He sneered that with only the dead Bronze Dragon behind him, there was no way he could stop this. With a massive roar, the dragon horde howled, space shattered further, and distant shapes rose from the darkness that were actually vertebrae. A colossal body like an ancient bronze statue, covered in rust and deathly stillness, began to move and rose behind the old man.
The two observers had already been Teleportation away in an instant. The voice mocked him again, telling him to run since he could not win and could not protect the Bronze Dragon. It asked why he would not flee and save his life.
Safas replied that he was simply filling in a hole left by his past mistake. He said he had regretted letting him in all these years, and that now he would fully make up for that error. The other answered with a roar and charged forward as the massive ritual Magic Array pressed down.
The dragon horde crazily plundered the countless Dragon Soul knowledge stored here. Beneath the wild and furious expression, there was a trace of fear that was hard to notice. It had to be done quickly.
As long as Elfido and Augustus could still hold on. Before that dragon arrived, he had to consume the Bronze Dragon.
The roar of killing shook the sky without pause, and severed limbs and spilled organs were flung upward before raining down over everyone on the battlefield. Below was a mass of Demonkind soldiers packed together like writhing ants, mixed with civilians and slaves of various races who were never meant to be soldiers. Screams, roars, and begging cries overlapped until it was hard to tell one voice from another.
Blades cut into flesh, blood sprayed, and dying howls echoed everywhere. Several factions were dragged into a war that was sliding into madness, where soldiers could no longer tell friend from foe and only swung their weapons at whatever moved. They were then cut down just as blindly by others in the chaos.
At the rear, the Mage Array throbbed with pain as it squeezed out Magic through desperate overuse, killing more stored memories to fuel itself. Enormous destructive Magic were dropped again and again, hitting both allies and enemies at the same time. No one cared anymore where the blasts landed.
Grotesque War Engine carved with blood runes and blasphemous rites spewed flames like they came from hell, smashing blackened craters across the battlefield. Each impact erased everything within reach, leaving only scorched ground behind. The air stank of smoke and burned flesh.
"Zhen Grayfang is completely insane, he actually used Greater Berserk Rite!" someone shouted. "We might have killed more of our own people than he has at this point!" The voice was full of anger and disbelief.
On another high level battlefield, the land had already been blasted into a web of ravines, with no trace of its original shape left. The sky burned with glaring light and the lingering outlines of massive spell structures. Power clashed there without restraint.
Among the besieging experts, curses flew as one forbidden ritual after another was thrown out. Blood Frenzy, Killing Urge, Flesh Sacrifice, Necromantic Enslavement were unleashed as if they cost nothing, openly treating people as expendable fuel. These techniques were piled together without hesitation.
Within Demonkind, such methods were not unusual, since they had invented them in the first place. What shocked everyone was seeing them stacked together and applied even to their own side. That crossed a line few were willing to cross.
It was not that Demonkind had any real bottom line, but even war needed a base to stand on. If everyone was used up, how long could the war even continue? That was the unspoken rule they usually followed.
"You dragged all the livestock and expendable material out of your territory, even nobles, wandering mercenaries, and slaves," someone shouted at him. "Aren't you afraid your entire domain will collapse after this war ends?" The accusation rang out over the battlefield.
Facing the question, Greyfang wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and forced a thin smile. "So what if it does?" he said. "As long as I win, that's enough."
"If I didn't do this," he continued, "what capital would I have to fight you people at all?" His voice was hoarse but firm.
Souls and Magic from fallen allies across the battlefield were being transferred to Greyfang through a secret ritual. He constantly radiated Magic and resentment, like a burning furnace that never cooled. The method damaged him badly, but it gave him terrifying combat power.
Relying on that cruelty, he had climbed from being a single Orcs to crushing a Troll and reaching his current position. The key was being ruthless. Being ruthless to others was easy, but being ruthless to oneself was far harder.
The battle had entered a situation no one had expected. The other territories had planned to strike while he was weak, kill this Gold Rank dragon, and then negotiate how to divide the spoils. They were even prepared to fight each other afterward if needed.
Instead, they were dragged into a filthy quagmire. Greyfang burned through lives without limit, pulling everyone into the mud of endless war. Huge numbers of non-soldier Demonkind were forced onto the battlefield and turned into raging monsters through rituals and secret arts.
By sheer mass alone, he managed to hold back the allied forces of several territories. Even as cannon fodder, these bodies could bury enemies under their numbers. Quantity itself became a weapon.
These people needed no supplies or long term resources, because no one expected them to survive. They were thrown into battle to kill, and their remaining corpses were used as materials for further casting. Death fed death without pause.
It was a perfect loop in a twisted sense, but the cost was that after the war, it was uncertain whether the territory could still be called a territory at all. No one else dared to do this, and no one else could endure such losses.
The leaders exchanged looks and nodded to each other. They decided to first kill off Greyfang and his top combat power, then clean up the lower battlefield. That was the only way out they could see.
"Deal with me first?" Greyfang snarled. "Go on, try it!" He grinned viciously and charged forward again, forcing them to stay locked with him. Betting everything on the lower battlefield was exactly his goal.
Yet a small doubt lingered in every powerful fighter's mind. The Heavenly King who was supposed to arrive here never showed up. That absence felt wrong.
Many high ranking Demonkind were also using this chance to test that Heavenly King, and even the Demon King behind him. Long ago, there was a legend among Demonkind that every so often, a demon god would choose one of them to become the Demon King, leader of all Demonkind. That Demon King would then select four Heavenly Kings who could wield the demon god's power.
Those blessed with divine strength stood far above all other Demonkind. They were powerful enough to force everyone else to bow their heads and obey. That was how the legend described them.
But times had changed. A thousand years had passed since the last Demon King appeared and was slain by the Chosen Hero. Only a few ancient survivors had ever seen such beings. To many of the younger generation, it was just a boring story, or something to sneer at, or something to witness out of curiosity.
After all, who would willingly accept more people standing above their head? That thought was shared by many on the battlefield.
"Since that's how it is, then die!" someone roared. None of them noticed that their eyes had begun to redden slightly. Aggressive emotions and the desire to fight were rising on their own, far beyond what was normal.
Even Greyfang, lost in the slaughter, failed to notice that his rituals were working far too well. Effects he had never intended were mixing together, slipping in unnoticed. The power was no longer fully under his control.
On the lower battlefield, blood deep enough to cover ankles slowly flowed across the ground. Black mist rose faintly from it as the souls of the dead drifted upward, then quietly merged into a vast cycle. Something unseen was turning.
The front lines advanced and collapsed again and again. Some forces had already broken off to fight on their own, and their eyes held more than calm focus. They did not realize why they alone seemed less affected by the frenzy of war.
The battlefield was so chaotic that, at a certain point, it began to strangely merge into a whole. From above, one could see spell positions, battle lines, and tangled groups of fighters forming faint lines and shapes. As the fighting intensified, these patterns grew clearer.
Those lines linked together, forming a massive Magic Array that covered the entire battlefield. It was complex, vast, and terrifying in scale. The war itself had become part of the ritual.
"Good," a voice murmured. "That's right. Kill." Blood, souls, and resentment sank into the land, where some bizarre existence devoured them without pause. It grew steadily, like an infant feeding.
Elfido smiled gently as he guided the dark forces, nourishing the existence sealed within the Iron Coffin. The faith-based sacrifice, amplified by Augustus's authority, had already spread across several surrounding territories. The scale was far beyond what it had been at the start.