Chapter 710: The Holy Guard from Hell

Yet from afar, Iron Frenzy spotted that enemy faction player. His exoskeletal armor creaked as a classic villainous grin spread across his face.

"Keh keh keh... what a surprise—there’s actually a player who joined the Thracian faction."

"Vrrrm——"

The chainsaw sword in the Dragon-Scaled Cultist’s hand spun at high speed, letting out a nerve-wracking whir. He crouched slightly, ready to leap.

The player named [Royal Knight Commander] looked at the monstrous cultist in terror, stumbling backward, crying out, "Big bro, I’m just a newbie! Please don’t kill me!"

"A newbie?"

Iron Frenzy paid no heed. He raised his chainsaw sword and leapt over ten meters, pouncing toward the Royal Knight Commander.

"Then let me teach you a lesson! Eat this!"

"Wait—Don’t come any closer!" The Royal Knight Commander panicked and raised his double-barrel shotgun, firing at the cultist’s chest.

But the chainscale exoskeleton was impenetrable. The aged buckshot only left faint white marks.

"Stop him!"

"Kill that Imperial bastard!"

Thracian guards charged with swords and blades, hoping to overwhelm Iron Frenzy with numbers.

But Iron Frenzy dove into the crowd, spinning like a top, chainsaw sword sweeping wide. Dozens of helmeted heads flew, blood spraying like geysers from severed necks.

The Royal Knight Commander watched his comrades die horrifically and fled without looking back, crying inside: "Is that really a player? Even a boss isn’t that terrifying!"

"Trying to run?"

Iron Frenzy sneered, raising his explosive boltgun.

"Bang!"

The Commander’s vision went black, dread sinking in.

Shrapnel riddled his back, tearing flesh apart. His mangled body was hurled into the city wall, painting it red.

\[You have slain a [Thracian Junior Officer]. Rewards: 1 gold, 250 faction contribution, 500 XP.]

Iron Frenzy mockingly blew the smoke from his gun. "Too easy. Way more fun than pushing paperwork. No wonder crime pays, and honest work makes you a slave."

"Monster! Don’t get cocky!"

"Kill him!"

"Everyone, together! He’s just a beast cornered by the pack!"

Iron Frenzy snorted and spun like a cyclone, pulling the trigger again and again—unleashing a storm of lead and steel.

In moments, blood drenched the ground. Guts and limbs painted the bricks. Not a single Thracian stood near Iron Frenzy.

Elsewhere on August’s walls, elemental towers rained lightning, fire, and frost, annihilating all nearby players.

"Boom!"

A thunderbolt thick as a bowl slammed down from the tower, reducing several invading players to charred chunks.

"Foolish mortals! You cannot comprehend the depth of arcane might! Holy Fadlan’s magical legacy is a peak you’ll never reach!"

A Thracian mage floated midair, voice cold as ice, robe flapping as he swept his staff. Arcane power rippled outward.

Thunder and flame whirled around him, striking down players in relentless waves.

Then came a thunderous roar from below the wall—so loud it shattered the clouds above and nearly knocked the mage from the sky.

"Wretched fiend!"

A five-meter-tall monk stormed into view. He was a musclebound monster.

This monk had six massive arms, each ending in a fist the size of a pot. His shiny bald head gleamed like a mirror—none other than the infamous monk player [Dawei Tianlong].

What the hell is that?

A human monk?

No, this five-meter six-armed freak didn’t look remotely human.

The Thracian mage squinted through the glare, brows furrowing. Suspicion grew, but he still aimed his staff at the monk.

"Boom!"

A thick lightning bolt struck the ground, carving a scorched crater—but the monk was gone.

Suddenly, a six-armed shadow loomed above. The mage looked up in horror. The monk was diving from the sky, fists raised in rage.

"Prajna Paramita! Wyvern Ascends! DIE, DEMON!"

The mage hurriedly raised a protective barrier.

But the monk’s flurry of punches shattered it in seconds. Fist-shaped shockwaves poured down like rain.

The mage summoned elemental tower energy. Lightning snakes surged and imprisoned the monk in a crackling cage.

"Parlor tricks. You dare show off before me?"

Dawei Tianlong charged through the lightning, fists blazing, punching straight for the mage’s skull.

"Boom!"

The mage couldn’t dodge. His head burst like a melon, splattering bone and gore everywhere.

"Kill him! He just killed Lord Karl!"

"Fire!"

Thracian soldiers swiveled their Sun God ballistae and opened fire. Glowing bolts screamed through the air, joined by hundreds of bullets.

Dawei Tianlong hurled the mage’s corpse to block the barrage, then launched himself up the walls, weaving through the tower base.

He pounded the tower’s supports, fists breaking the foundation, causing the structure to shake.

"Crack—"

Sparks and lightning flashed as the tower’s energy core flickered wildly, unstable.

"Assist me!"

At his cry, eighteen towering monks coated in golden powder emerged behind him—[Shaolin Temple]’s Eighteen Arhats!

"W-What are they doing?!"

"Madmen!"

"Kill them! They’re trying to topple the elemental tower!"

Bullets and arrows rained down, but the golden monks were untouchable, bodies like iron.

"Hahaha! Let me give you a parting gift! Shaolin brothers—PUSH!"

Dawei Tianlong laughed, veins bulging on all six arms. He shoved the tower.

The Eighteen Arhats joined in. The towering tower tilted, rumbled, and finally collapsed onto August’s walls.

