The Demon Legion swept across like a locust plague.
Wherever they passed, forests burned, rivers steamed away, and the earth cracked black with scorch marks.
Ancient trees that had stood for centuries were ignited by the inferno demons' body heat, the flames spreading and turning once-lush woods into a hellscape of choking smoke and fire.
The demons stamped eastward over the scorched land, the entire legion like a red-hot blade, carving a widening black wound eastward across the green map of the Golden Radiance Valley.
Villages along the way had already received evacuation orders before the demons arrived, leaving only empty wooden cabins and livestock that couldn’t be taken. The demons stormed into empty houses, burned everything flammable, tore apart and devoured any living thing they could find, then pressed onward.
But in the forest depths away from the demons’ march, several silver-gray shapes were rapidly rolling among dead leaves and ferns.
To avoid detection, they rolled along the edge of the burning woods, dodging fallen trunks and flying embers, slipping into a nearby dungeon entrance and quietly sending word back to the Empire via the gel network.
.....
Two days had passed, and the Demon Legion had burned a seemingly endless charred path through the forest.
From above, the scorch mark looked like a knife-cut scar, sliced from the Emerald City across to the edge of the Dark Realm.
Smoke rose from the burn line and aggregated into a smoke wall hundreds of miles long, a rolling mass of gray-black fumes climbing into the sky and spreading into a vast pall that nearly obscured half the heavens.
The closer to the Dark Realm they got, the dimmer the light became, thin and murky, as if darkness itself descended with the demons’ advance.
Agrel rode his Shadow Owl behind the Demon Legion, brow furrowed.
He had witnessed the fall of the Emerald City, had seen that hundreds-of-miles scorch line carved into the land of the Golden Radiance Valley within two days.
Yet he still had not acted.
The more he watched Casaric, the less confident he felt about facing this legendary demon warlock alone.
Since leaving the Emerald City, the demon had not personally fought; the vanguard of inferno demons and horned demons cleared the way. Casaric merely sat on a black-iron war chariot drawn by four hellhounds, eyes closed as if conserving strength.
The less he moved, the harder it was for Agrel to read his hand.
So he turned his gaze eastward.
Under that darkened sky, at the fog-bound edge of the land, did the slimes’ master already know the demons were coming?
The slimes building in the Royal Capital, the slimes squatting by bonfires along the Dark Realm road—what sort of beings were the masters behind them?
Epic-tier monsters, or something else?
Agrel felt he should warn them, whoever they were; at least let them know a legion personally led by a legendary demon was approaching the border.
But he had barely flown a short distance when a dense buzzing rose from the exposed black-rocked stretch of the Dark Realm.
Agrel yanked the owl’s reins hard, the Shadow Owl screeched to a halt and hovered.
I followed the sound, pupils narrowing.
A dense cluster of white shapes burst from the gloom of the Dark Realm, so numerous they covered a patch of sky like a cloud.
When they dove through the remnants of daylight beneath the Demon Legion, Agrel finally made out what they were.
Poison-stinger Wasps.
Wasps smaller than his head, each not longer than a big forearm, white-and-yellow abdominal segments gleaming oily in the dim light. Their wings vibrated at a speed nearly invisible to the eye, and they plunged toward the Demon Legion like a sudden storm.
Their tail stingers curved up at the ends, each tip already condensed with dark red balls of mana.
The demons froze at that buzzing, fear showing across their faces.
The first few ranks of imps at the front halted, then retreated in panic.
They remembered that damned buzzing.
It meant a force more numerous than the undead: the Poison-stinger Wasps.
The wasps’ dive struck the demon front line within seconds.
Countless dark-red mana orbs shot from their tails like a torrential sideways downpour, slamming into the demon ranks.
When the mana orbs hit demon flesh they began to corrode; imps’ chitinous shells dissolved under vampire clan magic, the struck areas steaming and bubbling with black saliva and bloody blisters.
Harpy banshees shrieked and rose to intercept, but when they tried last time, their wings were corroded by the blood magic until huge holes appeared and they fell from the sky.
This time was no different.
The legion’s advance waited for no one. A rumbling came from the ground.
At the edge of the Dark Realm, huge silhouettes rose from the gloom.
First out was a silver oak.
