As the assailants drew closer to the fortified perimeter of the town, a palpable tension hung in the air. Armad meticulously orchestrated his response from within the stronghold. With a deliberate gesture, he signaled the astute Commander Silaini to initiate the counterassault. The commander barked orders at the archers, who stood poised with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of arrows. While arrows were in abundance, it was the archers who were the true scarce; their expertise was what the town’s defense desperately relied upon.
In the aftermath of a harsh engagement with the wild tribes, Armad’s legion had painstakingly imparted their knowledge to 500 conscripted townsfolk, training them in the refined techniques of archery and other martial strategies. These lessons were not in vain, as some had already tapped into their latent cultivation powers—a testament to their potential and determination.
Armad had vowed to these fledgling warriors that any among them who could elevate their cultivation to the stature of Formation establishment level would be granted the honor of joining his prestigious legion, which boasted 2,000 seasoned fighters. Armad’s code was stringent; traditionally, only those who had achieved the esteemed level of Core formation would be considered for inclusion in his ranks, as he believed any inferior cultivator would only dilute the formidable strength of his legion. However, in recognition of their valiant efforts and the sacrifices they had shown, Armad had compassionately reduced the requirement from the lofty Core formation to the more attainable Formation establishment level.
As the enemy forces inexorably advanced toward the town’s formidable wall, the archers readied their bows, the tension of the strings mirroring the anxiety in their hearts. At the critical moment, when the distance between the encroaching army and the wall shrank to a mere 60 meters, Commander Silaini’s hand descended in a swift, calculated motion. The archers, attuned to the signal, unleashed a lethal rain of arrows towards the enemies.
The arrows sliced through the air with deadly intent, yet the enemy was not caught unprepared. Similar to the previous day’s encounter, they conjured a magical barrier to intercept the incoming projectiles. Unlike the solitary spellcasters who had previously erected the shield, this time they had adapted their strategy; for every two soldiers without the gift, there was one who possessed the arcane aptitude to materialize the protective wall. This formation created an interlocking shield, each magic-wielding soldier effectively covering themselves and their adjacent comrades, rendering the entire line impervious to the archers’ assault.
The arrows collided with the magical barrier, and upon impact, they not only failed to penetrate but also triggered a luminous discharge from the wall. The light that radiated from it was reminiscent of the iridescent sheen of a page’s luster—a mesmerizing, yet frustrating, display of defensive prowess.
Despite this setback, Armad’s voice cut through the din of battle, commanding his archers to sustain their offensive. He understood that the true confrontation would occur when the enemy pressed within 30 meters of the wall—a distance that would severely test the resolve and strategy of both the defenders and the attackers. The outcome of this clash would not be decided by the abundance of arrows or the scarcity of skilled archers but by the courage and ingenuity of those who wielded them, and the indomitable will of a leader determined to protect his town at all costs.
Armad lifted his hand, signaling a pivotal moment on the battlefield. From his ranks, 500 soldiers stepped forth, each burdened with bombs that had been bought at great expense from seafaring traders. Without hesitation, these soldiers lobbed the deadly spheres toward the massed armies of their adversaries.
However, the enemy was not caught unprepared. Their intelligence had hinted at the possibility of such an explosive onslaught, and they had strategized accordingly. With remarkable coordination, the enemy troops scattered in every direction, their movements calculated to reduce the effectiveness of the explosives. The bombs detonated amidst the chaos, yet due to the enemy's anticipatory tactics, the loss of life was less than catastrophic. Even so, the enemy commander retained his confidence, convinced that his forces held the upper hand. He reasoned that the town under Armad's protection could not possibly maintain a sufficient arsenal of bombs to threaten his substantial numbers.
But the town's reliance on their limited stockpile of bombs was a misjudgment on his part. While it was true that not every bomb achieved its lethal potential—sometimes taking the lives of one or two soldiers, at other times failing to hit a single target—Armad had other plans in place. He knew that the town's survival did not hinge on the bombs alone.
Armad's strategic mind ticked away the seconds, acutely aware that the enemy would reach the town walls within a minute if the current course of action persisted. It was then that he issued another command, unveiling the second phase of his defense.
From the heart of the town, another brigade of 500 soldiers emerged, each one gripping a sword with an unremarkable exterior. Yet, these were no mere blades; they were the product of rare craftsmanship and arcane knowledge, procured from those same itinerant traders who had supplied the bombs. The soldiers, a select group trained in the art of cultivation, stepped into their ranks with a quiet sense of purpose.
As this new force approached the front lines, each warrior began to activate their internal cultivation abilities, creating a resonance with their swords. The air hummed with the buildup of energy as the soldiers, moving as one, lifted their swords in a graceful, terrifying arc.
