked out, spinning her wheelchair in a circle.
"Corridor 16, another one!" she drawled into the walkie-talkie.
The control room activated the mechanism; a laser grid spread across the floor in an instant, and yet another demonic trickster met his end while attempting to sneak through. The follow-up squad cleared out this small corridor compartment—a transit station for the wounded awaiting transfer, but for infiltrators, an inescapable execution ground. The witch with the evil eye stroked her cat, smacked her lips, and chuckled, "Trying to take advantage of the chaos? We're not blind, you know."
The medical team was swamped, and the battlefield below was growing increasingly chaotic.
The stench of decay spread through the air.
The logistics system was running at full capacity; even those still breathing received aid, so the number of bodies on the battlefield wasn't actually that high. Yet even if all the corpses across the entire battlefield were combined, they couldn't produce such a thick stench. This round of fighting had only lasted a day—how could the bodies have rotted to this extent?
This stench of decay came from things that had been dead for who knows how long—from creatures that had perished the moment they appeared on the battlefield, if they could even be called creatures.
Some massive forms crashed heavily to the ground, leaving behind a yellowish-green, putrid liquid where they landed, like smashed, rotten tomatoes. Their size rivaled that of large imps, though ghouls stood on two legs and could barely be considered humanoid; these new arrivals, however, were unmistakably beast-like. They braced themselves on all fours, their bodies completely hairless, exposing pallid skin. Their muscles were swollen, yet they resembled corpses that had been soaking in water for ages, with a repulsive, bloated appearance. A nauseating stench emanated ceaselessly from these creatures.
They smelled like a horse that had been dead for a week in the summer and looked like rotten flesh that would fall apart at the slightest shake. Yet these dead beasts had sharp claws and fangs dripping with maggots. Anyone whose flesh was torn open by them would watch their own flesh rot, stink, and fester, sliding off the bones just like the demons that had inflicted the wounds.
Small fragments fall to the ground, bones clattering as they shatter into a heap, then writhing back into shape. They slot together like building blocks, assembling into monstrous skeletons. An ordinary soldier's steel blade can hack these skeletons into a pile of bone shards, yet if left alone for a moment, the fragments begin to move again. Heaps of bones fused into giants; giants cut in half became swarms of agile, dwarf-like skeletons. Everything seemed unchanged, with only the living expending their strength.
The image of Eryan's Grim Reaper featured a large hood, a skeletal face, and a bone scythe—drawn in part from the celestial God of Death and in part from the Reapers of the Abyss. Many types of monsters can evolve into Reapers; these demons all bear some semblance of "death."
The foul-smelling infected are called "Corpse Beasts," while the bones that regenerate no matter how many times they are chopped to pieces are known as "Skeletal Ghosts."
During past demonic calamities, the priests and paladins of the God of Death were the first to charge into battle against these creatures. Their efforts were effective, but so were the casualties. Priests and paladins are flesh and blood; their divine magic is most effective against these undead, yet their glory is also most easily tainted by these blasphemous beings, leading to their demise in the midst of the infection.
Today's paladins roam the battlefield, bestowing blessings and holy light upon their comrades; today's priests remain in the rear, their healing spells saving countless critically wounded soldiers and allowing countless lightly wounded ones to return to the front lines. Eryan cannot afford the luxury of attrition warfare; when these undead creatures arrive on the battlefield, they are met by other undead.
Necromancers have long been present near the battlefield.
They seize the corpses of monsters the very moment they die. This is the Material Plane; Abyssal creatures who die here are not immediately carried away by the power of the Abyss. There is a brief window—and the necromancers seize this opportunity. Demons do indeed belong to the Abyss, but at the moment of death, they belong to death itself. Necromancers bow humbly before Death itself; they dance with Death and draw upon its power. They seize both bone and flesh, gathering the materials for their undead armies from the corpses of their enemies.
The fire of the soul flickers in the sockets of the skeletons; skeleton warriors swing their greatswords, skeleton archers draw their bone bows, and even skeleton mages kindle eerie ghostly flames. Fleshed corpses rise slowly; though their movements are far slower than in life, it matters little—they have grown tougher and more resilient, making them ideal as meat shields.
