Commander Silaini used every ounce of his formidable strength to launch a relentless onslaught against the magical fortifications that Kisa had expertly manifested, which formed a constricting circle around him so that he would be able to complete the intricate summoning of arcane seals. The seal that held the promise of escape, a chance to evade the clutches of his adversaries. Meanwhile, Armad, not to be outdone, demonstrated the full might of his celebrated sword skill of Dorawa. His prowess was not merely in the swing of his blade, for his pol strings, akin to anticipatory predators, clung to the wall’s surface, eager to shatter it and deliver a fatal blow to Kisa.
The unfolding battle bore witness to a surprising twist when Commander Silaini’s sword, with a ferocious crack, split the first of Kisa’s barriers. Yet the victory was short-lived as the second barrier withstood the blow, remaining intact. Armad, too, encountered resistance; his sword managed only a minor gash in the next wall. Still, Armad held a firm belief that with a couple more concerted strikes, he could shatter the magical construct. His confidence wavered, however, when the wall began to mend itself with an almost sentient autonomy.
Every time Armad’s pol strings collided with the wall, they were repelled with force, as if the wall itself were alive and actively defending against the assault. This barrier was no ordinary construct; it was vastly different from the defensive measures the Battalion of Kisa had employed against the soldiers from Tiriba town. It was likely one of the King’s legion’s extraordinary skills, a defense of such potency that it could withstand not only the physical and magical onslaughts of cultivators but also resist the pol strings, a rare and advanced skill awakened through the mystic eyes of Wilberforce.
Despite the formidable defense before them, Commander Silaini and Armad did not yield to despair. With unyielding resolve, they continued their barrage against the wall, which, under relentless pressure, began to show fresh cracks and fissures. Only a solitary barrier remained as the last line of defense between them and Kisa. Behind it, they could discern the faint outlines of another wall struggling to take form. But it was clear that Kisa was reaching the limits of his cultivation strength; the power required to manifest such a skill was immense, and it was evident that he was depleting his reserves. The potency of any skill is inexorably linked to the number of cultivation years it consumes to maintain its effect.
Armad and Silaini gripped their swords tightly and leaped toward the wall in a synchronized assault. Armad, perceptive and strategic, had realized that his pol strings were futile against the magical barrier protecting their foe. This insight led him to rely on the latent power of his blade. Despite this shift in tactics, he had not yet retracted his strings to Miyura; they lingered on the battlefield, poised for his command. He was biding his time, waiting for the slightest crack in the wall to dispatch even a single string. He knew that if he could just introduce one string through a minuscule gap, it would navigate straight to the core of Commander Kisa, and this could be the key to disrupting the formidable skill that Kisa wielded.
In a fury of motion, their swords lashed out, striking at the wall with ferocious intent. Their onslaught was so intense that, before their collective might could even make contact, the wall burst asunder. Amidst the settling debris, they spied Commander Kisa on the cusp of completing a sacred ritual—a summoning of a seal designed for a hasty retreat. This critical juncture underscored the importance of Armad’s pol strings; already, five of them had ensnared Kisa’s chest.
For the first time, uncertainty and dread marred the stoic visage of Commander Kisa. As the pol strings converged on him, the seal he had nearly wrought sprang to life, a last-ditch effort to whisk him away from the battlefield. Yet, the pol strings had already infiltrated his core, and several had self-destructed, unleashing havoc within him. As he began to fade from reality, a stream of blood trickled from his mouth and nose—an omen of his severe injuries. With blood still marking the place where he once stood, Commander Kisa vanished into oblivion.
Armad, intent on confirming his adversary’s fate, sprang toward the place of disappearance, sword arcing through the air only to cleave through the void left by Kisa. Nearby, Commander Silaini hastened to assess the situation, his gaze lingering on the site before his features contorted with concern. “He has escaped, wounded profoundly by our hands. Such injuries will not mend quickly. We must gather our forces and strike decisively before he can recuperate and make his way back to the capital city of Wilberforce. The prospect of him revealing the secrets of your pol strings to the city’s heart, Your Highness, is a scenario too dire to contemplate. We must act swiftly to ensure that he never has the opportunity to endanger the realm with his knowledge.”