Fardoern’s crown towered into the dark sky, silver leaves emitting a cold, star-like glow in the gloom.
Its steps were heavy rather than quick; when tree roots pulled up from the mud they brought clods of earth and broken stone, and slammed down with a dull thud that rocked the front rows of imps unable to keep their footing.
Behind Fardoern, more Arcane Ancient Tree warriors stepped forward. Their trunks were carved with runes; each leaf glowed, forming a moving wooden wall.
A Treant Warhost? And a silver oak?
Had the Ancient Tree Council intervened here?
Before Agrel could think it through, something even more unreal appeared.
A swarm of Slimes mounted on Beetles poured out from between the treants’ roots.
Each slime wore a tiny iron helmet, wielded a short little sword in its right hand—the blade only as long as a human dagger, but a formal weapon for a slime.
In their left hands they carried small round shields painted with the Slime Kingdom’s totem.
They charged with all the bravado of knights.
By human standards, a bunch of slimes bouncing on beetle backs, brandishing little daggers, might not seem “formidable,”
but perhaps by slime standards these squat, round fellows were true knights.
Agrel doubted whether those tiny blades could harm demon soldiers,
but he soon changed his mind.
The Slime Knights reached only to a horned demon’s ankle, but the beetles darted between demon legs with agility; when the horned demons swung their greatswords they cut only empty air.
Those small daggers were sharper than they looked and far stronger than Agrel imagined.
They cut through demon chitin without hindrance.
As the blades slashed ankles and Achilles tendons, black blood flew. With tendons severed and unable to bear weight, the horned demons dropped to one knee in agony; the battle turned overwhelmingly in the slimes’ favor.
And this was far from the full scale of the slime force.
Agrel watched draft animals dragging dozens of heavy cannon carriages out from behind the Treant Warhost.
Gunners that looked like slimes squatted on the cannons, with a couple of dwarf artisans carrying wrenches and spare bolts.
Even elven rangers rode out on white horses to encircle from both wings.
Hooves beat a brisk rhythm on the scorched earth, bowstrings snapped tight in mid-gallop; arrows sliced through smoke and precisely pierced little demons’ eye sockets.
Imps screamed and fell from low flight, crashing to the scorched ground and flailing, then a passing Slime Knight finished them with a neat thrust.
But Agrel felt even larger movements hidden within.
His legendary senses warned him something lay concealed in the Dark Realm’s gloom—something larger than the silver oak.
Its outline had not yet formed, but the magic field around it darkened the realm further, like ink seeping from an unseen source, blackening the sky.
The air thickened; even the owl’s wingbeats encountered extra resistance.
That oppressive feeling was like a genuine giant beast lurking in shadow, pressing a stone to the chests of even the legendary mage Agrel.
Under his gaze, Lizardfolk riders mounted on Dragon Beast Poison Wasps charged from the gloom.
Their mounts were several times larger than ordinary poison-stinger wasps, their wingbeats issuing low, whooshing sounds like small storms.
But they did not charge forward; they formed a semicircle, protecting something more important behind them.
Then he saw the true face of the giant.
Dark clouds were pushed aside from within; a pale blue light poured from the rent in the clouds, washing over the scorched earth and the demons’ upturned faces.
A massive silver bulwark thundered through the mist, slowly rising from the gloom amid lightning and thunder.
The Great Sky Oath.
Its lower half was a rounded hemisphere; the metal hull etched with flowing arcane runes, their glow a cold silver in the gloom.
Fifty Goblin Rippers’ barrels extended from gun ports along the fortress’ sides, aimed at the ground.
The enormous form advanced slowly, its shadow covering half the battlefield; even the four hellhounds pulling Casaric’s chariot gave uneasy low growls.
My God...
Agrel stared at the colossal leviathan flying overhead, stunned.
Such a magnificent alchemical construct before his eyes stirred emotions beyond words.
If he were an artificer, seeing this would drive him to rapture; this was the pinnacle of craftsmanship, an artwork so supreme.
Pinnacle.
He rarely used that word, but it was the most straightforward description in his mind.
Who could this mysterious force in the Dark Realm be? Had some legendary alchemist from the Dawnlands who had long retired moved northward?
