CHAPTER 256: THE IMMOVABLE ANVIL

The Nerathil host surged forward without order or cadence, swarming across the ash-paved plain like an unending tide of bloated, armored beetles. Driven by instinct and mindless fury, the screeching horde of red iron and fused flesh rushed blindly ahead, leaving the towering, thirty-foot Behemoths lumbering far behind in their wake.

Then came the impact. The initial wave smashed against the Æthrynn front lines with apocalyptic force, yet the center did not crumble because, channeling their newly awakened Sun Calamity Forge cultivation, the twelve thousand five hundred warriors locked their shields, their solar mana overlapping to create a shimmering, golden barrier of protective energy. The wall held firm against the violent assault, repelling the first wave of snapping jaws and rusted blades.

Watching from his high vantage point, Caius tilted his head slightly, genuinely impressed by their resilience. However, the sheer volume of the Nerathil horde quickly took its toll, and as thousands of beasts piled onto the frontline, their chaotic mass naturally condensed into a heavy, crushing wedge. The relentless pressure began pushing deep into the center, and being light infantry equipped only with basic armor and thread-reinforced gear, the Æthrynn warriors were forced to yield ground, their ranks bending inward as casualties mounted in a horrific flurry of snapping bone and torn flesh. Severed limbs bounced across the blood-soaked dirt while disemboweled thralls dragged themselves forward on broken ribs, biting frantically at the boots of the retreating defenders until obsidian blades split their skulls wide open in gouts of dark, foul-smelling fluid.

Caius watched the line bow, his eyes cool and calculated, and reaching out with subtle threads of mana, he sent a direct, resounding command straight into the minds of the center-line defenders to part their ranks and open the center.

In the thick of the slaughter, Nyzekh and Bruga were knee-deep in black, boiling blood, their weapons carving through thick chitin and soft visceral tissue alongside their companions. Though they felt Caius’s command resonate in their heads, the adrenaline of battle kept them locked in place, refusing to give an inch as another wave of howling abominations lunged at their throats.

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A guttural, deafening roar shattered the noise of conflict from behind them. "MAKE SPACE, CURS!"

Stepping into the breach was the Obsidian Legion's leader, a battle-hardened, six-foot-tall Orc general built like an anvil of solid muscle. Thick, vibrant emerald-green mana oozed from every pore of his dark skin, dripping like liquid fire off his heavy armor and coating his massive greataxe in a haze of toxic energy that instantly rotted the nearby soil.

Nyzekh and Bruga turned, their breath catching in their throats while the surrounding Æthrynn warriors shuddered under the sheer weight of his presence, frantically parting their ranks to clear a wide path. The density of the green mana rolling off the Orc general, paired with the cold discipline of the thirteen hundred and fifty elite legionnaires behind him, was terrifyingly absolute, turning the air thick with the suffocating pressure of absolute slaughter.

The Orc general slammed his boot onto the bloodied earth, raising his heavy shield as the Obsidian Cohort locked ranks behind him, their synchronized movements echoing like a drumbeat of doom. The Nerathil’s razor-sharp wedge slammed full-speed into the heavy vanguard, hitting a mountain of sheer physical and spiritual might. The six-foot Orc stood at the dead center, his green mana flaring like a toxic inferno as he repelled the impact single-handedly, sending shockwaves of compressed air that shattered the chests of the leading beasts into pulpy crimson mush. The momentum of the horde vanished instantly, the tip of their charge grinding to a complete, violent dead stop amid a fountain of shattered bone, flying entrails, and sizzling flesh.

Before the dazed beasts could recover, the back ranks of the Obsidian Legion raised their staff-arms, their mana cores flaring with blinding brilliance. "Fire!" the Orc general barked, his voice laced with venomous power.

The War Mages unleashed hell. A devastating storm of blazing meteors, jagged spears of subterranean ice, and massive boulders rained down from the sky, detonating directly within the densely packed core of the trapped Nerathil formation. Explosions of fire and shattered chitin blasted hundreds of beasts into bloody mist, coating the battlefield in a thick, choking fog of vaporized flesh, charred scales, and sizzling gore that rained down over the terrified survivors.

Standing amid the carnage, Bruga’s jaw hung slack as he wiped a spray of dark, arterial blood from his eyes, and even the pragmatic Nyzekh stared in utter, spellbound shock at the devastation. Neither had ever witnessed such terrifying, ruthless military discipline paired with absolute, overwhelming firepower, realizing in that exact moment that the tide of the war had fundamentally shifted in their favor.