Armad’s heart still seethed with a relentless yearning for retribution against Commander Kisa. The words of his commander seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Armad’s focus was consumed by the tumultuous scene before him. On the battlefield, he was like a fierce, demonic lion, his roars echoing a primal call for vengeance. Yet, as the moments passed, Armad’s fiery emotions began to cool, and his rational mind slowly took the reins once more. He realized that Kisa had indeed fled the field of the battle. However, his attacks did not go in vain as they injured his core.
Armad was acutely aware that he had dealt a significant blow to Kisa’s core, obliterating more than half of his cultivation before the cowardly retreat. Such a blow would be fatal to any ordinary cultivator. However, those who hailed from the ranks of the king’s legion were anything but ordinary. They were exceptional, equipped with a plethora of covert skills to cheat death itself, making it impossible to declare their demise without the confirmation of their corpses. The only exception to their survival was if they sustained injuries that were beyond the scope of their formidable healing abilities.
After a heavy, contemplative sigh, Armad acknowledged the necessity of their pursuit of Kisa. The reasons were manifold, but paramount among them was the elimination of the battalion Kisa had led into battle. On this day, Armad’s resolve was ironclad; he would brook no prisoners. His intent was utter annihilation. With a single, fiery glance at Silaini, his determination was silently communicated and immediately understood.
United in purpose, Armad and Commander Silaini turned to face the remnants of Kisa’s forces. They made their way decisively towards where Silaini’s captains were locked in fierce combat with the devas who had marched alongside Kisa.
As if the day had not already brought enough unforeseen events, the battlefield was about to reveal yet another twist. Soldiers of the king’s legion, regardless of their involvement in the ongoing conflict, started to abandon their posts. Each soldier chose a distinct escape route, creating a web of chaos that would make any organized pursuit exceedingly difficult. This sudden and unexpected maneuver caught Armad and Commander Silaini off guard, sending waves of surprise through their ranks.
But the depth of astonishment was perhaps deepest among the nine kings who had allied with the king’s legion. They had committed their forces to this alliance, believing in the legion’s reputed invincibility. Now, they were forced to witness the disintegration of that belief as the legionnaires scattered, their unity fractured, and their aura of invincibility shattered. This moment was not just a tactical surprise but also a profound psychological blow to the allies of the king’s legion, who had to reckon with the vulnerability of their once seemingly unstoppable partners.
Everything transpired at a breakneck pace. The battle had initially been in their favor, but in a startling twist during the last minute, their fortunes had reversed completely. The king’s Legion, reputed to be unmatched in valor and skill, had inexplicably turned tail and fled. The kings, witnesses to this unexpected betrayal, were dumbstruck, their mouths agape, unable to grasp the reality before them. It was a scene that defied their understanding, but after a brief moment of shock, they began to contemplate their options. Should they follow suit and retreat, or should they summon every ounce of their courage to confront Armad and his formidable battalion?
Just as these thoughts were swirling in their minds, the scene shifted to Armad, who was preparing to confront one of the devas hailing from the nine towns. His battle-hardened gaze then fell upon the King’s Legion, the very forces who were assigned to protect him. However, they betray him by trying to assassinate him, now scrambling to escape from the conflict between him is gaining the upper hand in the battle. With wrath burning in his eyes, he prepared to give chase to the deserters.
However, before Armad could set his wrath upon the fleeing Legion, he was met by the imposing figure of Commander Silaini, who stepped into his path. With a deferential bow, the commander addressed the rising fury in Armad’s eyes with a calm but firm voice.
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“Your Highness, it may seem as though the Legion’s flight is a sign of cowardice, but it is a calculated tactic,” began the commander. “When a commander deserts his post, his men have little choice but to follow. But this retreat is not without strategic merit. To give chase now would surely result in some casualties among the traitors, but it is unlikely we would eradicate them all. Such a pursuit would be protracted, potentially lasting days. By the time we were to return, victorious or not, the remaining enemy forces left unchallenged on the battlefield could wreak untold havoc upon our people. We might return to Tiriba laid to waste, our citizens slaughtered, and our town in ruins. Furthermore, the council that entrusted you with the noble task of building an empire, granting you the town of Tiriba as the foundation, might view such a loss as a failure on your part, possibly leading to the revocation of your charge.
