Chapter 156: Chapter 155. The Continent That Fight Back
"Magic isn’t supposed to hurt us!" one of the Calonian orcs bellowed, panic cracking through his guttural roar as another wave of flame tore through his ranks.
Leonhart heard it clearly and froze mid-swing. The orc’s words rang in his mind as plainly as Kaelindor’s common tongue.
He stared at the creature in disbelief, his gryphon banking sharply under him as instinct took over and his blade still found flesh. But his thoughts lagged behind the battle for a heartbeat too long.
"I understood that." Moments later, another realization struck him even harder.
He had been talking earlier to Alariel, the elf queen, without even thinking about it. And the elf queen had responded immediately. No hesitation. No confusion. He wasn’t supposed to understand the tongue of Aerthysia’s high elves.
The odds of Kaelindor, Aerthysia, and Calonian sharing a common language were near nonexistent.
Leonhart cleaved an orc from shoulder to hip, landed on a broken mast, and finally turned his head toward Red, who was fighting at his side with effortless precision, crimson magic lacing through his strikes.
Red caught the look on Leonhart’s face and smirked, understanding the confusion even as he incinerated another charging orc. "That’s the empress’s power, Your Grace," Red said casually, as if explaining the weather.
Leonhart blinked. "The empress’s... power?"
"Yes," Red replied, deflecting a heavy axe and shattering it mid-air. "Language is a spirit-bound concept. Territory, intent, meaning. The spirits unify it under her command. That’s why we can understand them perfectly."
Leonhart cut down another orc, slower now, eyes narrowed. "So... other than demons..."
"Only those wielding spirit authority can do this," Red finished. "Spirit Kings, their bearers, our empress."
Leonhart barked out a laugh, sudden, sharp, and almost feral, as the realization struck him and adrenaline surged anew. His gryphon wheeled beneath him, talons slicing the air as flames and steel clashed below.
"So that’s why I can understand these bastards," he said, his voice carrying easily over the roar of battle. He bared his teeth in a grin that promised nothing good. "So tell me—can they understand me too?"
"They can," Red replied smoothly, cutting down an orc beside him without even turning his head. A knowing smile curved his lips, sharp with amusement. He already knew exactly where the battle was going.
Leonhart’s grin widened, slow and dangerous. "Oh, good."
He straightened in the air, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up before a friendly spar. Around him, the Kaelindorian mana surged. His blood sang with it. Below, the Calonian orcs are still trying to reorganize, roaring orders that dissolve into chaos as their bodies grow heavier, their movements sluggish, and their confidence cracks under the attacks.
The Calonians had always believed themselves untouchable. Magic, to them, was a nuisance at best, sparks and light that broke uselessly against their hides. Steel fared no better.
Their skin is thick, layered like bark and stone, and hardened through generations of conquest. That belief was what had allowed them to crush Aerthysian ports and houses again and again, forcing an entire continent to pour every last resource into nothing but survival.
But Kaelindor shattered that certainty in a single breath. Blades from this land didn’t glance off. They bit. They carved through muscle and bone as if the orcs were made of nothing more than soft meat.
Magic didn’t scatter, it sank into their bodies, detonating from within, ripping them apart with terrifying precision. Fire burned hotter than any forge they had known. Wind struck like solid walls. Water crushed, dragged, and drowned without mercy.
The Calonians roared in confusion as much as pain. Their certainty cracked with every fallen body, with every scream torn from throats that had never known fear. This isn’t how battles were supposed to go.
They should be the ones who are charged. They should be the ones who are overwhelmed. To be struck back, to be overpowered, is something their kind had never learned to process.
Panic began to spread, subtle at first, then sharp and contagious. Formations dissolved into chaos. Orders are shouted and ignored. Warriors swung wildly, only to find their weapons stopped midair by an invisible force or shattered by blows they never saw coming.
The races on this continent don’t fight like prey, they fight like a monster defending its domain. Leonhart leaned forward, voice booming, carried by mana and wind alike.
