Commander Kisa diligently continues his observation of the mysterious pills utilized by Commander Silaini for his miraculous healing. Upon closer examination, Kisa realizes that it's not just Silaini who benefits from these pills; the entire battalion under Silaini's command relies on them for their curative properties.
Furthermore, even those within Silaini's battalion who have yet to unlock their cultivation abilities are equipped with bottles containing peculiar water, which they consume to replenish their energy levels. Notably, the scent emitted by both the water and the pills is identical, suggesting a common origin.
This shared reliance on the pills and water raises intriguing questions about their composition and effectiveness. Kisa speculates on the connection between these provisions and their remarkable resilience against the Nusi’s debilitating smoke, which induces dizziness and drowsiness. It's evident that beyond boosting energy, these substances possess potent healing properties, evident from the absence of any visible wounds among Silaini's troops.
However, Kisa's concerns deepen as he considers the scarcity of such potent medicines. Even the esteemed Medicine Producers Association seldom produces such elixirs in significant quantities, typically reserving them for distribution among powerful tribes. The rarity of these medicines makes their widespread availability within Silaini's battalion all the more perplexing.
Even Prince Armad cannot obtain such medicine, not because his rank lacks the esteem to acquire it, but because his father has withdrawn his influence from all matters concerning the prince, having granted him a town to develop independently.
The council of Wilberforce believes that if the king continues to intervene in matters concerning the prince, granting Prince Armad the opportunity to develop the town becomes insignificant, as they recognize the prince’s capability to succeed independently of his father’s assistance.
Commander Kisa shares the belief that the Medicine Producers Association is unlikely to assist Armad solely because of his father’s involvement, as his father’s influence over him has waned. Any assistance provided should be based on Armad’s merits as an individual, not simply as the son of a king. However, the association might consider aiding him due to his status as the second eldest son of King Ayrion, were it not for the rivalry with his brother Ikenga for the throne succession.
Assisting Armad at this juncture could be interpreted as opposition to Prince Ikenga, which the Medicine Producers Association, as one of the world’s elite institutions, seeks to avoid. While they may not publicly endorse Ikenga over Armad, they are cautious about being drawn into conflict with the crown prince.
The central conundrum that hangs over in the mind of Commander Kisa is the source of Prince Armad’s newfound power. Once deemed the feeblest of the king’s progeny, he now wields medicine of such potency that it calls into question the existence of covert allies. Could there be clandestine figures orchestrating his rise to strength?
As these thoughts churned in Commander Kisa’s mind, his doubts began to crystallize into conviction. Armad’s surprising influence over the wild tribes, his lack of physical prowess, and an apparent dearth of strategic thinking—all these factors pointed to an external force at play. The evidence seemed irrefutable; someone, or something, was bolstering Armad from the shadows. But the identity of this benefactor remained shrouded in mystery.
Heavy-hearted and laden with thought, Commander Kisa lifted his gaze to meet that of Commander Silaini. His voice, tinged with the weariness of war, broke the tense silence, “Who stands with you in the darkness? Who has granted you those miraculous pills? Do not be so naive as to think that anonymous patrons can secure your triumph in this conflict. Even you must recognize that your chances of victory were slim from the very outset. Is it not the moment to acknowledge defeat? Will your stubbornness truly be enough to avert our inevitable victory?”
The art of war extends beyond the mere clashing of swords; it is also a battle of wits and words. A well-timed doubt can be as crippling as a well-placed blade, especially when the enemy’s downfall is not readily at hand.
Commander Silaini’s response was a subtle, knowing smile. Although he had once harbored reservations about their chances of success, the fear now evident in the eyes of his opponents infused him with a newfound sense of assurance. This fear, he noted, stemmed not from his or Armad’s actions but from the perception that they were backed by an unknown, powerful entity.
Yet, does such a benefactor truly exist? Even Commander Silaini himself is unsure. In the brief span since they had expected Armad to crumble—a mere 20 days—there has been a dramatic shift. Armad now moves with an almost enigmatic purpose, displaying a rapid increase in his cultivation level, distributing mysterious pills, elevating the status of a formerly insignificant maid, and showcasing formidable skills previously unseen.
The possibility of a hidden supporter is undeniable. At first, suspicion fell upon Nusi and her supposed patrons, believed to be fortifying the prince in hopes of reciprocation. But after an extensive probe into Nusi’s background yielded nothing out of the ordinary, stretching to her grandparents, that trail went cold. The spies assigned to her have confirmed that her progress can be traced back to Armad’s influence, suggesting she may not be the orchestrator after all. Despite these findings, it doesn’t completely absolve her from suspicion; however, Silaini is increasingly persuaded that there is yet another, apart from Nusi, who is providing clandestine assistance to the prince.