Even if we were successful in bringing down Commander Kisa and his men, it would be a pyrrhic victory at best. They, too, know that their days are numbered. Their return to the capital city of Wilberforce is fraught with peril, for they cannot show their faces without facing the repercussions of their actions. Their options are limited: to claim that they defied your orders or to concoct a tale that you, yourself, sanctioned their withdrawal. Neither story will hold water with the Emperor. He will seek the truth from you, knowing that they were sent to serve and protect you. His favor lies with you, not with those who have forsaken their duty.
Therefore, I implore you, Your Highness, to consider the broader picture. Let us not be drawn into a fruitless chase that could cost us more than the lives of these traitors. Let us instead devote our energies to vanquishing the enemy forces that remain here and now on the battlefield. It is there that our true battle lies and it is there that we must emerge victorious if we are to preserve both your legacy and the future of Tiriba.”
Armad was acutely aware of the intricate web of motives and emotions surrounding him. His intense yearning for vengeance, which had once blinded him to all else, had been a consuming fire within his soul. This drive was not just his own; it seemed to be fueled by the restless spirit of the prince who had passed away – an additional catalyst for his thirst for retribution. Armad, grappling with these feelings, sighed heavily, the weight of his quest pressing upon him. In a moment of introspection, he closed his eyes, perhaps seeking solace in the darkness behind his lids.
Upon opening his eyes, a transformation had occurred. The once overwhelming urge to exact revenge had vanished from his gaze, replaced by a clear-sighted resolve. The reality was undeniable – he would, in due course, hunt down those responsible for the wrongs committed. Their faces were imprinted on his mind; while their names might momentarily escape him, their images were unforgettable. Silaini had taken care to document and safeguard their identities for future reference.
The matter of Commander Kisa was a personal vendetta. Armad had sworn an oath, to himself and the memory of those wronged, that Kisa’s demise would be by his hand alone. Despite this, Commander Sulaini’s strategic counsel had resonated with him: the elimination of the nearest enemy battalion was the most critical and immediate action required.
With renewed purpose, Armad returned to the battlefield, where chaos reigned. He found a Deva engaged in combat with one of his captains. Unbeknownst to the Deva, who was merely at the first stage of deva, Armad was stealthily approaching. This Deva was utterly unaware of the deadly pol string heading his way. The pol string, a weapon of precise lethality, infiltrated the Deva’s core, and with a self-destructive impulse, began to unravel. It was a silent, internal cataclysm. The Deva’s only signs of distress were the streams of blood that suddenly appeared from his nose and mouth. Before he could even begin to comprehend his fate, his core was obliterated, his core turned to dust before the pol string had even finished its explosive sequence.
Through this encounter, Armad gained a deeper understanding of the system’s previous message. The power of an adversary indeed dictated the necessary potency of the pol string that would be required to destroy their core. This particular Deva did not possess the strength to necessitate the deployment of the pol string’s full might. Thus, Armad prudently conserved his resources, withdrawing the pol string, and advanced towards the next target.
Leaving the beleaguered captain behind, Armad continued his deadly dance across the battlefield. His pol string became a harbinger of destruction for any foe that stood in his path. With a single, deadly pol string, he executed a calculated assault, decimating the cores of five Devas in succession. It was only within the sixth Deva that the pol string reached its ultimate purpose, exploding completely and leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.
Within this remarkably brief encounter, spanning no more than ten seconds, a staggering six devas from the enemy’s ranks met their demise. Armad, with unyielding resolve, moved decisively to engage yet another adversary without pause.
Amidst their deliberations on the unfolding battle, the nine kings bore witness to a sight that chilled them to the core—their devas, the elite few capable of autonomously ruling towns without monarchial oversight, were falling. These exceptional beings were vital cogs in the machinery of their towns, ensuring their smooth operation. Yet, in these moments, they were being extinguished as effortlessly as one would crush ants. The path that Armad carved through their lines was marked by the fallen devas, some lying still, others spasming with blood oozing from their orifices.