Then, with a collective sweep, they unleashed the Moving-Sword-Strike—a formidable technique that sent a visible wave of the force of sword image surging toward the enemy. The resulting echo dominated the sounds of battle, a testament to the strike's overwhelming power.
The enemy commander, who had until now maintained a façade of indifference, could only gape in astonishment. The sight of this mystical and devastating attack prompted him to question aloud, his voice tinged with disbelief and a newfound respect for his adversary, "How many secrets does Prince Armad harbor, aside from the bombs we had already learned to contend with?"
The Moving Sword Strike tore through the enemy ranks with ruthless precision. Any soldier whose cultivation had not attained the esteemed Formation establishment level was cleaved in half or, in some cases, dismembered entirely. Only the most adept practitioners, those who had reached the esteemed echelons of the last stage formation establishment level or the rarefied level of Core formation, could withstand the force of the attack. Their advanced cultivation levels provided a shield against the otherwise fatal energy.
Yet, even as the field was strewn with the fallen, the remainder of the enemy soldiers, those who had survived the onslaught, did not falter in their advance. With grim determination and the desperation of those who have nothing left to lose, they pressed on, their sights set on the walls that protected the town and its inhabitants.
The enemies who had reached the formidable walls of the town wasted no time in deploying their cultivation skills. Amongst their ranks, the Earth Benders showcased their mastery over the elements, sculpting steps out of the very walls that were meant to keep them at bay, and began their perilous climb. Since the battle’s inception, the town’s valiant troops had already dispatched more than 3,000 enemy combatants. Nevertheless, the sheer size of the enemy forces was daunting; more than 4,000 soldiers still thronged the ranks of the invaders, eager to engage.
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Amid the chaos, Armad calculated that in less than two minutes, half of the remaining enemy would be upon the walls. The time for strategy and commands was swiftly giving way to the urgency of confrontation. With decisive resolve, Armad vaulted onto the battlements and began to unleash his formidable cultivation techniques upon the advancing foes. Seeing their leader take such bold action, Commander Silaini and a cohort of 20 Devas, warriors of esteemed capability, advanced to support him.
Armad’s opening salvo was the Dorawa, a sword skill of his devising, characterized by its radiant yellow light and the three stars that followed each powerful strike. The assault bore down upon the newly formed earthen steps with a weight far exceeding the endurance of the Earth Benders who had conjured them. Under the might of the Dorawa, the steps crumbled, sending more than 200 of the enemy’s climbers into a tumbling descent, crashing into those below. This devastating attack resulted in over 100 enemy soldiers dead and another 300 wounded, a testament to Armad’s formidable prowess.
At the rear of the enemy’s formations, their commander’s face twisted into a frown as he observed Armad’s unexpected display of power. Just months earlier, intelligence from the King’s Legion had painted a far less threatening picture of Armad’s capabilities. From his position, he could only conclude that Armad’s cultivation had ascended to a staggering 10,000 years of power—a level previously thought impossible based on reports that barely credited him with 6,000 years of cultivation. The notion that Armad could have bridged such a gap, even to a level of 7,000 years, within the intervening time seemed unfathomable.
A torrent of questions surged through the enemy commander’s mind. Could there have been deception at play from the King’s Legion? Could they have deliberately understated the prince’s true strength? But such doubts were a luxury he could ill afford in the thick of battle. He pressed these thoughts to the back of his mind, for his cultivation had reached the zenith known as Peak-of-Deva. As the commanding force in the town of Fida, he held the conviction that none but the king himself could best him in combat. He had been chosen to lead this formidable army against the town precisely because of his strength and because of the threat posed by Commander Silaini. The King’s Legion had equipped him with other Devas and protective seals to guard against the Wilberforce cultivation wielded by Commander Silaini, bolstering his confidence in his ability to emerge victorious.
Throughout the comprehensive briefings and preparations for this siege, there had been no emphasis, no warning, to be particularly wary of Armad. Was it possible that even the King's Legion had not foreseen the prince reaching the fearsome level of Pre-Deva? The enemy commander felt a chill of fear that surpassed any expectation one might have of a Pre-Deva level cultivator. As he gazed at Armad, now a whirlwind of destruction atop the walls, he knew that this battle had taken a turn that none in his ranks had anticipated, and it was a turn that could very well spell their doom.
It has been whispered among the ranks that the Miyura resting on Armad’s forehead is no mere ornament; it is said to bolster his cultivation level by centuries each time it is employed. Such power is not to be taken lightly, and there is a growing belief that if Armad were to invoke the mystic energies of the mirror during the current conflict, he might very well attain the formidable level of a second-of-Deva, a status that commands immense respect and fear within the hierarchy of Deva. The ramifications of such an eventuality are not lost upon the enemy, compelling them to prioritize Armad’s immediate containment.
