Chapter Fifty-six: The Final Moment

The collapse of a section of the city wall triggered a chain reaction unfavorable to us: more and more enemy forces within the city surged with wild abandon against the defensive line, forcing our troops to retreat step by step. Finally, atop one of the towers, the flag of the Continental United Army was torn down and replaced with the black nine-star royal banner of the Apocalypse Empire—a symbol of terror and destruction—signifying that our enemies had fully occupied a segment of the wall. Soon after, the flags atop the second and third towers were replaced as well. The portion of the wall fallen into enemy hands grew wider and wider, and before long, we were left with only four or five sections near the city gate to defend, and even those seemed unable to hold for much longer.

At that moment, a massive, uniquely designed battering ram was pushed forward from the Apocalypse Empire's formation. It was a wooden siege engine, its base lined with wheels and its body covered in thick layers of hide armor. Over a hundred powerful demons were concealed beneath the armor, pushing it forward with deliberate determination. A colossal log, fixed to the vehicle as a battering ram, was sharpened at the end facing us. I could not imagine where they had found such a huge piece of wood—it seemed as though it had once been the life tree that supported an elven city. Only such a tree, rich with immense magic and vibrant life force, could grow to such proportions.

With the wall breached, the battering ram, though slow, approached the city gate unhindered by our catapults, which had been destroyed. The tremendous ram struck the gate, producing muffled, ominous sounds—each blow resounding like a funeral bell, reverberating in our hearts. The gates of Stormcloud Fortress were sturdy, but even they could hardly withstand such brute force. Each strike cost it hundreds of durability points. At most, in another quarter of an hour, our gate would fall.

Many tried to attack the battering ram, hoping it would be destroyed before the gate was breached, as had happened with previous siege engines. But this was impossible; the ram was built with despairing strength. Not only was its defense astonishingly high, but its green durability bar stretched endlessly, far beyond the eye’s reach. Thousands of points lost meant nothing to it—if you weren’t watching closely, you’d hardly notice any change. This was an indestructible war machine, and we were utterly powerless against it.

The scales of victory had already begun to tilt toward our enemy. And this battering ram was like a heavy weight placed onto the Apocalypse Empire’s side, hastening our defeat.

In contrast to the grim situation, I remained ever active on the battlefield, displaying an extraordinary valor that even shocked myself. Unconsciously, I had slain over twenty mercenary Voidwalkers from the Apocalypse Empire, and the number of ordinary native soldiers I killed exceeded fifty, with the count still rising. The fever of battle had long robbed me of calm judgment—I could not remember how many lives I had taken. It was only Phiin who reminded me: my “Battle Record” section in the magic notebook kept track of my kills.

Unlike my comrades’ desperate struggles, I faced little real trouble. Aside from my first encounter with the enemy Voidwalker, the vampire assassin Snake Rain Immortal, who placed me in danger, not a single enemy posed a true threat. The reason was simple, one that had affected this bloody battle from the outset and even saved my life at a critical moment: “Lag”—a mysterious, omnipresent, and vast negative status effect.

For a battle warrior of my level—forty-five—those native soldiers below level forty were no concern. If needed, I could drive off six or seven, even more, single-handedly. My true opponents were the mercenary Voidwalkers, those who had crossed level forty and successfully changed professions. Only they had the power to threaten my safety, requiring my vigilance.

But “Lag,” this widespread negative effect spell, had destroyed them all. On the wall, every Voidwalker—not just the enemy’s, but ours as well—had fallen into hysterical madness. At times, they stood frozen in place, unmoved no matter how loudly cursed or shouted at; at others, they would suddenly teleport dozens of paces away—some even instantaneously appeared below the wall, reduced to misshapen piles of flesh. The situation was worsening: the more people crowded atop the wall, the more severely they lagged, and the longer they remained stiff.