Completely at a loss, the kings found themselves incapable of perceiving the mysterious pol strings, the very essence of the calamity before them. If such phenomena eluded the monarchs, their subordinates stood even less of a chance to grasp the situation.
Commander Silaini, not to be outdone and despite also being unable to manipulate the pol strings, demonstrated his formidable physical prowess by swiftly eliminating five devas. His might alone prove to be a force of nature against which the enemy could not stand.
Simultaneously, Armad’s captains, invigorated by herbs that surged through them with renewing vitality, showed no signs of fatigue. They acted in unison, methodically striking down the enemy devas that remained. The execution was so swift and efficient that it left the battlefield utterly devoid of the enemy’s devas. Having cleared the field, the captains shifted their focus to the nine kings and, with strategic precision, teleported to their proximity.
King Konfot, with a sharpness of mind that belied the chaos, was the first to recognize the lethal nature of their situation. In a desperate bid for survival, he teleported 100 meters from his original position, invoking his most potent spells in the hopes of making a swift escape. However, Commander Silaini had already foreseen the possibility of a retreat. Knowing some kings might resort to fleeing, he had preemptively conjured an expansive magical barrier that enveloped the vicinity. The barrier was so robust that it would take significant tracking and effort to bypass, an endeavor far beyond the current capabilities of the kings.
As King Konfot, oblivious to the presence of the newly formed barrier, attempted his escape, he crashed into it with such force that it sent shockwaves through his skull, fracturing his forehead and nearly knocking him unconscious. It was in this vulnerable state that a tremendous hand struck, its slap echoing as it connected with his left cheek, imprinting the fingers onto his skin, and contorting his mouth into an unnatural grimace. His body shook uncontrollably from the blow, and he began to fall, already succumbing to the darkness of unconsciousness before his body even hit the ground.
From where Konfot lay unconscious, a palpable horror gripped the remaining monarchs, among whom the King of Fida stood out with a level of cultivation surpassing that of his peers. This was a new kind of terror, one they had never before encountered. Each of these kings had been born into the privilege of their royal households, with the inherent right to command since their earliest days. They had always been the esteemed, with the less fortunate at their beck and call. It was a stark contrast to their current state, where fear had taken an unfamiliar and chilling seat in their hearts—a sensation so alien it could only be likened to the dread they occasionally saw in the eyes of the imperious during times of judgment. Not even the stories of their ancestors, stretching back through the ages, contained accounts of such profound fear.
Armad, however, was a man of action, not one to dally with fruitless dialogue or indulge in the taking of captives among these rulers. With a swift and decisive blow, he targeted the King of Fida, the one with the highest level of cultivation among them. The king was unaware until the very end; Armad’s pol string had not only pierced his chest but had found its way to his core, exploding internally before the king could even grasp what had happened.
In truth, Armad had always held a certain respect for the formidable power the King of Fida wielded in his cultivation. Yet, the full measure of this power became apparent to him only in the moment of assault, when he realized that a complete unraveling of his pol string was unnecessary. A mere half of the string’s potential was enough to halt the king in his tracks, turning his eyes white as the lifeblood streamed from his mouth and nose. At that moment, a captain, having teleported to the battleground, wasted no time and drove his sword deep into the heart of the fallen king. And so it was that the ruler of Fida, who had reigned over the region’s most populous town for a quarter of a millennium, met a sudden and ignoble end.
The remaining kings, witnesses to this abrupt and brutal execution, felt their hearts pound with a new and overwhelming terror, surpassing even their initial shock. They recalled how the commander of the King’s Legion had retreated from battle, and they knew that only the King of Fida could dare to challenge him in single combat. They might have once believed that their collective strength would be necessary to assist the King of Fida against such a formidable opponent as the commander. Yet here they stood, dumbfounded, as the life of their mightiest peer was snuffed out in an instant by an attack that none had seen coming and none could have anticipated.