Chapter 664 - 663- Field of BloodBath

Chapter 664: Chapter 663- Field of BloodBath

His bodyguards stopped. Turned. Saw their commander on the ground — not dead, not yet, but paralyzed. His eyes were open. His mouth was moving. No sound was coming out.

The bodyguard raised his sword. Charged. Not at Mira — at the air. At the invisible force that had taken his commander. A futile, desperate, ’I-am-a-soldier-and-this-is-all-I-know’ gesture.

Mira looked at him.

The man’s sword arm separated from his shoulder. Not cut — ’separated.’ The blade of mana that did it was invisible, instantaneous, the Infinite Sword Dominion striking without motion, without warning, without the courtesy of being seen.

His arm hit the ground. He looked at it. Looked at the stump. The blood sprayed — then stopped. The blood reversed. Instead of spraying outward, it pulled inward, upward, toward the sphere. The red mist rose from his wound like smoke.

"AAAHH—! MY ARM—! MY—"

His other arm separated. Then his legs. The pieces fell. The blood rose. The bodyguard became four pieces and a mist.

Hentia watched. From the ground. Paralyzed. His eyes tracked the death of his bodyguard — the dismemberment, the blood extraction, the silent, ’casual’ way the woman in the sky killed a trained soldier without moving a finger.

He pissed himself. The warmth spread across his pants, mixing with the mud beneath him. His bladder — like his soldiers’ — had given up.

Mira landed.

Her bare feet touched the ground. The mud — the blood-soaked, urine-soaked, death-soaked mud of the battlefield — squished between her toes. She stood. Naked. Her thick body — the tits, the hips, the thighs, the post-birth belly — was covered in nothing. Not armor. Not cloth. Not even the sphere of blood, which had dispersed upon landing, the crimson droplets falling like rain around her.

She was just a woman. Standing in a field of dead men.

A beautiful, thick, naked woman standing in a field of ten thousand dead men.

The remaining soldiers — the four thousand who had survived the blades and the blood zone — were on their knees. Some were crying. Some were praying. Some had fainted. All were broken.

Mira walked.

Through the camp. Past the tents. Past the fires. Past the bodies. Her hips swayed — the natural, thick-bodied gait of a MILF walking through her domain. Her tits swayed with each step, the heavy mounds moving beneath her, the milk leaking in thin streams that ran down her stomach. Her ass — thick, round, heavy — shifted with each step.

She walked like a goddess walking through her temple.

The soldiers she passed didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The killing intent was still active — not crushing, not killing. Just ’present.’ A pressure that said ’stay down’ in a language that didn’t require words.

She reached the command tent.

The flap was open. The table was still set — the chicken, the wine, the candelabras. The bone Hentia had thrown was on the carpet. The chair he had been sitting in was overturned.

The woman — the malnourished commoner who had been thrown to the ground, who had been about to be raped — was still there. Huddled. Shaking. Her eyes wide. She had watched — from the floor of the tent, through the open flap — as the naked woman had descended from the sky and destroyed an army.

Mira looked at her. The green eyes — luminous, burning — found the commoner’s eyes. The woman flinched. Trembled. Expected death.

Mira knelt.

Her hand — the hand that had killed thousands, that had commanded blood, that had manifested blades from nothing — extended. Gently. The palm open.

"You’re safe," she said. The Voice of Dominion — the siren’s resonance — was in her voice. But it wasn’t commanding. It was soothing. The same voice, used differently. The same power, wielded with a different intent. "No one will hurt you anymore."

The commoner looked at the hand. At the face. At the naked, powerful, terrifying woman who had just saved her.

She reached up. Took the hand. Mira pulled her to her feet.

Then Mira turned. Back to the camp. Back to the bodies. Back to the work that wasn’t finished.

Hentia was still on the ground. Paralyzed. His eyes followed her as she walked toward him. His mouth was moving — no sound, just the lips, the desperate, ’please-please-please’ shapes of a man whose voice had been taken along with his ability to move.

Mira stood over him.

She looked down. At the commander. At the scar-faced, thick-necked man who had planned to conquer her home and fuck her pregnant sisters and enslave her town.

She raised her hand.

The mana blade manifested. One. Small. Precise. Hovering in the air above Hentia’s right wrist.

SLICE.

His hand separated. The blood sprayed — then stopped, reversed, rose. The hand — his right hand, the hand that had unzipped his pants, the hand that had been reaching for the commoner woman — fell to the mud.

"AAAAAAHHHH—!!"

The paralysis broke. His voice returned. The scream — high, thin, the scream of a man who had just lost a hand — tore through the camp. The remaining soldiers heard it. Flinched. Wept.

"What do you want?!" Hentia screamed. His left hand clutched the stump. The blood was rising — not falling, rising, the crimson mist joining the air. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?! PLEASE—!"

Mira looked at him. Her green eyes were calm. Not angry. Not vengeful. Not satisfied. Calm. The eyes of a woman who was doing a task, not expressing an emotion.

"You were going to take my home," she said.

Her voice was melodious. The siren’s resonance made every word land like music.

"You were going to fuck my sisters."

The mana blade hovered over his left wrist.

SLICE.

"AAAAAHHH—!!"

"You were going to enslave my town."

The blade hovered over his left ankle.

SLICE.

"AAAAHHH—!! PLEASE—!!"

The blade hovered over his right ankle.

SLICE.

"AAAAAIIIIEEE—!!"

Hentia screamed. The high, broken, ’I-am-being-dismembered’ scream of a man who was being taken apart piece by piece. His hands were gone. His feet were gone. He was a torso and a head, lying in the mud, bleeding from four stumps, the blood rising in red mist around him.

Mira looked at him for a long moment.

Then she looked away. At the field. At the bodies. At the ten thousand men who had come to conquer her home.

She snapped her finger.

The ground shook.

RUMBLE—!!

Not an earthquake — a resonance. The mana circles — the hundreds that had been spinning in the sky — descended. They hit the ground. Not crashed — ’landed.’ Settled. Embedded themselves in the earth like stamps in wax. The entire valley floor was covered in glowing, geometric, rune-inscribed mandalas.

The dead moved.

Not reanimated — ’gathered.’ The bodies — ten thousand of them, whole and in pieces, armored and unarmored, bloody and blood-drained — began to move. Not walking. Sliding. Being pulled. The mana circles were drawing them — a vortex, a gravitational pull that affected only the dead.

The bodies slid across the mud. Through the blood. Through the ruins of the camp. Through the overturned tables and the scattered supplies and the broken weapons. They moved toward the center of the valley — toward a single point, a single circle, larger than the others, that had opened in the ground.

The vortex began.

WHIRRRRRR—!!

The sound was enormous. Not mechanical — organic. The sound of ten thousand bodies being drawn together, of flesh and bone and armor and cloth merging into a single, rotating mass. The bodies rose — not into the air, but into the circle. Into the portal that was forming beneath them.

The tornado of flesh.