CHAPTER 172: THE RED RIVER

The expanse known as the Death Bowl lived up to its grim moniker. Nestled between the jagged basalt ridges of the Shattered Steppe, the wide basin offered a brutal theater for the coming collision. On the eastern side, the allied host deployed with staggering scale. Eighty thousand human infantrymen stood shoulder to shoulder in immaculate rectangular formations, their steel shields and polished chest plates creating an unbroken wall of silver. Flanking them were four hundred and fifty Sun-Gilded Sentinels, their golden halberds catching the mid-morning sun and casting a divine aura over the ranks.

When the war horns blew, the silence shattered.

The central steppe trembled as thirty thousand orc fanatics surged forward like a tidal wave of blood and iron.

These were not disciplined troops. They were blood-crazed berserkers who had swallowed the Red Moon Slaughter Art, a crude, violent cultivation derivative Caius had tailored specifically weeks prior to feed on raw aggression and slaughter. As they ran, their veins bulged black against green skin, their eyes glowed with an unholy crimson light, and their physical strength surged threefold. They cared nothing for survival; they hungered only to tear through flesh.

Opposing them across the wide valley floor stood the massive, glittering host of the allied alliance: eighty thousand human infantry under King Alden’s banner forming the sprawling frontline, backed by four hundred and fifty Sun-Gilded Sentinels and high elven elite archers, spear-masters, and sun-mages under High Lord Lorien commanding the rear.

Ninety thousand men in total, a grand army assembled to crush a single human warlord.

King Alden, clad in his golden royal armor atop a towering warhorse, drew his broadsword as he looked upon the oncoming green horde. "Hold the line! Archmage cohorts, rain fire! Let them break upon our shields!"

Volleys of tens of thousands of enchanted arrows and solar fireballs arced across the sky, raining down upon the advancing orc tide. Hundreds of fanatics were impaled or incinerated mid-stride, but the Red Moon Slaughter Art numbed their nervous systems entirely. Wounded berserkers did not stop; they roared through the flames, stepping over the corpses of their brothers without slowing down a single step.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from NovelPhoenix. Please report it.

"FIRE!" Alden screamed.

CRASH!

The two armies collided like two falling mountains.

The initial shockwave echoed across the entire valley like a thunderclap. The thirty thousand berserkers rammed straight into the dense shield wall of the human frontlines. Iron cracked, bone shattered, and bodies flew ten feet into the air.

Driven mad by the Red Moon Slaughter Art, the orc fanatics threw themselves onto spear tips just to pull the human defenders forward and rip their throats out with bare hands and rusted war-axes. The raw, suicidal ferocity of the shock attack completely stunned King Alden's front regiments, causing the human center to buckle and bend backward under sheer momentum.

"Hold! Hold the vanguard!" human captains screamed frantically, as the battlefield turned into an endless, bloody meat grinder.

Far behind the frontlines, atop a high grassy knoll, High Lord Lorien sat upon his white war-charger, surrounded by his four hundred and fifty Sun-Gilded Sentinels. His eyes burned with golden light, his hands itching to unleash his supreme solar magic and incinerate the green tide in one strike.

He raised his hand, channeling his grand solar mana through his main pathways to cast his signature spell, the Sun-God's Lance.

"Burn, you subterranean swine," Lorien sneered, forcing his mana to swell.

Thump.

Suddenly, Lorien gasped. A sharp, icy pain bit deep into his central solar core.

The mana that usually flowed like a roaring golden river through his body suddenly hit an invisible, petrified wall inside his meridians. The Moon Flame Art he had secretly practiced the night before had left behind a calcified layer of dead energy. The moment he tried to channel a high-tier spell, his pathways stalled, blocking the flow entirely.

The golden spell above his hand flickered out with a weak hiss.

Lorien’s face turned pale as snow, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "What... what is this? My core... my pathways!"

High above the battlefield, standing on the central terrace of the Obsidian Citadel, Caius watched the chaos through his violet eyes. Beside him, the thirteen thousand heavy Orc Legions and two thousand obsidian-scaled elites stood in immaculate, patient formation, waiting for their Lord's signal.

Caius looked down at Lorien’s struggling, panicking figure in the distance, a cold, ruthless smile spreading across his face.

"The frontline is pinned," Caius murmured smoothly. "Old Bones."

"My Lord?" the old assassin rasped.

"Send in the wings," Caius ordered softly. "Let us see how King Alden's flanks hold when the true Obsidian Legions strike."