Their source is not limited to enemies; many soldiers and professionals signed body donation agreements in life. Those who signed these agreements wear special tags that can be sensed by necromancers. With reverence, they summoned these corpses; even in death, the warriors could still fight side by side with their comrades.
The earth split open, and a vast army of undead from the dungeon's graveyard poured onto the battlefield, ready to serve the necromancer's commands. At the vanguard of this army, an undead warhorse reared up, its hooves treading upon ghostly flames, while the knight upon its back raised a deep-blue battleaxe high. This Headless Knight, once the paladin Alexander, is as valiant and skilled in battle as he was in life. Now, he once again commands thousands of troops.
Necromancer Dolores chants her spells; over the years, she has gradually strengthened the Headless Knight, and now the results are evident. The Headless Knight now possesses the "Commander" attribute, and the "Legion Charge" skill has become one of its innate abilities.
Legion Charge (Necromancy): When the number of undead units on the field exceeds the base count (regardless of friend or foe), the Commander can lead friendly undead units in a charge. The movement speed and attack frequency of all friendly undead units on the field are doubled. This ability can be used once per day and lasts for one unit of time. For every time the number of undead on the field exceeds double the base count, the duration increases by one unit of time. The base count is "500," and the base duration is "10 minutes."
The base duration can be increased.
The undead beasts spew the foul stench of death; the thicker the aura of death, the worse the condition of the living becomes, and the stronger the dead grow. Coincidentally, this also serves as a powerful tonic for the Necromancer's minions. The ceiling of the crypt in the basement has completely collapsed, exposing the tombs to the outside. Direct sunlight causes the crypt's energy to dissipate, gradually turning it into a useless, ordinary graveyard. However, while it remains open, all friendly undead units receive a boost.
Undead against undead—the battle has begun.
Skeleton soldiers and skeletal wraiths hacked at one another, fighting over each other's bones and energy. Withered zombies were torn apart by corpse beasts, while deadly maggots found no resistance in the already-dead bodies. Pale-faced necromancers wave their bone staffs; their bodies serve as conduits for the energy of life and death. Sacrificing their own health, they endure longer than anyone else on this battlefield saturated with death.
The earth shook violently, causing not only the frail necromancers but also many warriors to fall to the ground.
What was that? A meteorite? A spell?
Countless people instinctively turned their heads in one direction. From the far east to the far west of the battlefield, even through the throng of soldiers, they could see the source of the tremor.
It was immense.
A large imp is already half a head taller than an adult, but compared to this thing, it was like a three-year-old next to a grown man. A massive mountain of flesh crashed down onto the land of Eryan; the impact alone claimed many lives.
The colossus slowly rose to its feet, utterly oblivious to the pulped flesh beneath its buttocks and feet. The demon, as large as a small hill, lifted a foot and stomped down.
"Retreat! Retreat!" the commanders shouted hoarsely to those nearby.
The fighters who could escape fled for their lives, and many demons were running as well. A large, less-than-clever imp that hadn't dodged in time was casually kicked to the ground, its entrails crushed beneath a single stomp. The giant's breathing sounded like thunder; its breath resembled volcanic ash. Its massive paw swept to the side, grabbing a griffin that hadn't managed to escape, and crushed it in one squeeze. The griffin was snapped in half at the waist, and the knight and his companions, falling from its back, let out a simultaneous cry of despair.
The giant shoved the griffin into its mouth, and a look of foolish, savage glee spread across its massive face.
Whoosh!
A piercing whistling sound suddenly rang out as countless blue beams of magic shot toward the feasting giant, all striking their massive target squarely. The Frost Mage Corps unleashed a volley of Freeze spells, and ice crystals began to spread outward from the points of impact. The giant slowly lowered its head, watching as a patch of icy blue spread across its chest and abdomen, like a lake hit by a cold snap.
