Chapter 516: Chapter 516: Rivers Of Blood
The pass loosened even more as the bodies were crushed into pulp, allowing more warriors to squeeze forward.
A Zerith layer 2 had finally managed to climb over the pile, his venomous claws extended excitedly.
Sol grabbed its throat, lifted it off the ground, and drove the sword through its chest, the high-frequency edge liquefying everything inside.
The body was thrown back into the horde like garbage.
The slaughter was relentless. The pass had become a meat grinder. The screams never stopped. The blood never stopped flowing. The stench of death filled the air so thickly it was almost impossible to breathe.
Sol stood in the middle of it all, his black armor now completely drenched in blood, his expression calm and cold as he continued his indiscriminate slaughter.
The trap had worked perfectly.
The Coalition army was destroying itself in the narrow pass, and Sol was the butcher at the end of the line.
The Golden Silver pool inside Sol’s chest hummed with satisfaction as it absorbed the fresh essence from every kill. Each Layer 2 and Layer 3 soul fed the molten liquid, making it denser, warmer, and more powerful. The energy circulated through his body like liquid starlight, strengthening his foundation with every death.
The pass was now a nightmare of blood and meat.
The narrow corridor was so clogged with corpses that the rear warriors had to climb over the growing mountain of bodies to reach him.
Sol of course, wasn’t gonna give them the chance. His blade flashed again and again, cutting through necks, splitting torsos, and severing limbs with effortless precision.
The screams never stopped.
The blood never stopped flowing.
The stench of opened bowels and spilled guts was suffocating. The heat of the sun baked the carnage, turning the pass into a steaming, disgusting slaughterhouse. The ground was so soaked with blood that it squelched underfoot. Limbs and heads piled up like discarded trash. The walls of the pass were painted red, dripping with gore.
The Coalition commanders at the rear finally realized what was happening.
"Stop pushing!" one roared, but it was too late. The ones in front were already dead or dying, and the ones behind kept shoving forward, driven by rage and the commanders’ earlier orders.
The sapphire blade didn’t stop moving for a single second. Sol took another step forward, his boots sinking into the thick, warm mud made of blood and crushed bone.
The pass had become so slippery that any normal warrior would have lost their footing instantly, but Sol’s body was still effortless, his balance rooted deep into the stone floor by his spirit’s attributes.
Every time the Dreadwing Blade whistled through the dark, another line of flesh vanished.
A cluster of four Marauders tried to create a wall. They were big brutes, their bodies covered in thick plaster and heavy leather hides, and they tried to wedge their shoulders together to push Sol back by sheer mass. They didn’t even try to swing their stone axes; there simply wasn’t room in the cramped stone chute. They just wanted to run him over.
Sol didn’t give them an inch. He threw his left shoulder forward, his black Rockhorn carapace slamming directly into the chest of the middle brute.
CRUNCH.
The raw impact broke the man’s ribs instantly, driving the bone fragments straight into his lungs. The force of the strike was so massive that it pushed the entire four-man line backward by two paces, causing the warriors behind them to trip and stumble into a messy heap.
Before the fallen brutes could even gasp for air, Sol’s blade flicked out three times in a short, tight triangle.
First strike sliced cleanly through two necks on the left, sending both heads bouncing into the slate walls.
Second strike split a makeshift leather vest down the middle, spilling hot insides onto the white gravel.
Third strike drove straight through the skull of the last standing brute, the sapphire edge dissolving the bone like soft clay.
The fresh essence rushed straight into Sol’s chest pool, the molten liquid beneath his ribs throbbing with a hot, hungry rhythm.
The more he killed, the lighter his body felt, and the more fluid his movements became.
He wasn’t even using complex forms; he was just walking and clearing the path like a farmer cutting down high weeds in a field.
Further back in the column, the mindless rage of the Coalition horde was finally starting to crack.
The warriors in the mid-ranks couldn’t see Sol through the thick dust and the high walls, but they could smell the massive wave of blood and opened bowels washing down the stone chute.
They could see the constant, terrifying rain of severed limbs, broken spears, and pulped chunks of meat flying backward over the heads of the front line.
More importantly, the ground beneath their boots had turned into a literal river of red grease.
"Hold! Hold the line!" a Layer 3 Marauder sub-captain bellowed from the center of the press. He was a tall, ugly brute with long tusks growing out of his lower jaw, and he was desperately trying to plant his heavy legs to stop the forward push. "The front is gone! Stop shoving, you stupid bugs!"
But his shouts were completely swallowed by the chaotic screeches of the Zerith stalkers behind him. The lanky roaches couldn’t see the slaughter either; their faces were spinning wildly, tasting the scent of dying captains ahead, which only triggered their primitive survival instincts.
They panicked, trying to scramble backward or climb up the smooth slate walls to get away from the death stench.
The entire army was a total mess.
The rear wanted to run away, the middle was trying to halt, and the front lines were still being violently shoved straight into Sol’s sapphire blade by the sheer momentum of the thousands behind them.
In this chaos, Sol caught the Layer 3 marauder shouting orders through the clearing smoke.
The brute was shouting wildly while trying to pull a heavy stone club up.
Suddenly his eyes wide with a sudden, gut-wrenching terror as he realized the black death was coming straight for him.
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