Chapter 150: Never Surrender (Part 1)

  A battle of four thousand against a dozen or so people would normally not be called a battle, but rather a massacre. This battle was no exception, it was indeed a massacre, except that the four thousand were the ones being massacred, killed by those dozen or so mixed subhumans and two humans.

  Although these four thousand were temporarily assembled irregular troops, it by no means represented that they were vulnerable forces. In fact, they were even far more combat-effective than Erathia's regular troops. The church guards of various Erathia dioceses had retired Templars from Celeste as instructors responsible for training, and many warriors were those who failed the Templar selection. Regardless of failing the selection, merely having the qualification to participate in Celeste's selection was proof of strength. Moreover, there were numerous mages and priests, whose skills as controllers honed in frequent battles with Nighon and Tatalia were absolutely incomparable to those small-time mages in adventuring parties.

  From a certain perspective, except for being somewhat outnumbered and isolated in the Barbarian Highlands, this force's combat effectiveness was absolutely unquestionable. But such an elite force was massacred without any ability to fight back.

  The battle was nearing its end. Over three hundred of the most elite warriors protected the five senior mages and ten or so priests in the center, watching the approaching enemies with a desperate and angry fighting spirit.

  Three Ogres covered in heavy armor like steel fortresses were panting, with wheezing sounds coming from under their blood-dripping all-steel masks, seemingly carrying a heavy smell of blood. They were already tired from killing.

  These were almost three giant killing machines. The maces in their hands, each the size of a whole person, were like meat-grinding gears. Even shields designed to prevent heavy cavalry charges were fragile under such weapons, let alone human bodies. And that set of heavy armor, difficult for blades or spears to penetrate, made most attacks ineffective. The key was that it was engraved with magic formations. Judging from each Ogre resisting several magical attacks, the magical materials embedded in the armor were enough to equip ten or so mages.

  The four werewolves didn't have such exaggerated equipment, so two of them were slightly injured. They didn't kill many people, but those they killed were the elites of this force, the masters. Those warriors who could have relied on skill and experience to deal with or delay the Ogres all died at their hands. These werewolves possessed not just formidable physical talents, their martial skills were by no means inferior to those battle-hardened warriors. One even no longer used weapons like flails or meteor hammers that relied on brute force to kill, but two fine steel long swords that absolutely emphasized skill and speed. A werewolf's natural agility was much stronger than humans, even comparable to elves.

  Three of the lizardmen used huge long knives, while four used continuous heavy crossbows of extremely high precision and strength. Those highly lethal crossbow bolts were clearly only craftable by dwarf craftsmen. They were responsible for supporting and assisting those few giant killing machines.

  Every part of these dozen or so subhumans was now dripping with blood - the lives of over three thousand church warriors. This made these subhumans look like demons that had just crawled out of a bloody hell.

  But now these demons weren't baring their fangs and claws, nor were they roaring ferociously. Instead, they were silent like a group of well-trained soldiers. The church warriors' gazes weren't much focused on them. These monsters didn't even appear very tall or terrifying, because in front of them was another person.

  A seemingly standard human, tall, with a slightly pale, thin face. Body contours and muscle curves more perfect than the most perfect sculpture, because no matter how stone is carved, it cannot have such nearly violent, yet still as motionless as a mountain, vitality.

  Almost all the remaining warriors were watching this person. Those black eyes were clearly visible to everyone watching them, inside them like a boundless black ocean that could swallow everyone here without causing a single ripple. This person was the only exception here. Though standing amidst a mountain of corpses and sea of blood, there wasn't a trace of blood on his body. Only a faint white aura of fighting spirit.

  In this hellish battlefield, he seemed like a deity.

  The man sighed, the white light on his body dissipated, and that rock-like face also revealed a hint of fatigue. He was not a real god after all. Still a living person.

  "Enemy of ten thousand" was usually just a figurative concept, no one could truly fight against ten thousand people alone. Not to mention the warriors here were all elites. Whoever killed nearly a thousand such opponents, even if not injured or dead, would certainly not be tireless.

  The surviving warriors looked at this man who had already shown signs of fatigue. In their eyes, there was nothing but fear. This man without a trace of blood was far more terrifying than the dozen or so beastmen that looked like they had been fished out of a pool of blood. In front of this man, warriors were no longer warriors, because they couldn't fight. Without even a chance to battle, they flew up like paper, shattered, and scattered. This man's attacks didn't have any brilliant moves that would shock onlookers, just rushing back and forth through the crowd at incomparable speed, grabbing, striking, patting, kicking, colliding, just casual and natural movements. Then the surrounding warriors scattered in patches like wastepaper flowers, bringing with them a sky of bloody rain.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The warriors' eyes looked at the man on the ground, but the mages and priests were looking at another human. However, he wasn't on the ground but on a Wyvern in mid-air. The warriors' eyes looking at the man were filled with fear and anger, while the mages' eyes looking at this person, besides hostility and anger, also carried unconcealable reverence and admiration.

  On the Wyvern was an elder holding a magic wand, with short silver hair and beard, and eyes shining with spirit. He was the only one on the beastmen's side who could use magic, but he alone, with that wand, was dealing with the hundreds of mages and priests below. He forced them to spend almost all their energy contending with him, unable to spare hands to deal with the beastmen and that man.

  What this elder used wasn't any earth-shattering fire magic or Forbidden Spell. Except for the atmospheric divine shield surrounding him and the Wyvern, he used only low and mid-level magic. But his casting speed was astonishingly fast, his usage ingenious, and crucially, his creativity and imagination when using spells were like a dazzling magic performance, a casting demonstration. Various magic emerged from his hands. The four elemental systems, dark magic, and even white magic, combining and influencing each other, collided with the mages' attacks below like clusters of magical fireworks.