"No—Don’t—!"

"BOOM!"

The magical core exploded, blowing a giant hole in the wall. Not a single defender survived.

"Master’s awesome!"

"Damn, that was insane!"

Dawei Tianlong posed proudly. "Saving lives builds more merit than temples. We just killed a few hundred mobs. Must’ve built a thousand-story temple underground by now."

A nearby player twitched at the bloody monk. "Uhh... bless you, Master. Your karma must be maxed out."

Players nowadays were nothing like the clueless cannon fodder they used to be.

This army, composed of over a thousand transcendent beings above level ten and hundreds of thousands of Professionals, would be considered a formidable force on any plane.

With players joining the battlefield, the Empire’s assault became even more ferocious. In many parts of the August city wall, Imperial soldiers had already breached through.

"Imperials—"

Atop the Solar God Tower, Wilhelm’s expression twisted further. His golden eyes, bearing the Sun Disc pupils, brimmed with uncontrollable rage.

He drew the Spear of Final Judgment. A ray of golden light shot to the sky as six radiant wings unfolded behind him. The solemn chant of a holy hymn rang out once more.

"As the Lord of Thrace and heir of Fadlan—Holy Sentinels, destroy them!"

In an instant, hundreds of angels with twin wings took to the air, raising their flaming longswords and diving toward the Imperial soldiers storming August.

"Shhhk—"

Golden blades of light sliced through the sky, splitting the earth itself. Over a dozen players were cleaved into shredded flesh along the path.

Chains shot from underground, binding players tightly and dragging them down, ignoring all their struggles.

"Careful, these elite monsters are insanely strong!"

"Don’t get hit! You’ll get one-shotted!"

The leaders of the six-winged Holy Sentinels simultaneously raised their swords, releasing golden beams into the sky and chanting in unison: "Burn the sinful souls, our Lord is eternal—"

"Boom—"

Countless golden-red flames descended from their swords, bathing the night sky in radiant crimson-gold.

The divine fire fell like judgment from above, burning the Imperials within August to ash.

But as the battle drums thundered, the Dragon-Oath Paladins in heavy armor stepped onto the chaotic battlefield with steady, synchronized strides.

"The Dragonlord reigns supreme!"

Anthony raised his lance bearing the Empire’s banner and roared with fury.

Sparks imbued with the will and faith of the Paladins soared into the air, gradually forming a crimson dragon in the sky that charged straight toward the Holy Sentinels.

"Damn it! Stop it!"

The Holy Sentinel commanders’ expressions changed. But the spectral dragon was too fast. Its gaping maw spewed searing dragonfire, reducing several Holy Sentinels to scorched husks.

Its massive claws slashed down, radiating pure white flames—not just a physical assault, but one that struck at their essence, their very souls.

"Rrrrip—"

It tore through the golden aura cloaking the Sentinels, ripping away their polished façade.

Countless pure white wings drifted down from the sky—only to turn into blood-stained black feathers. The Holy Sentinels’ golden armor dulled, becoming the scorched iron of Hell.

Their flawless faces twisted, cracked, and contorted. From the fissures oozed dark red blood, and eerie smiles curled at their lips like broken marionettes.

"Celestial eyes burn, blazing blades rend; sacred hymns sear the brow, divine gaze pierces all."

Yet they seemed completely unaware of the change, still singing their so-called "holy hymn," praising Wilhelm’s glory and expressing their undying loyalty and sanctity.

A blood-drenched army exuding the stench of sulfur and Hell’s flames singing tranquil hymns—an eerie and grotesque sight.

"Wh-what are those things?"

"Could those monsters... actually be His Majesty Wilhelm’s Holy Sentinels?"

"Isn’t that my dead brother? Am I seeing things? Why is he here?!"

"Are they... still alive?"

"Amanata above—that’s Count Zorman, missing for years! A defector of divine blood—he’s among them too!"

The Thracian soldiers stared in shock and horror at the transformed Holy Sentinels. Panic and confusion rippled across the city walls.

Curiously, those most affected were usually soldiers transferred from other regions. The native August defenders, on the other hand, remained indifferent and numb—as if they had long known the truth.

Thrace’s gaze locked on one of the hollow-eyed hell puppets—Baron Clarence, his once-close friend, long presumed dead on the Holy City battlefield, now standing among them.

His heart clenched like it had been struck by a warhammer. His face went pale, and his hand trembled as it clutched his sword.

"This... how could this be? How could His Majesty go this far?" he muttered in disbelief.

Coupling this with General Carlisle’s words, he had a grim idea of the truth:

Everyone in August who had resisted the infernal pact had been captured by the deranged Wilhelm and turned into puppets—sacrificing their Thracian souls to the devils!

Dayev felt a chill pierce his heart like a plunge into icy waters—yet at the same time, a sliver of relief.

Had he not been demoted to the border, he might be part of that monstrous army now, his soul suffering eternal torment in Hell.

The Holy Sentinels had finally revealed their true nature.

They were empty husks stripped of their souls—hellish constructs made from living Thracians, Wilhelm’s most "loyal" minions!

"What are they?!"

"What is the Kingdom dealing with? Where have our fallen comrades gone?!"

"Your Majesty, this is blasphemy!"

The devoted followers of the Sun God cried out, demanding answers from their king.

But Dayev knew the truth: these faithful would never receive an answer—for the king they served had already descended into incurable madness.