"Fwoosh—BOOM!"
Just as Orsaga was boasting and shooting the breeze with his fellow genius teammates, a distinct sound caught his attention. He lifted his head.
Through the swampy muck above him, a massive sigil came into view.
It was the mark of the Demon Lord, Ignarok—the signal to initiate the assault on the front line.
"So, it's finally starting?"
It was something he had more or less expected.
From what he knew, over the past three months, another seven waves of demons had been transported here. If the battle didn't start soon, the place would be overflowing with demons in two months tops. By then, even with the pressure of contracts keeping things in check, the Abyssal creatures would likely descend into massive internal brawls just to vent, spiraling into self-inflicted chaos.
…Not that they weren't already infighting to begin with.
The clearest evidence of that lay in the remains of countless Lesser Demons who had been snacked on by higher-ranking ones. Only piles of bones remained—scattered and gnawed clean.
"It's finally starting, huh? But my strength's only about half restored."
Beside him, Malgrin stood up, frowning. "How much of your power have you guys recovered?"
Without turning his head, Orsaga replied casually, "About the same as you."
"Forty percent."
"Forty percent."
"Fifty percent…"
After hearing everyone's responses, Malgrin rubbed his chin and suggested, "Maybe we should wait until next time?"
With most of them only halfway recovered, the odds weren't exactly in their favor.
But Orsaga declined with a faint grin. "No need. I just want to stretch my legs a bit. After being stuck in here for three months, I'm bored out of my mind."
With him taking the lead, the rest of the demons immediately joined in with a roar of enthusiasm.
"Yeah, too boring!"
"Let's go out and kill to our heart's content!"
Being able to hold themselves back for three whole months had already pushed their limits.
Any longer, and they wouldn't be able to stand it.
Seeing his comrades so fired up, Malgrin, who had only brought it up on a whim, didn't insist. Instead, he nodded in agreement. "Alright then—let's go crash the party."
"Slaughter the natives!!"
"Souls! Souls!!"
"Hahaha…"
With a deafening explosion, a giant hole blasted open in the swamp ceiling above. Dozens of demons burst out, surging toward the direction marked by the sigil.
---
Henry Muir stood atop the fortress wall, gazing out at the massive symbol glowing in the sky. His brow furrowed slightly.
He had been stationed in this front line for decades. Naturally, he knew what that mark meant.
Ever since the demons began invading over a century ago, this world had seen the emergence of hundreds of Polluted Zones.
Unlike the previous internal conflicts of the Myling World—which at least held some restraint—the demons made no such distinctions. Whether it was commoners or nobles, to them, all were just prey. They never left survivors. They never negotiated.
When the demons first launched their surprise attack, over a dozen kingdoms were wiped off the map overnight. Billions died in the chaos.
In response to their relentless expansion, under the leadership of the gods, over a hundred front lines were established across the continent.
Countless races set aside old prejudices and buried ancient hatred, uniting for the first time in history to stand against a common foe.
Yet even so, the demons' assault drained a staggering amount of manpower and resources every single day.
Take this particular front line, for instance. Every few months, a demonic sigil would rise in the sky—heralding another wave of relentless assault. And every time, no matter how favorable the terrain, the defenders would suffer heavy casualties from the demons' frenzied onslaught.
And what made it worse—those demons who should have taken even heavier losses seemed endless. Reinforcements would teleport in like clockwork, with their numbers never diminishing. The tide of battle remained just as brutal, forcing even seasoned veterans to feel a growing sense of dread.
It was a feeling of helplessness. Of utter confusion.
As natives of the Myling World, they simply couldn't comprehend it. Why were these creatures so insane? So utterly unafraid of death? Why did they seem to multiply endlessly, like some kind of monstrous pestilence? Even cockroaches didn't breed like this.
'We kill a wave, and another takes its place. The more we kill, the more show up. What are they, grown from the ground?'
It wasn't just Henry—most of the worlds suffering under demonic invasion shared this same frustration.
Enemies that could never be fully exterminated.
Mad dogs, riled up at the scent of blood.
Henry knew full well—if not for the fact that these demons were seriously unhinged, constantly screwing up at critical moments, and sometimes even killing their own more zealously than their enemies—his front line might've fallen long ago.
As he watched the rapidly approaching demon tide, he let out a deep sigh. Despite everything, he still couldn't fully understand—how could such a chaotic, deranged species be so powerful? How could they accumulate such terrifying numbers?
From his perspective, they should've long since wiped themselves out through sheer infighting.
"Maybe… maybe they really do grow from the ground?" he muttered, half-joking, half-serious.
Still pondering that thought, he turned to his subordinates and barked, "Activate all outer-layer defensive enchantments. Pay special attention to the underground sectors—we almost got tunnelled through last time!"
"Understood!"
Watching his men rush off and the soldiers lining the walls staring nervously at the incoming tide, Henry let out another sigh and whispered a silent prayer in his heart:
"May the gods watch over us once more…"
---
As he moved within the demon tide and approached the front line, Orsaga could feel the effects of the Polluted Zone rapidly weakening. The world's suppressive force was steadily growing stronger.
Many demons stumbled as their movements faltered, but with the horde pressing in from behind, they had no choice but to grit their teeth and charge forward.
The first to respond were the fortress defenses.
Atop the bastion, a large crystal embedded at its peak flashed with a brilliant light.
Then—whoosh!
A massive beam of light, several meters wide and tens of kilometers long, erupted forth.
It was like a divine sword of light, wielded by an unseen hand, slashing straight through the advancing demonic horde with unmatched momentum.
One towering demon—an abomination with a hundred arms—stood tall, showing no intention of retreating.
Spotting a nearby Serpent Demon off-guard, it yanked out the creature's spine and wielded it like a blood-soaked whip, striking directly at the oncoming beam.
BOOM!
A violent explosion rocked the battlefield, kicking up a cloud of dust hundreds of meters high!
At the point of impact, the weaker demons were flung aside like rag dolls.
The direct clash caused the light beam to visibly dim, while the hundred-armed demon lost more than a dozen of its limbs and had most of its makeshift weapon vaporized.
It was a ghastly sight.
But despite such grievous wounds, its aura didn't waver. On the contrary, it grew even more frenzied and excited.
As dark energy surged across its body, the severed arms began to regrow—sprouting like bamboo after the rain. In mere minutes, it was back to its full monstrous form.
From the distance, Orsaga observed the scene, calmly calculating whether he could withstand a blow like that.
Moments later, he arrived at an answer—and a smile crept across his face.
___
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