To me, these lagging Voidwalkers were even easier to deal with than the fragile native soldiers. The soldiers, though low-level, at least could fight back and dodge. If they gathered in sufficient numbers, they would require some effort. But the Voidwalkers often became like docile, humanoid targets, allowing me to stab them through, sword after sword, without struggle or even a cry of pain—let alone resistance. I felt as though I was no longer fighting but harvesting, like a farmer reaping his fields. The only difference between us was that they harvested the grain they sowed, while I harvested lives—the lives of others.

Sometimes this harvest was interrupted by unexpected episodes. For instance, when I approached an undead mage, curiosity compelled me to lower my sword and examine them closely. I wanted to determine, theoretically, whether this person, already dead, was male or female—their body wrapped in a plain, unisex “Mage’s Robe.” Beneath the pale blue magical robe, a pile of polished bones was all that was left. Every muscle and soft tissue had decayed completely, the wild and tangled hair barely reaching past the shoulders—a length common to both men and women. Until she overcame the “Lag” status and uttered a sound, it was impossible to judge her gender.

It was her fingers that resolved my confusion. Only three fingernails remained on her left hand, dyed pink with some plant sap and adorned with small peach-colored blossoms, even decorated with glittering fragments of cheap minerals. I could not understand why someone reduced to a skeleton would bother with such pointless adornment. Surely only a woman would waste such effort on her few remaining nails—regardless of species or even whether she was still alive.

Much to my embarrassment, at the very last moment, this undead mage managed to briefly escape the “Lag” effect and move slightly. You see, in my curiosity to determine her gender, I had lifted her robe—swearing by the glory of the Supreme God, I saw nothing but bones. She seemed to realize this, letting out a sharp, grating shriek and clutching the robe tightly around herself as if afraid I meant her harm. She gave up her rare chance for action and was immediately petrified again by “Lag.”

Who the hell would want to look? Is a pile of rotting bones beautiful? But for curiosity’s sake, I took a peek at this utterly shapeless figure—even if she invited me, I would never have glanced at it otherwise.

I suppose she was a freshly turned undead. She had not yet adapted to her new existence, still retaining some human instincts. Did she not realize she was now merely bones? No matter how beastly or shameless I might be... honestly, who could do anything with a pile of bones?

...Well... I must admit, I cannot deceive myself. All these words are just excuses to comfort myself. No matter what, lifting a woman’s robe in public—exposing her body, or whatever was left—can never be considered a glorious deed. My cheeks flushed red, my heart raced, and guilt surged endlessly within me. To avoid embarrassment and slightly ease my conscience...

...I dispatched the undead mage swiftly, sending her soul back whence it came, then hastily looted a handful of copper coins from her corpse—even in death, she gripped her robe tightly, wrapping herself as modestly as a saint from scripture. I fled the scene in a panic. Judging by my expression, no one would believe I killed her; it seemed more as if she defeated me.

I hope she forgets this unpleasant episode in the cycle of death and rebirth, may her soul rest in peace, and—most importantly—may she not have glimpsed my name in her confusion. Supreme God preserve this! As I hurriedly left the scene, I prayed fervently in my heart.

...

No matter how valiantly I fought, I alone could not withstand the onslaught of thousands. Despite my desperate efforts, the collapse of the entire front was inevitable. As the sky cleared, the rain ceased, the crimson sun sank behind the endless peaks of the Uqzig Mountains, and the blood-red clouds were slowly devoured by the encroaching dusk, the enemy’s massive battering ram completed its task, breaking open the grand gates of Stormcloud Fortress. Ten minutes later, the last Continental United Army flag atop the gate tower was lowered and replaced with the enemy’s standard.

With the gate fallen, the entire wall was in enemy hands. This meant our Voidwalker warriors could no longer revive at the cemetery near the walls; all reborn souls would now be forced to gather in the inner city’s mausoleum.

All was lost. We had no choice but to abandon the walls and retreat into the inner city. This was the limit of our withdrawal. Colonel Rayleigh now stood in the command post atop the inner city walls. If he fell here, we would lose the battle.