Despite the looming threat posed by Armad’s potential, the enemy commander clings to a vein of optimism, buoyed by the sheer numerical advantage his forces hold over the defenders of the town. The task given to him is clear-cut: to erode the town’s military strength and assess its capabilities. With grim determination etched upon his face, the commander ascends to the town’s battlements, his four trusted companions following closely behind. Their determined march leads them to the heart of the battlefield where Commander Silaini is.
The atmosphere on the battlefield shifts perceptibly as the enemy’s ranks witness a sudden and dramatic increase in the number of their Devas. Several fighters, formerly of the lower rank of Core formation, find their cultivation levels soaring, reaching the echelon of Deva. In mere moments, the enemy’s cadre of Deva doubles in size from ten to twenty, infusing their ranks with newfound strength and zeal. This bolstered force launches a coordinated assault against the town’s own Deva combatants, deliberately sidelining their weakest members to confront Prince Armad, whom they mistakenly deem insignificant—a mere Core Formation cultivator, unworthy of their full attention.
For the first time since the onset of hostilities, the battle grinds to a tense halt as the elite soldiers, who had hitherto been content to orchestrate the conflict from a safe distance, step forth into the heat of battle. But Prince Armad pays no heed to the Deva closing in on him. Instead, he gracefully advances, executing the second step, and continues striking down one step after another with the speed of the ancient spells of Kaban Shisu.
The Deva, who finds himself at the first level of Deva and is swollen with the same arrogance that often plagues those of his stature, is incensed by Armad’s apparent disregard. In this age, the title of Deva is as revered as that of royalty, and the expectation is that all, regardless of their noble lineage or lack thereof, should bow to its might. Armad’s dismissive stance is not just a personal affront—it is a challenge to the very order that elevates the Deva. Consumed with indignation and the fear of being made a mockery among his equals, Deva becomes singularly fixated on the need to defeat Armad. To fail in this task, to be bested by a Core Formation cultivator who dares to ignore the hierarchy of power, would render him a subject of scorn and ridicule among his contemporaries—an outcome he is determined to avoid at all costs.
The Deva surged forward, accelerating his pace towards Armad with urgency. To his astonishment, even with a considerable increase in speed, he was unable to intercept Armad before the latter’s weapon descended upon the third step. Redoubling his efforts, the Deva pushed his velocity by an additional 40%, yet still, he fell short of halting Armad’s relentless advance. With a sense of urgency, he augmented his speed by a staggering 70%, convinced that such a display of his formidable strength would surely be sufficient to overpower Armad.
“You shameless boy, cease your actions immediately!” The Deva bellowed, his voice echoing with authority and power as it carried across the battlefield. Yet Armad appeared oblivious to the command, his focus unshaken as if Deva’s words were but whispers lost in the wind.
At that moment, Armad was deeply immersed in the intricate enchantments of Kaban Shisu, his lips moving silently as he chanted. Simultaneously, he tapped into the essence of his world, a subtle force that began to erode Deva’s formidable strength by a small yet significant margin of 10%. With a swift and decisive motion, Armad struck the third step, and it crumbled beneath the power of his spell. The tragedy was immediate and stark: those who had been climbing the steps at the moment of its destruction were crushed beneath the debris, their lives extinguished in an instant.
Amidst this chaos, one could not help but marvel at the precision with which Armad wielded his destructive power. The surrounding walls of the town, which stood close to the steps, remained untouched, unscathed by the force that obliterated the steps themselves. This pinpoint accuracy was no mere chance—it was the result of years of disciplined practice, a skill Armad had meticulously refined since the days his sister had first instructed him in this formidable skill.
In those early years, she had cautioned him about the skill’s grave cost: for each use, a portion of his lifespan would be forfeit. At that time, Armad’s cultivation level had been too low to employ the technique without dire consequences. But now, with his cultivation having reached new heights, there was no longer any doubt about his ability to wield it. It was a situation akin to his use of the spells of Kaban Shisu, which had once drained his energies so much that he could only perform them once a year. Now, after years of relentless training and growth, his cultivation had multiplied to a point where what had once taken years to recover from could now be summoned at will.
As Armad laid waste to the fifth step with the same devastating efficiency, Deva’s anger boiled over. No longer could he contain the tempest within; he unleashed every ounce of his cultivation strength, channeling 100% of his capacity in an explosive display of power. In an instant, he transcended the realm of mere speed, appearing as if by magic behind Armad, a terrifying specter of wrath. There, poised for a counterstrike, the Deva stood ready to unleash the full fury of his cultivation upon Armad, determined to end the onslaught once and for all.