If it were to be revealed that the mysterious System, which has been guiding the thoughts and actions of Armad, is known to both commanders, it would no doubt cause a profound shock. Even if that is revealed, skepticism may linger as the true origin of the System remains shrouded in secrecy. There may be suspicions of an impostor among them, someone with enough cunning to infiltrate Armad’s inner circle and impersonate System. In a realm where cultivators wield the power to disguise themselves as virtually anything, the possibility of deceit is ever-present. Yet, amid these uncertainties, Commander Silaini finds an opportune moment to sow doubt in the minds of his foes and weaken their resolve.
Commander Silaini, with a sneer of derision, couldn’t contain his amusement. “Hahaha, who would have thought a warrior of the King’s Legion would cower before a battalion that scarcely numbers 5,000? Where has your vaunted arrogance gone, the very arrogance that once led you to believe you were too noble to even walk upon the Earth’s soil? Are you now confessing that your courage failed you before the battle has even become more difficult?”
Silaini’s mockery was not lost on Kisa. He quickly grasped that his adversary was employing a familiar tactic – the use of disparaging words to erode the enemy’s confidence. Kisa had used this very ploy himself in past confrontations, knowing well its potential impact.
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Yet, such psychological warfare was unlikely to deter either of the commanders. The exchange, however, served to enrage Commander Kisa. He found it inconceivable that Silaini, with the forces at his command, could pose a genuine threat. Kisa’s original plan had been to subdue Silaini without taking his life, to surgically transform him into a servile robot of deva rank. But Silaini’s insolent remarks had stirred a change of heart in Kisa, igniting a desire for a more permanent solution.
Silaini, sensing the tide of battle within his grasp, wasted no time. He raised his sword and struck at Kisa, interrupting his strategic contemplation. He knew all too well that any delay would only grant Kisa the time needed to conjure further obstacles to his victory.
Kisa, fueled by a blend of urgency and fury, tightened his grip, channeling his focus to summon one of the King’s Legion’s legendary skills. His intention was clear: to cut down Silaini and assert his presence in the battle that raged beneath their airborne standoff.
This clash above the clouds was but one of many unfolding across the extensive battlefield. On the ground, the enemy’s overwhelming force, a 30,000-strong battalion, had managed to scale the town’s defenses. Those who had yet to reach the walls provided cover by raining arrows upon the defenders. The town’s garrison, numbering over 10,000, stood firm, although, among them, the town’s soldiers comprised a mere 30%. Ai’s contingent, originally 500 strong, who had not yet awakened their cultivation abilities, numbers had dwindled to around 350, the rest having fallen in defense of Tiriba.
The battle continued to rage with unyielding ferocity. The warriors, their appearances marred by the dust and blood of conflict, were indistinguishable but for their armor. Allies and enemies became blurred figures in a dance of death.
The battalion under Armad’s command had still assembled at the center of the wall of the town. However, they soon found themselves in a precarious situation as the battalions of the enemy unleashed a barrage of attacks from the east and west flanks, encircling them with a strategic pincer movement.
Armad quickly assessed the dire circumstances. He knew that without swift and decisive action, the outcome would be grim. Even if the enemy’s additional forces, which were currently preoccupied with laying siege to the town at other key points, did not reinforce the onslaught, Armad’s forces were dangerously close to being overwhelmed. The air was thick with the imminence of a potential massacre that could unfold within mere moments, threatening to obliterate his army and himself from the battlefield entirely.
Amid this chaos, Ai stood with a knife clutched in each hand. She faced off against a hulking soldier whose impressive physique was a mere shell for the vast cultivation experience he held within. His cultivation had matured, reaching the late stage of ki condensation level, which signified over ninety-five years of cultivation.
Engaged in brutal combat, Ai was an anomaly on the battlefield. Without any cultivation abilities of her own, she had nonetheless discarded all semblance of fear. Her audacity in the face of such a formidable foe was as striking as it was unexpected.