"Oi! You ugly sacks of meat!" he shouted cheerfully, waving one massive arm. Several orcs snapped their heads up in shock, yellow eyes widening as comprehension dawned. "Yeah, I’m talking to you. Bet you’re surprised, huh? Didn’t think we couldn’t understand you!"
A few orcs snarled, spittle flying, rage flaring as they realized they’re being mocked in their own tongue. They did not know how to deal with other races that could fully understand them.
Leonhart laughed again, louder this time, the sound raw and feral, carried by the wind and the clash of steel. "What’s wrong?" he shouted, voice booming across the battlefield. "Thought magic couldn’t hurt you?"
He cracked his neck once, muscles swelling beneath his skin as he drew his weapon. Veins stood out along his arms, his stance widening as Kaelindor’s mana poured into him like wildfire. "You are weak," he continued, grinning wide, teeth bared. "The weakest race I’ve ever fought. I don’t even have to fight you with my weapon! Let’s fight bare-handed!"
The orcs heard every word and roar, hearing every insult. Their faces twisted, first in confusion, then in fury. This is wrong. Everything is wrong. Magic is supposed to slide off their hides. Blades are supposed to glance away. Fear was meant to belong to their enemies, not coil in their own chests. Yet here they are, watching their kin burn, split, and crushed beneath powers they can’t comprehend.
Red fought a few steps away, his movements looked slow but were actually lethal, his eyes flicking briefly toward Leonhart. He barely held back a grin. There was one rule Roxanne had drilled into every elite knight in Borgia, one rule that never changed no matter the enemy: "Never let yourself be ruled by emotion. Never answer a taunt with anger."
Leonhart’s words hit deeper than any blade. The orcs roared back, voices thick with rage, abandoning formation, what little of it they had, to charge blindly. Their swings grew wider and heavier, fueled by fury rather than discipline. Axes came down with brutal strength, and clubs smashed into shields with reckless force, but there’s no rhythm to it. No cohesion.
They’re angry. And angry enemies are predictable enemies. Red ducked beneath a wild swing and drove his spear up through an orc’s jaw, the body collapsing in a heavy heap. He twisted the weapon free and pivoted smoothly, fire magic flaring along its edge as another orc rushed him, bellowing incoherently. The flames pierced flesh as easily as air.
Nearby, the beastmen held the front line, their bodies glowing faintly with Kaelindor’s mana. Claws tore through thick hides. Fangs found throats. Gryphons screamed overhead, diving in brutal arcs to rake and scatter the orc ranks below. Every strike landed true.
The demons behind them chanted in low, resonant tones, spells threading through the battlefield like invisible veins. Their magic doesn’t explode wildly; it pierces. It crushed lungs, shattered bones, and turned confidence into terror.
Above them all, Roxanne moved like a living calamity. Her crimson blade rose and fell, each swing claiming lives by the dozen. Fire followed her strikes, curling and snapping as if alive, answering her will alone. Orcs tried to roar at her, tried to charge above the sky, and tried to lift their weapons.
They died before they could even leap into the air.
Leonhart cleaved through another pair, laughing as blood sprayed across his armor. "Come on!" he shouted again, taunting, provoking, and enjoying it. "Is this all Calonia has? You chased seven ships with this?"
The orcs screamed back, blind with fury, rushing faster and harder, desperate to silence him. Red exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with amusement.
Roxanne descended like a falling star, letting her body move by her instinct. Her blade carved through the air, and fire followed, she can see Afrit’s power following her. A second ship split apart from bow to stern, the deck collapsing inward as if cleaved by an invisible god. Orcs were thrown screaming into the sea, their bodies snapping against burning wreckage before sinking beneath the waves.
Ashkareth moved next. The demon duke swept forward, crimson sigils igniting across his arms. With a single gesture, a barrage of compressed hellfire tore through the third vessel.
It collapsed. Wood imploded, iron warped, and the orcs inside were crushed together in a screaming mass before the ship folded into itself and vanished beneath the surface.