Agrel ran through names of legendary alchemists he knew, finding none that fit.
He could not fathom how such exquisite artistry appeared in this savage land.
But he suddenly understood why the demons had been routed at the White Horse Royal Capital.
Against such a floating fortress, conventional siege warfare meant nothing. City walls were merely a slightly higher horizon; a legion was simply live target practice on the ground.
The Demon Legion could never contend with that.
This made him even more curious about the mysterious being that commanded those monsters.
He urged the owl higher to get a better vantage of the fortress’ deck edge.
He noticed Casaric’s gaze; the legendary demon warlock now stood on his black-iron chariot, head lifted, staring at the fortress’ deck.
Agrel could not read his expression, but Casaric’s clenched grip on his staff betrayed clear vigilance.
That strengthened Agrel’s suspicion.
There must be a major figure standing on that deck, someone even a legendary demon warlock took seriously.
A natural curiosity and a long-missing excitement rose in Agrel.
A meeting between legendary mages, even with differing stances, was a diplomatic occasion worth attention.
He imagined an old reclusive archmage on the deck, eccentric perhaps but learned, dressed in dark mage robes and clutching a jewel-inlaid staff, with a few apprentices following behind.
Thus he had the owl climb until level with the floating fortress.
Clouds around the hull were pushed aside by the leftover eddies of the magical engines, forming a ring of clear sky. Sunlight streamed through the rim, making the fortress’s silver shell gleam.
Agrel hovered a polite distance from the side of the fortress.
He turned his gaze to the deck, expecting to see that mysterious legendary mage standing at the bridge.
There were elves moving on the deck.
He saw several in moon-white robes stepping aside, and a blond woman in a silver dress standing with a cup of red tea, calm as if at a picnic.
Then he saw a slime wearing a crown and draped in a red cloak, hopping up to the railing amid a cluster of supportive slimes, squatting in the most prominent spot, locking eyes with the legendary demon warlock on the war chariot below.
Wait... a slime??
Agrel’s rising anticipation was instantly doused like a bucket of ice water.
He had considered countless possibilities, ruled out many options, yet fate seemed to be mocking him.
The least likely option—the absurd notion that he had earlier dismissed with a laugh—now squatted on the deck railing in a red cloak and crown, facing down a legendary demon warlock.
How could a slime stand against a legendary demon? He could not understand it.
Casaric, however, acted even more unexpectedly.
When the legendary demon warlock saw the slime on the deck, he did not sneer or show contempt; he immediately raised his staff.
The Dome of Life blossomed around the black-iron war chariot, enclosing him and the four hellhounds.
Agrel recognized the spell—the strongest defensive measure of a legendary warlock, creating an independent demiplane to isolate one’s body from the Material Plane.
It was not a simple defense; it effectively separated the caster from the Material Plane, making ordinary attacks difficult to breach.
But exceptions existed. If such a planar barrier were truly impenetrable, the Material Plane wouldn’t have so many rifts during the summer Magical Tides.
In theory it was simply a more stable planar barrier.
It seemed no attacks could reach outside of it, yet dealing with it was also straightforward.
Either collide with another demiplane spell, or assault it with overwhelming mana and force.
Both methods aimed to disturb the barrier’s stability, opening an etheric path into the unstable demiplane—akin to how planar rifts form.
Agrel had even seen legendary knights tear open planar rifts by hand, leaping into the ether and astral realms.
But to treat a slime with such caution—was that really necessary?
Casaric leaned on his Shadow Staff, standing atop the black-iron chariot, staring across the distance at Chen Yu on the deck.
He spread his arms and spoke. The demon language’s syllables were rough and hoarse, vibrating the air with a low, grinding hum.
“Slime King, I told you, we would meet again.”
“Surrender your soul to the Emperor. You should not be consigned with these lesser races. If you will it, you will command all demon legions and march with me into the Abyss.”
“As the Emperor’s right hand, you will gain a world far broader than this wasteland swamp.”
Everyone watched Chen Yu, waiting for his answer.
The red cloak behind Chen Yu fluttered slightly in the wind; he blinked his small eyes.
In truth, he hadn’t heard most of what Casaric said, and his demon speech was only half-baked.
“Blah-blah-blah, give me your crown and leave it here.”
Comments