CHAPTER 223: THE SELECTION BY IRON AND BLOOD

With the orc legion’s heavy phalanx squares established, Caius turned his attention to the remaining auxiliary forces within Castle Precipice. One hundred and fifty high-tier dark elf warriors and one hundred and fifty human barbarians from the northern border tribes stood gathered in the subterranean combat arena, divided by race and eyeing each other with sharp, instinctual wariness. Caius stood on the central overlook, flanked by Old Bones, looking down at the formation with cold, evaluating eyes.

"A wall of spears is useless if it can be enveloped, and equally useless if it marches blind," Caius declared, his voice carrying a heavy, spatial resonance across the vault. "You brutes and shadow-striders are meant to form the wings of my army. But I have no patience for bloat or weakness. I require an exact contingent of two hundred and twelve elite warriors, precisely one hundred and six from each race."

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Portcullises slammed shut around the arena perimeter, locking all three hundred warriors in a single, enclosed combat zone.

"Disarm your opponents. Prove your endurance," Caius ordered coldly. "Fight until only the designated numbers remain standing on each side. Begin!"

Violence erupted in an instant. Unlike the raw, chaotic brawl of the orcs, this clash was a display of high-speed agility and brutal martial techniques. The barbarians roared, their massive, corded muscles bulging as they slammed shoulder-first into the dark elves, using raw weight and leverage to throw them to the stone. The dark elves responded like striking vipers, utilizing their innate shadow-steps to slip behind the hulking humans, delivering sweeps to knees and precise strikes to windpipes. Dust, blood, and residual mana filled the arena floor, and strikes echoed like thunderclaps until the dust finally settled. Exactly one hundred and six barbarians stood bruised and panting over their fallen kin, while opposite them, one hundred and six dark elves stood crouched in light combat stances.

Caius tossed two heavy leather sacks over the balcony, spilling high-purity ambient obsidian crystals and dark silk scrolls across the stone floor.

"Not terrible," Caius remarked with a subtle smirk. "Absorb the stones. Drain every drop of dark mana. You are about to shed your wild heritage."

To reshape the one hundred and six surviving barbarians into relentless shock troops and elite flankers, Caius turned his attention to their line, gesturing to the silk scrolls.

"You barbarians rely far too heavily on frantic, uncontrolled bloodlust," Caius said, addressing the standing barbarians. "The Volcanic Earth Manual will fix that glaring flaw. It is engineered to alter your meridian pathways, hardening them into dense basalt channels capable of containing extreme internal pressure."

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He watched as the barbarians absorbed the dark crystals, their skin flushing with a deep, radiant heat. "When activated in combat, your bodies will generate a fierce inner volcanic furnace that ignites your bloodstream. This grants you the immovable physical density of stone combined with explosive bursts of forward acceleration."

Caius leaned over the stone balustrade, locking eyes with their strongest warriors. "When the orc phalanx pins the enemy line, I do not want you dancing. I want you igniting your blood and shattering their flanks like a volcanic landslide. You are the hammer that crushes whatever attempts to sweep around my wall."

Turning his sharp violet-gold gaze toward the one hundred and six dark elves, Caius addressed their subtle, fluid postures.

"And for you shadow-striders," Caius spoke softly, his voice cutting through the cavern. "Relying on static concealment alone makes you predictable. True shadows do not merely hide; they flow. That is why I have created the Gale-Tide Shadow Art."

He gestured for them to unfurl their assigned scrolls. "This technique expands your innate shadow affinity by weaving wind and water element concepts into your core pathways. It forces your mana to circulate like liquid mercury, stripping away bodily rigidity."

"Through this art, your physical forms will blur into a shifting shadow-mist," Caius instructed, watching as dark, mist-like wisps began to coil around the elves' limbs. "You will alter your trajectory mid-stride, glide around incoming projectiles, and slip through microscopic gaps in an enemy's defensive line. You are my skirmishers, my scouts, and my gap-strikers. You will eliminate their spellcasters and commanders, vanishing before their blood even hits the stone."

Dozens of multi-legged Arachne weaversmiths marched into the hall shortly after, bearing racks of custom-forged black iron-mithril alloy armor and lightweight round shields etched with kinetic-dampening runes. For close-quarters combat, the dark elves retained their preferred curved dark-steel daggers and shortbows, while the barbarians wielded massive battleaxes and heavy broadswords.

"Power without order is just a loud disaster," Caius stated smoothly as the gear was distributed. "Each race will appoint one supreme centurion and one vice-centurion to command their entire branch. Your remaining two hundred warriors will be divided into four fifty-man cohorts, led by two designated officers per cohort. If a commander falls in battle, the next steps up without a heartbeat's hesitation."

Once the structure was set, Caius raised his gauntleted hand, extending two hundred and twelve micro-thin Arachne threads straight into their crown points to transfer a modified, high-speed hoplite spear-and-shield art directly into their neural pathways.

"Your specialized axes, daggers, and bows are for execution," Caius said, his voice ringing in their minds as the thread transfer completed. "The spear and round shield are for warfare. Learn to interlock your shields with the orc phalanx when locked in open battle, and wield your thrusting pikes as an extension of my will."

Standing at the front of the newly equipped detachment, the two newly appointed centurions bowed their heads toward the overlook, slamming their fists against their new round shields with a crisp, metallic ringing sound.

"Remember this well," Caius concluded, his eyes burning with sovereign authority. "With the orc phalanx as the anvil, you shall be the hammer and the shadow. Do not disappoint me."

"By your sovereign will!" the two hundred and twelve warriors roared in unison, their voices echoing off the basalt walls as dark mana surged through their newly forged meridians.