Chapter 274: The Arrival of the Demon King’s Army

The war room stank of sweat and fear.

Nathan stood near the back, arms crossed, watching the generals argue. Maps covered the table—topographical surveys, fortification schematics, supply line projections. Red pins marked the Demon King’s advancing forces. Blue pins marked the capital’s defenses.

It wasn’t enough. The blue pins were too few. Too spread out.

"Three days," the First Prince said, his voice cutting through the noise. He stood at the head of the table, his silver hair pulled back, his pale blue eyes hard. "That’s what the scouts are reporting. Three days until they reach the eastern pass."

"We can’t hold against thousands," a general protested. He was old, fat, his uniform straining at the buttons. "We don’t have the numbers. We don’t have the fortifications. We don’t—"

"We have what we have," the prince interrupted. His tone was calm but firm. "We don’t have time to build more walls or recruit more soldiers. We use what we’ve got."

"And what’s that?" the general demanded. "A few hundred adventurers? A handful of palace guards? We’re outnumbered ten to one."

Nathan stepped forward. "We use the terrain."

The room went quiet. The generals turned to look at him—some curious, some dismissive. He was an F-Rank archer, a foreigner, a nobody.

But the prince was listening.

"Go on," the prince said.

Nathan walked to the map. He pointed to the eastern pass—a narrow gorge that wound through the mountains, barely wide enough for fifty men to march abreast.

"This is the only route to the capital. The Demon King’s army has to go through here. They can’t flank us. They can’t surround us. They have to come at us head-on."

"That’s true," one of the younger generals admitted. "But it doesn’t change the numbers. They’ll just keep coming."

"Then we make them bleed for every inch." Nathan traced a line along the ridges. "Archers here. Infantry at the choke point. Mages in reserve—rotate them out when they tire. We make the pass a meat grinder."

The fat general snorted. "And you think a few archers will stop a demon army?"

"I think a few archers with high ground and clear sightlines can kill a lot of monsters before they reach the line." Nathan met his eyes. "And I think we don’t have a better option."

The general opened his mouth to argue, but the prince held up a hand.

"He’s right," the prince said. "We don’t have a better option." He looked at Nathan. "How do you propose we deploy?"

Nathan spent the next hour outlining his plan. The generals listened—some reluctantly, some with grudging respect. By the time he finished, even the fat general had stopped arguing.

"It could work," the old man muttered. "It just might work."

---

The Demon King’s army arrived at dawn on the third day.

Nathan stood on the eastern ridge, Moonlight in his hands, watching them approach. Thousands of monsters—hulking beasts with twisted bodies, creatures that had once been human but were now something else entirely. At their head rode a figure in black armor, its face hidden by a horned helm.

"A demon general," the prince murmured beside him. He had insisted on fighting on the front lines, despite the protests of his advisors. "One of the five."

"Which one?"

"The one they call the Iron Fang. He commands the vanguard."

Nathan nocked an arrow. "Then we kill him first."

The prince glanced at him. "You make it sound simple."

"It’s not. But it’s what we need to do."

The battle began with a roar.

The monsters charged—a tidal wave of teeth and claws and corrupted flesh. Nathan fired into the mass, his arrows finding eyes, throats, joints. He used [Mana Arrow] to conserve mana, [Focus Shot] for the larger beasts, [Starfall Barrage] when the enemy clustered too tightly.

Beside him, the prince fought with a sword—a thin, elegant blade that gleamed in the morning light. He wasn’t as strong as Garrett, or as fast as Dillon. But he was precise, efficient, and utterly fearless. He held the line with the infantry, his voice cutting through the chaos.

"Hold!" he shouted. "Hold the line! Don’t give them an inch!"

The soldiers rallied. They were terrified—Nathan could see it in their eyes—but they held. They trusted the prince. They trusted each other.

The battle raged for hours.

---

Gerald and Thomas fought in the thick of it.

The two retired adventurers had volunteered to join the defense, despite their age and their old wounds. They stood shoulder to shoulder at the choke point, their weapons flashing.