All the newly graduated mages had been sorted according to their areas of expertise to handle various situations. The mages of the Frost Mage Corps were not skilled in dealing damage, but they excelled at delaying and controlling. The entire corps was divided into two groups, firing in alternating waves, with their casting timings overlapping almost seamlessly. The chief mage of the corps gave the signal for the second time. At his gesture, the second wave of freezing spells rained down upon the giant in unison, thickening the layer of ice covering its body.
The giant's neck twisted in agony; everything below its neck was now encased in ice. The ice layer was a full meter thick—enough to turn a person into a massive block of ice. But the giant was too massive; for such a colossal form, a meter of ice was merely a layer of armor.
The mages continued their incantations as the chief watched the giant anxiously. After two rounds of simultaneous casting, the next round of spells would take considerable time to prepare.
The giant began to roar.
As if enraged by the ice encasing its body, it raised both arms high and swung them violently. Under its force, the thick ice shattered instantly, sending countless shards cascading down and creating a small blizzard in the vicinity.
"Repeat: everyone in this area, retreat! Evacuate immediately within ten seconds!" the commanders urgently repeated over the channel.
The giant began striding forward. Its movements appeared slow, yet its strides were so massive that its speed was terrifying. It was rapidly closing in on the group of mages who had just cast Frostbolt, and panic began to spread through the crowd. Amid the rumbling of the earth, many mages kept missing their spells; the more nervous they became, the harder it was to succeed.
Boom!
A fireball the size of a water barrel exploded against the ogre's skull. It staggered and shook its head wildly. This thick-skinned demon, highly resistant to fire, wasn't even slightly injured by the fireball, but even someone wearing a helmet wouldn't be happy about getting hit in the back of the head.
"Hey! Look here! You idiot!"
Mage Laurien shouted from not far behind it, waving his arms. The ruby powder turned to ash as a barrage of fireballs struck the giant's skull, then the back of its palm as it turned around. This mage, a specialist in fire magic, conjured fireballs with remarkable speed and precision. He whistled loudly and continued to shout, "Come here, you big idiot!"
The ogre probably didn't understand a word Laurien was saying, but provocation is a universal language.
The mountain-sized monster turned around, striding toward the little crawling creature behind it that dared to provoke it, its furious footsteps making the ground tremble. "Very good, that's the spirit," said the mage who dared to challenge it. Laurien nodded in satisfaction and turned to sprint away.
There was no way he could escape; Laurien was too close to the giant. Then again, if the giant hadn't been closer to the challenger than to the group of Frost Mages, it might have chosen to crush the mage group first before dealing with the lone mage. The Fire Mage ran with his head down, and like most mages, he was panting heavily after just a few steps. The members of the command center stared wide-eyed, holding their breath as the giant closed in on the brave mage, closer and closer, until it was just a step away.
The giant reached out its hand.
"Now!" the commander finally ordered. "Fire!!"
A silver light tore through the sky, momentarily outshining the sunlight.
The arcane cannon had completed its charge. The giant had run into the perfect position, and the cannonfire struck it squarely in the head at that very moment. As the most destructive of all arcane weapons and one of the pinnacles of arcane technology, its fundamental flaws—slow charging, massive energy consumption, difficulty in movement, and severe aftereffects—had not been fundamentally improved. However, the technicians and craftsmen had achieved a crucial breakthrough: the arcane cannon's line of fire was no longer limited to the horizontal plane.
In other words, it no longer reduced the area directly in front of it to a wasteland; the raised barrel could now be aimed skyward.
Experiments had sufficiently determined the cannon's range, and Tashan provided precise calculations. Command had just warned the air force within the coverage area to evacuate. A silver bolt of lightning fired at a forty-five-degree angle, and the magic cannon effortlessly pierced the colossus's skull. This catastrophic demon perished instantly amid the roar of the cannon.
The demon's body would return to the Abyss—how wonderful.
The headless, mountain-sized corpse staggered; the mages' freezing spells struck it, successfully immobilizing it for a few seconds this time. The dead body held out for a few seconds before disintegrating, just like the other demons.
The necromancers let out sighs of regret; they were not yet capable of controlling such a massive corpse. It was like seeing a delicious meal but having no appetite to finish it—truly a pity.
"Time's up," Victor suddenly said amid the cheers of the crowd. "It's our turn."