  Not a single attack could successfully deal with this high-altitude mage. He usually only needed an instant-cast magic to intercept at least three or four opponents' magic through collision or explosion. A senior mage even unwillingly used a precious scroll like Blazing Might Shot, but the elder just used two fireballs, then an air magic's wind control technique, immediately causing that scorching hot sphere of light to change trajectory and turn back to the ground. At least thirty warriors were turned to charcoal under this top-tier scroll. But the Thunderblast Bombs flying from the wand in his hand, crafted from a unicorn's horn, made it difficult for the mages below to defend. Huge explosions and air waves continuously bloomed patches of death flowers among the crowd. And his personal attacks when he had spare time were even more varied. For example, using black magic's corrosive venom to make water system's ice burst and hit each other in mid-air, with all the scattering ice fragments contaminated with the black magic's bone-corroding, flesh-rotting toxicity. Or using high-temperature fireballs to hit water system's venom spheres, with the volatilized gas all blown toward the opponent under the pressure of wind control. There was another time when exchanging attacks with several water mages, ice flakes and water droplets fell from the sky, then a Thunderblast Bomb, and finally an earth system's decomposition spell chasing the thunderball. Finally, in that small area, over a hundred people fell down wailing in the electric light.

  If they could return from here, the combat effectiveness of these surviving mages would improve by a significant margin. They had all witnessed the art of casting.

  "Give you a chance, surrender. We guarantee your safety." The man, having dispersed his fighting spirit, actually showed a trace of impatience on his face. "We already gave you an ultimatum long ago, telling you to withdraw from the highlands. This battle was brought upon by yourselves. Victory and defeat are decided, surrender."

  Among the surviving warriors, a young warrior gazed at the man from afar, his red eyes already filled with blood streaks. He softly said, "He seems very tired already. We could pretend to surrender... After all, there are still so many of us here, with several mages casting at full power, surely we can..."

  "It's useless. Those are Sedros and Gru. The two masters of Oufu City. Probably only Lancelot and the Temple Knight lords would be their opponents." A fifty or sixty-year-old veteran warrior shook his head, but his expression wasn't disappointment and dejection, but resoluteness and determination. He was once a Templar of Celeste, now temporarily commanding this force. "The key is that we cannot surrender. What we fight for is not our own interests, but the Lord's glory and honor. For the Lord's glory, we must not surrender, even if it's a pretense."

  "Yes..." The young warrior lowered his head dejectedly.

  "For the Lord's glory, let us spill our hot blood and courage here." The old Templar's hoarse voice reached every ear, and everyone's expressions lifted. The mages began chanting spells, and the warriors gripped their weapons.

  "I've disliked that phrase for a long time now. Wasting my time." Gru sighed impatiently. The message sent from the other side had been some time ago. He took a deep breath, and the light of fighting spirit shone on his body again.

  "Don't go over, what do you want to do?" Not far away in the sky, five griffins carrying five people circled in the air. One of the clerics riding a griffin blocked his companion who wanted to rush toward the battlefield.

  "I still have two Burning Cloud Techniques, one Falling Stars, and one Chain Lightning scroll. I cannot just watch them be killed by those heretics and beastmen devils." The young mage on the griffin's back shouted. The slaughter on the battlefield began again, and with only elites remaining, the battle was even more tragic and cruel than before.

  "Are you crazy? Before you can use them, you'll already lose your life." The cleric listened to the distant sounds of slaughter and magic explosions, his heart splitting. But he still desperately blocked the young mage. He couldn't let him go to his death. In fact, there were originally ten griffins. At the beginning of the battle, the mages and warriors riding griffins wanted to use their height to deal with the opponents below. But Gru casually grabbed and threw javelins and spears, immediately killing several griffins along with their riders.

  "Have you forgotten the task that Bishop Eschol gave us?" The warrior shouted, and only then did the young mage not rush forward to his death.

  Mission. After saying this word, the warrior himself couldn't help but smile bitterly. At this point, what mission could still be mentioned? Attract Oufu's attention as much as possible, harass Oufu, and use scrolls to inflict casualties on the beastmen's forces when necessary. These missions sounded like a joke under the circumstances of the entire army being annihilated. The magic scrolls that Bishop Eschol gave them to injure several beastmen during the battle had no chance to be used. These were all large-scale mass destruction magic, originally intended to be used on the beastmen's forces when an opportunity arose, but who knew that only a dozen beastmen came, and all were elites. Not to mention being completely unusable, even if used, they would probably only kill their own people. That Blazing Might Shot scroll was a perfect example.

  By now, perhaps only the last mission could be completed. That was to carefully observe Oufu's fighting style and then report back. But this was also the most important task that Eschol had instructed. The cleric had cast an Eagle's Eye spell on himself and was carefully observing, watching his comrades and friends being slaughtered like lambs in front of him, yet having to remember every detail and link as much as possible. It only made his heart break, ache, and fill with anger and powerlessness.

  The battle finally ended, and the cleric immediately turned his griffin and flew west, shouting loudly, "Everyone go separately! Those pursued by Sedros, try to delay him as much as possible, giving others as much time as possible."

  But Sedros had no intention of pursuing these escaped fish. He leaped down from his flying dragon and landed in front of Gru, frowning and saying, "What should we do? The message sent during the battle has been for some time now. I'm afraid it's already too late. If we go now, I don't know if..."

  "Better late than never." Gru immediately replied. "Let's go quickly!"