"Reminds me of the old days!" Gerald shouted over the din. His mace crushed a monster’s skull. "Remember the Siege of Blackmoor?"

"I remember you almost died!" Thomas shouted back. His knife found a demon’s throat. "And I had to drag your fat arse out of the fire!"

"Fat? I was svelte in those days!"

"You were never svelte!"

A monster lunged at them. They killed it together—Gerald’s mace to the knees, Thomas’s knife to the neck.

"Still got it!" Gerald grinned.

"Speak for yourself," Thomas muttered, rubbing his aching shoulder. "I’m going to feel this in the morning."

---

The Iron Fang entered the fray at midday.

It was massive—ten feet tall, its black armor covered in spikes. It wielded a cleaver that could cut a man in half. It moved through the defenders like a scythe through wheat, leaving a trail of blood and bodies.

Nathan marked it with [Death’s Homing Compass], then charged [Focus Shot] for thirty seconds. The arrow streaked across the battlefield and struck the Iron Fang in the chest.

It bounced off.

"Shit," Nathan muttered. "It’s enchanted."

The Iron Fang turned toward him. Its eyes glowed red behind its helm.

"Archer," it growled. Its voice was deep, guttural, barely human. "You’re a special existence from the reports, but definitely not the hero"

Nathan nocked another arrow. "Yeah, but I bet I’m just as strong."

The Iron Fang laughed—a sound like grinding stones. "The Demon King has heard of you. He wants you dead."

"Tell him to come try himself."

The Iron Fang charged.

---

The duel was brutal.

The Iron Fang was faster than it looked, its cleaver sweeping through the air with terrifying speed. Nathan dodged, using [Nimble Feet] to stay ahead of the strikes. He fired arrows, but they bounced off the armor. He used [Multi-Shadow Clones], but the Iron Fang ignored them—it could sense his real presence.

"You’re clever," the Iron Fang growled. "But cleverness won’t save you."

Nathan didn’t respond. He was analyzing, looking for weaknesses. The armor was thick everywhere—except at the joints. The knees. The elbows. The neck.

He fired a [Death’s Homing Compass] at the Iron Fang’s knee. The arrow curved and struck the joint. The Iron Fang stumbled.

Nathan charged [Focus Shot]. Thirty seconds. Forty. The Iron Fang recovered and charged again. Fifty. Nathan released.

The arrow punched through the joint, severing the Iron Fang’s leg. The demon general roared and collapsed.

Nathan walked over to it, his bow raised.

"Tell your master," he said, "That the Archer is waiting."

He fired. The arrow pierced the Iron Fang’s helm and buried itself in its skull.

The demon general went still.

"Or not."

---

With the Iron Fang dead, the demon army faltered.

The prince seized the moment. "Counterattack!" he shouted. "Push them back!"

The defenders surged forward, driving the monsters back. Within hours, the enemy was in full retreat.

The battle was over.

---

Nathan stood on the battlefield, breathing hard. His arms ached. His mana was low. But he was alive.

The prince approached him, his sword still dripping blood. "You killed their general."

"I did."

"That was... impressive."

Nathan shrugged. "He was slow."

The prince almost smiled. "We lost a lot of good people today. But we held. We actually held."

"We did."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the retreating demon army. The battlefield was littered with bodies—both monster and human. The smell of blood and smoke hung in the air.

"We won," the prince said. "But they’ll be back."

"They will."

"And when they come back, they’ll bring more. More soldiers. More generals. Maybe the Demon King himself."

Nathan nodded. "Then we’ll need more allies. More soldiers. More time."

"We don’t have time."

A scout approached, his face pale. "My prince... we found something. In the demon general’s tent."

"What is it?"

The scout held out a piece of parchment—a map. It showed the capital’s defenses. Every wall. Every gate. Every weak point.

The prince’s face went pale.

"They knew," he whispered. "They knew our defenses before they attacked."

Nathan studied the map. "Someone gave them this information."

"Who?"

Nathan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They both knew who.