The impact of the first Titan volley is a physical pressure that everyone feels in their teeth. The shimmering blue dome of the magical barrier ripples like a disturbed pond as massive trunks and boulders slam into it, held at bay by the frantic chanting of the mages below.
For the soldiers at the gates, the war has become a rhythmic, bloody grind. They stand in disciplined phalanxes, spears thrusting in unison through the gaps of their shields. Each thrust sends a geyser of green blood into the air, creating a mounting wall of Orc corpses that the horde has to climb over just to reach the steel.
Mikhail watches from his vantage point. He notes with professional detachment that keeping the Imperial Knights and the Golden Pike in separate parties was the right move—No friction, just pure efficiency.
At the heart of the frenzy, he sees Miyako. She's a whirlwind of white and silver. Her sword aura extends three feet past her blade, severing limbs and shattering armor before the Orcs can even realize they're in range. She's the Saintess he knew from the game.
Mikhail leans toward the Telepath—a pale, sweating mage standing beside him. He gestures toward Miyako. The Telepath closes his eyes, his brow furrowing with the effort of bridging the mental gap amidst the chaos.
In the heat of the fray, Miyako feels a familiar, cool presence in her mind. 'My love, it's your handsome and charming prince. You're doing great. I know you want this over, but hold on to your strength. It'll take a while.'
A small, private smile touches her lips as she parries a crude axe and takes the Orc's head in one clean motion.
"My Lord!" a mage captain screams from the ramparts, his nose bleeding from the strain. "The barrier is starting to weaken! Our mana reserves are hitting the red—we're running out of supplies!"
Mikhail's eyes darken. Phase one is over. The shield served its purpose. He turns to the telepath to signal the retreat of the vanguard parties to the safety of the wall.
But the words die in his throat.
SCHWING—CRACK!
A sound like the heavens tearing open fills the valley. A massive, iron-wrought spear, twenty feet long and pulsing with a sickly, dark-red light, streaks through the air. It doesn't bounce off the barrier. It pierces it. The spear remains lodged in the magical dome, the cracks in the barrier glowing with chaotic energy where the metal has bypassed the protection.
The mages below collapse, clutching their heads in agony as their circuit is forcibly breached.
Mikhail's heart hammers against his ribs. All this time, the Titans were just siege engines. Boulders. Trees. Raw force. He stares at the weapon. But that... that is a crafted spear. It's imbued with Magic Piercing.
A cold realization washes over him. In the game, the Orc Chieftain was a brute, a boss with a big hammer. But here, it's different.
"No... it can't be," Mikhail whispers to himself. "The Orc Chieftain isn't just a monster. He's a Weapon Master? A unique class of monster that can upgrade its army's weapons?"
If the enemy leader possesses the intelligence to use enchanted anti-magic artillery, the "Sentencing" has just become a desperate fight for survival.