The dense night mist was torn apart by countless lights.
The fertile soil of the Fertile Plain is now soaked with blood and oil, leaving deep grooves in its wake, like the earth bearing bleeding wounds as the Golden Fang Alchemy Legion retreated.
The goblins hurriedly withdrew.
Hunger made their sharp ears droop powerlessly, and their once shiny goggles were veiled with a haze of despair.
Ahead lies the undulating border mountains, whose jagged rocks pierce the night sky like the fangs of giant beasts, appearing perilous and ominous.
It was both the escape route for the goblins and the carefully selected slaughter site by the Molten Iron Tribe, purposely guiding the Alchemy Legion closer.
As the Alchemy Legion set foot on the border, a deep rumble akin to rolling thunder came from behind.
It was not the heavy footsteps of the golems, but rather the frenzied drumming of countless hooves and claws striking the rocks.