The enemy paused not for a moment, following us like a surging tide of steel, crashing against the inner city’s walls. There was nothing left to stop them—in the previous battle for the outer city, our defense force had been annihilated. Now, only two thousand of the Colonel’s guard remained at our side. These were level forty-two and forty-three soldiers, far superior to the previous defenders, but their strength alone could not stand against enemies dozens of times their number. The mercenary Voidwalkers had become the main force on the battlefield, scattered throughout the inner city, fighting fiercely against the advancing enemy, simply to delay the inevitable.

Perhaps because the numbers in the inner city had greatly diminished, the “Lag” effect on the Voidwalkers eased considerably. Many could now fight with their full strength and relative freedom. Though occasional stiffness still occurred, compared to their previous immobility, they were now almost in paradise.

Only as the battle neared its end did its true brutality reveal itself.

Some might think that thousands of wooden, dull native soldiers, swinging their weapons with primal, savage force, creating death in droves, would be spectacle enough. But only when you witnessed it firsthand would you realize: compared to the slaughter between Voidwalkers, that clumsy, foolish melee could hardly be called “combat.”

The Voidwalkers fought differently, choosing their opponents, tactics, timing, and skills with expertise. They were not limited to frontal assaults—sometimes they would coordinate to gang up, other times they would selectively retreat. Their creativity allowed them to employ their abilities to the fullest; every bit of magic or battle energy was efficiently converted into lethal force upon their foes. Equipment, traps, cunning—they used every trick available. In their hands, ugly brawls became dazzling performances, creating many unexpected kill scenarios:

A demon warlock had just rushed into the inner city. Before he could cast a spell, three assassins surrounded him, their daggers and short swords reflecting his desperate expression. Under the assault of these professional killers, he had no chance to breathe. His life decreased rapidly, the blood splatter barely keeping pace with their swift strikes.

Five seconds—at most only five seconds—and a life was extinguished. It was the longest five seconds I had ever experienced. Never before had I imagined such a fleeting moment could turn a living soul into a cold corpse.

...

A dwarven shadow rogue lured his opponent—a troll mage—into a trap. The troll was frozen stiff by an icy blast, his movements sluggish. As the dwarf prepared to exploit his advantage, the troll mage used “Teleportation” to escape the trap, not only saving his life but widening the distance and reversing his disadvantage, finishing the rogue with a “Ball Lightning” spell.

...

A human bard and a dark elf druid tangled together. The bard constantly changed tools—short sword, six-stringed lute, tambourine, accordion, trumpet, dagger—displaying the bard’s keen observation and adaptability to the fullest. Various instruments and weapons flowed skillfully through his hands, more like a juggling performance than a battle. Songs of war poured from his instruments and mouth, making himself more agile and powerful, weakening his foe, and affecting all allies and enemies nearby, striving to gain every possible advantage.

The dark elf druid, in turn, demonstrated a nimble and adaptive fighting style. As the bard’s songs changed, he shifted his forms to minimize their detrimental effects. When the bard played the “Melody of Frailty,” he transformed into a giant black bear to raise his health limit. When the bard sang the “Song of Steel” to boost defense, he became a swift tiger to increase his attack power. When struck by the “Chains of Binding,” the druid reverted to his elven form, keeping distance, casting nature magic to fight and restore his lost vitality.

...

Yes, this was Voidwalker combat—a collision of countless possibilities, making each life-and-death struggle full of unpredictable variables. One could hardly predict when a fight would end; sometimes it lasted long, sometimes it ended in an instant.

No matter how we fought, we could not turn the tide. The absolute numerical advantage allowed the enemy to overwhelm us, slowly consuming our defenses and forcing us back. When their forces breached the last stretch of the inner city wall, threatening our command post, a passionate voice suddenly rose behind us, echoing in our ears:

“Today, we stand shoulder to shoulder not for victory, but to seek freedom and dignity for life. Warriors, follow me—let our souls ignite the fighting spirit of the Farvi Continent!”

With this rousing cry, Colonel Rayleigh appeared at our side. This level sixty paladin, his left hand gripping a massive, golden tower shield and his right hand holding a longsword, strode boldly toward the surging enemy horde. The battle had reached its final hour!