Chapter 663 - 662- The Massacre on the Blood Field

Chapter 663: Chapter 662- The Massacre on the Blood Field

"She’s not even using incantations!" the other mage yelled. His hands were shaking. His staff was splintered. "She’s — wordless! Silent! She’s casting nine-circle formations without a single spoken word! That’s — that’s legendary-class! That’s beyond legendary! That’s—"

"Inexhaustible," the first mage whispered. "Her mana is inexhaustible. It’s not dropping. It’s not even flickering. She’s maintaining hundreds of active circles and her mana pool isn’t diminishing at all—"

The second volley fell.

SHHHHHHHHHH—!! CRACK CRACK CRACK—!!

Another two thousand. The blades found their targets between the gaps of armor, the seams of helmets, the soft tissue of throats and armpits and groins. The soldiers who had raised their shields found the blades passing through the metal. The soldiers who had raised their swords found their arms separated from their shoulders.

"RETREAT! RETREAT TO THE—"

"There’s nowhere to retreat to!" someone screamed. "She’s ABOVE us! The circles are EVERYWHERE—!"

A captain — a veteran of fifteen campaigns — gathered twenty men. The best soldiers in the camp. Swordsmen. Spearmen. They formed a charge. Twenty men, running toward the point directly below Mira’s position, their weapons raised, their mana-enhanced legs carrying them at superhuman speed.

"CHARGE! IF WE CAN REACH HER—"

Mira looked down.

Her green eyes found them. Twenty men. Running. Armed. Brave. Stupid.

She didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t snap her finger. She didn’t speak.

The blades manifested around them.

Not above — ’around.’ In the air. At every angle. In front, behind, beside, above, below. Thousands of them. The Infinite Sword Dominion didn’t require targeting. It required ’intent.’ And Mira’s intent was absolute.

The soldiers stopped. Skidded. Looked around.

"Wh—"

SLICE.

The blades moved. Not fast — instant. One moment the soldiers were standing. The next, they were pieces. Not cut — ’dismembered.’ Arms separated from shoulders. Legs from hips. Heads from necks. The pieces fell. Separately. Independently. Twenty men becoming a hundred pieces of flesh that hit the ground with a wet, meaty, ’thud-thud-thud’ that sounded like rain on mud.

"AAAAAHHH—!"

The soldiers who had been watching the charge ran. Not in formation — not in organized retreat. They ran. Screaming. Trampling each other. The camp dissolved into chaos — ten thousand men, trained, armored, equipped, breaking like a wave against a rock they couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, couldn’t fight.

The blood came next.

Mira raised both hands. Palms up.

The Crimson Blood Monarch activated.

The blood — the blood of four thousand dead men, the pools and rivers and streams of it that covered the valley floor — obeyed. It rose. Not dripping, not flowing. ’Rose.’ Thousands of gallons of blood lifted from the ground, defying gravity, hanging in the air like a red mist. Droplets. Streams. Rivers. The blood gathered — condensing, compressing, forming a sphere of crimson around Mira’s body. A domain. A field. A zone where the blood was hers and the air was hers and the life was hers.

"WHAT — WHAT IS THAT—?!"

"THE BLOOD — IT’S MOVING—!"

"THE DEAD — LOOK AT THE DEAD—!"

The bodies twitched. Not alive — not reanimated. The blood within them was being extracted. Drawn out through the pores, through the wounds, through the open mouths of the dead. Every corpse became a fountain — the red fluid pouring upward, joining the sphere, feeding the domain.

The zone expanded.

The Crimson Blood Monarch’s battlefield domain — a sphere of absolute blood control — spread outward from Mira’s position. Like a slow, red, expanding sun. Everything within it was hers. The air. The ground. The blood. The men.

The soldiers who were still alive — still running, still screaming — felt it. The ones inside the zone felt their blood ’shift.’ Not painful — not yet. But wrong. The blood in their veins was responding to her. Was being pulled. Was being ’claimed.’

"MY BLOOD — SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH MY BLOOD—!"

"I CAN FEEL IT — INSIDE ME — IT’S MOVING—!"

"GET OUT OF THE ZONE! GET OUT OF—"

The ones who didn’t make it out died. Quietly. Not with screaming — with ’deflation.’ The blood left their bodies through every orifice. Eyes. Nose. Ears. Mouth. The red mist poured from them, joining the sphere, and the bodies collapsed — empty. Husks. Dry. The skin grey, the veins flat, the eyes sunken.

Six thousand dead.

Four thousand remaining.

Mira descended.

Her naked body lowered through the air — slow, controlled, the wind catching her black hair, the thick strands whipping behind her. Her big, milk-heavy tits swayed with the descent. Her wide hips shifted. Her thick thighs tensed. The shaved, puffy pussy between her legs was visible — pink, swollen, the lips slightly parted.

The jiggle. The sway. The thick, fuckable body descending from the sky like a goddess of war. Every curve designed by biology and enhanced by magic to provoke. To arouse. To ’tempt.’

But the men felt nothing. The Primordial Desire Sovereign’s negation field was absolute. Every cock was soft. Every pulse of lust was dead. The body that could make a saint beg was making soldiers weep — not from desire, but from the pure, existential, ’this-is-not-a-woman-this-is-a-catastrophe’ terror of seeing something they couldn’t comprehend.

The remaining soldiers fell to their knees. Not in surrender — in collapse. Their legs gave out. Their will gave out. Their bladders gave out. The smell of urine mixed with the smell of blood.

"What — what is she—"

"A demon—"

"A goddess—"

"A monster—"

"We’re going to die—"

The major — the one who had tried to form a shield wall — was on his knees. His sword was on the ground. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. He was looking up at the naked woman descending from the sky, surrounded by a sphere of blood, with hundreds of magic circles spinning behind her.

He tried to speak. His voice came out as a whisper.

"How can someone have so much mana?" he said. The words were not a question. They were a prayer. A eulogy. The last words of a man who had realized that everything he knew about magic, about power, about the world — was wrong.

Hentia was running.

The commander — the scar-faced, thick-necked, confident man who had been throwing chicken bones and planning to fuck pregnant women — was running. His pants were still open. His cock was still hanging out. His armor was still on its stand. His dignity was a memory.

His legs carried him through the camp. Past the dead. Past the dying. Past the soldiers on their knees. His heart was hammering. The killing intent was pressing on his chest — not crushing, not yet. Mira was letting him run. Letting him feel the false hope of escape.

A soldier — one of his bodyguards — caught up to him. The man was pale. His hands were shaking. But he was a professional. His sword was drawn.

"Commander! We need to—"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP AND RUN!"

"But — the men—"

"FUCK THE MEN! RUN!"

They ran. Through the supply wagons. Past the horse lines, the screaming animals rearing and pulling at their tethers. Past the cook fires, the pots overturned, the stew spilling into the mud. Past the dead — the pieces, the husks, the empty, blood-drained bodies that littered the ground like fallen leaves.

The killing intent found him.

Not the general field — the focused, ’I-am-looking-at-you’ killing intent. The one that had made Nora step back. The one that had cut at her heart from ten meters away. Except now, the radius was the entire valley, and the focus was on one man.

Hentia’s heart stopped. Not metaphorically. The blood in his veins ’froze.’ The Crimson Blood Monarch’s domain — the zone that covered the entire camp — had reached him. His blood was hers.

He fell.