Armad had strictly instructed her and the troop that she oversees that each soldier was to limit their intake of the energy-boosting herbal elixirs to a maximum of three bottles. Ai, however, took liberties with this rule. Being in charge of the herb distribution, she had stealthily consumed approximately five bottles. This overindulgence was a silent testament to her desperation to survive and protect her town. She stowed the remainder of the bottles in the magical bag that Armad had entrusted to her. Though the bag was modest in size, its enchantment allowed it to house the bottles with ease. Typically, larger magical bags required a user’s cultivation to access their contents, but Ai’s lack of cultivation seemed to pose no barrier, a curious anomaly perhaps linked to the bag’s unique properties.
Ai’s combat prowess was put to a severe test against the experienced cultivator. With every sweeping attack from his giant sword, Ai would counter with her knives. Each collision sent shockwaves through her arms, her hands temporarily losing sensation as if struck dead. But with unwavering resolve, Ai would grip her knives anew, ready to meet the next blow. Her hands began to betray the toll of this relentless defense, with blood flowing from a deep laceration—a grim souvenir of the enemy’s formidable swordsmanship.
The wounds that marred Ai’s body were not solely the fruits of her current struggle. They were a mosaic of her battle-hardened past, each scar a chapter in her story of survival. They were the accumulated badges of countless skirmishes, a silent record of adversaries fallen at her hand—her history written in the language of scars.
No one could divine the exact number of opponents she had bested before this encounter, but the evidence of her valor was written in the very sinews of her being.
Yet, as the duel dragged on, a sobering truth began to dawn. For all the tales of Ai’s undying confidence and her extraordinary resilience, the reality presented an opponent whose might posed an existential threat to her relentless spirit. In the face of such overwhelming power, it was evident that Ai had met her match—an opponent against whom even her indomitable will might not be enough to prevail.
The opponents’ laughter echoed with scorn, a sound as chilling as the wind across a desolate battlefield. “Hahaha, it seems I am destined to be your executioner. Despite your beauty, it puzzles me why you would choose to throw away your life in such a place. But do not tremble in fear, for I shall not grant you a swift end. No, you shall serve me first, and once I’ve tired of you, you will be sold into slavery. Your exquisite features will surely fetch a high price, and there will be a clamor amongst the noble houses to acquire you—a trophy to display, to extend their hospitality to esteemed guests.”
His words were saturated with arrogance and disdain, aimed to wound not just the body but the spirit of Ai. The battlefield had become a lonely arena for her; her soldiers had been repelled, leaving her encircled by the enemy’s cultivators. Beyond the man she faced, three other adversaries watched with lecherous grins, their eyes degrading her as though they could see through her armor. Their intent was clear—they were not inclined to join the battle, for they preferred to indulge in the sport of humiliation. If they were to kill her too swiftly, they would be denied the twisted pleasure they sought.
Amid these vile creatures, Ai bit her lip, her mind racing with desperate thoughts. Was this the hour of her demise? Was there no path left to evade the clutches of this brutal conflict? Had they pushed themselves to the very limit of their potential, only to find it lacking?
The memory of her unwavering belief in Armad flickered in her mind—Armad, who had imbued them with his overwhelming might, enabling those without cultivation skills to stand firm, to defeat those with awakened powers. This belief had been their standard, their rallying cry, but in the thick of battle, its power seemed to fade into the shadows of doubt.
Earlier, a glimmer of hope had been reignited by Nusi, a loyal servant of Armad, whose extraordinary prowess had allowed them to dream once again of triumph. But that dream was shattered as swiftly as it was born by the appearance of the commander of the King’s Legion—a figure unknown to Ai. With the unleashing of his formidable Kilebayan skill, the dream was extinguished, hope crumbling into despair.
Now, victory appeared to be an unreachable star in the night sky. Nevertheless, Ai could not, would not, accept a passive demise. She would not let death find her without her claws sunk deep into the flesh of her enemies. Even if her life were to be extinguished in these moments, she was determined to drag this contemptuous foe before her down to the abyss with her.
With a fierceness born of desperation, Ai bit hard into her lip, the taste of iron filling her mouth. Her hand darted out, flinging the knife she held into the dust. Delving into her magical bag, she retrieved a small bottle filled with a potent concoction of herbs and downed it swiftly. One by one, she consumed five such bottles, each one a silent vow that she would not falter, that her spirit would not break under the weight of impending doom.
Her opponent merely observed, his laughter a silent echo within his mind. He was confident—overly so—that whatever tricks she had up her sleeve were futile against his might.
After the fifth bottle, Ai’s hand emerged once more from her bag, now gripping another blade. It was evident that knives were her weapon of choice, a preference perhaps born from a lack of affinity or training with the sword.