Leonhart is already laughing again. He launched himself from his gryphon, landing squarely on the deck of the fourth ship with a thunderous crack. The wood splintered under his feet. Orcs rushed him from all sides, axes raised, mouths foaming.
He met them head-on. His blade moved too fast to follow. One swing, three bodies fell, sliced cleanly in half. Another head flew, thick black blood spraying across the deck like spilled oil.
The orcs’ hides, once proud and impenetrable, parted easily under Kaelindor-forged steel, their supposed immunity nothing more than a lie they had told themselves for too long. Magic rained down around Leonhart.
Demonic bolts punched straight through torsos. Spirit-infused arrows pinned orcs to their own masts. The Borgia elite advanced in perfect formation, shields locked, blades rising and falling with mechanical precision. Every step forward was measured. Every strike was fatal.
The sea began to change color. Black blood spread across the waves, thick and viscous, clinging to floating corpses and shattered planks. The smell of iron and rot rose into the air, mingling with smoke and burning pitch. Screams echoed, then cut short, one by one, until only the sounds of battle remained.
Another ship burned.
Then another.
One Calonian vessel tried to turn, sails catching wind in a desperate attempt to flee. Roxanne flicked her wrist. A crescent of fire sliced through the mast, igniting the rigging in an instant. The ship veered, collided with its sister vessel, and both went down together, dragged under by the weight of their dead.
Panic finally took hold. The remaining orcs screamed orders, voices cracking. They had never learned how to retreat. Never learned how to defend. Their doctrine had always been simple, charge, overwhelm, consume.
But Kaelindor isn’t a land that bends to foreign will. It fought back.
By the time the last Calonian ship began to sink, the sea had gone eerily quiet. The roar of battle faded, replaced by the crackle of lingering fire and the slow, hollow creak of broken hulls drifting apart.
Black, viscous blood stained the waves, spreading in thick veins across the water before dissolving into the depths. Orc bodies floated lifelessly among shattered planks and torn sails, their fury extinguished along with their breath.
Some had fallen screaming, cleaved cleanly in half by blades they once believed could never pierce their hides. Others had burned from the inside out as magic tore through skin, muscle, and bone, violating every certainty the Calonians had carried for generations.
A few had tried to flee, only to be dragged under by the knight who was waiting by the sea surface, above it all, Roxanne hovered in silence.
Her wings are half-folded now, vast and dark against the dimming sky. Her crimson blade hung loosely in her hand, black blood dripping steadily from its edge and vanishing into the ocean below.
Not a single orc ship remained intact. Eight fleets—two thousand warriors—reduced to wreckage and corpses. And Roxanne slowly turned back to her humanoid figure, such a majestic sight to see.
The battle had lasted four hours.
Four relentless hours of screaming steel, shattered bone, and mana screaming back at those who dared trespass. Yet among Kaelindor’s forces, the cost was minimal. Some bear wounds, burns, gashes, and broken armor, but none are fatal.
Roxanne’s gaze swept across the battlefield, cold and unreadable. "This," she said calmly, her voice carrying effortlessly across the water and the ruined ships, "is why you do not invade another continent."
She raised her sword high, and they could hear the winning roars of the Kaelindor warriors. Kaelindor answered those who challenged it, and she is their emperor.
Far away, near the safety of the island, the Aerthysian ships had come to a complete halt. Elves and humans crowded the decks, gripping railings, staring out across the sea with wide eyes and trembling hands. They stopped themselves from docking at the island and watched the battle happening in real time.
They had watched it all.
Two hundred warriors, demons, beastmen, werewolves, and mixed bloods had annihilated two thousand Calonian orcs as if it were something easy. It was as if the outcome had never been in doubt. Even magic, which the orcs had mocked and dismissed, had torn them apart like fragile prey.
Alariel hovered above her people, her chest tight, her heart still racing. Horror and awe twisted together inside her. The result isn’t just strength. Whatever they have in this continent is a domination born of harmony between the ruler, the living beings, and their land.
