Of course, the kings are now suffused with deep remorse for their previous decisions. If they had foreseen the disastrous outcome of the conflict—if they had known that a large army does not guarantee supremacy over a smaller yet mightier force—they would have reconsidered their participation in this perilous confrontation. Should they have been privy to a mythical concoction capable of reversing time to the moments before the battle’s commencement, they certainly would have opted out of the conflict. More than that, they would have taken measures to prevent the wild tribes from even setting foot in their towns on their quest to assault Armad.
It was the King’s Legion that had initially convinced them to take up arms against Armad. Left to their own devices, they lacked the audacity to strike at the lineage of Wilberforce, irrespective of the proclamation that it had fallen from the grace of Wilberforce’s protection. The potential for hidden allies of their foe to emerge was a deterrent they could not ignore. Nevertheless, it was the tantalizing promise of aid from the crown prince, Ikenga, combined with intrinsic human avarice, that eclipsed their judgment and spurred them to lift their weapons against Armad.
The predicament of territorial expansion plagued all nine kings. Hemmed in by their neighbors’ lands on one side and the vast expanse of the sea on the other, they had no room to grow. Their dominions had remained static, unchanged since the days of their ancestors. On yet another front lay a continent that was beyond their might to claim. But the serendipitous chance to annex a town within the region and thereby extend their realms was an opportunity few could dismiss.
Their greed, however potent, was not the sole motivator for their march to battle. It was the absolute certainty of victory that compelled them. Absent this unwavering belief in their imminent triumph, they would never have risked the encounter.
Now, amidst the aftermath, they ponder the weight of their choices. Does any of these considerations have merit in the face of the grim reality they have encountered? This is the internal query haunting each king. Confronted with their substantial forces—battalions numbering over 30,000 soldiers now proven ineffective—they confront the harsh truth that sheer quantity does not equate to might in the theater of war.
The king who stood on the right flank of the magical wall was the first to relinquish his arms and bow his head in submission. “I surrender to you, Prince Armad,” he declared, his voice resounding with a mixture of defeat and respect. “My life is at your behest.”
There exists no greater fear in the human heart than the cold embrace of death. It is in the shadow of this ultimate end that a person might forsake all they hold dear. Such was the fate that befell this king, compelling him to yield everything to the mercy—or lack thereof—of his conqueror.
As though moved by an unseen hand or a twist of fate, the remaining kings followed suit. One by one, they bent their knees and offered their surrenders, their faces etched with the grim realization of their shared doom.
Yet the conundrum that now presented itself was whether Prince Armad, the indomitable, would accept these gestures of capitulation. The answer was etched in the steely resolve of his gaze: a vehement no. Armad harbored no intentions of accepting their surrender. In his eyes, those who raise arms in defiance and only cower when escape becomes a fleeting dream do not merit forgiveness. Such individuals are like serpents, liable to strike when one’s guard is down, to betray trust when it is most extended. In Armad’s estimation, there was little to distinguish these kings from the treacherous King’s legion.
It was with this conviction that he directed his formidable pol string toward the mightiest of the remaining monarchs. With a swiftness that defied sight, he ruptured the king’s core, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.
Even as Armad’s assault continued unabated, his captains, loyal and fierce, joined the fray. The beleaguered kings, ensnared with the realization that there was no refuge, no hope of retreat, seized their legendary weapons and invoked the ancient seals entrusted to their care. These were the sacred artifacts, preserved through generations, unleashed only when facing the grim specter of death. The battlefield convulsed with the unleashed power, a maelstrom of desperation aimed at Armad.
Alas, they were ignorant of the pol string that now wound its way into their very cores. As it infiltrated their cores, it became the last sensation they would ever register, the final silent witness to their downfall. Amidst the chaos, Armad stood still, an unmoving pillar amidst the storm. With calculated precision, he detonated three more of his pol strings within the cores of the kings. Paralysis gripped them in an instant, and in the next, Armad’s captains delivered the coup de grâce, severing heads from royal shoulders with grim finality.
Then, with the battlefield strewn with the remnants of royalty, Armad invoked the spell of Kaban Shisu, a powerful incantation that allowed him to bend space to his will. He teleported from his vantage point to where King Konfot lay defenseless, his demise imminent. The pol strings, the harbingers of Armad’s will, had arrived ahead of him.
As Armad stood poised to strike down the king, Commander Silaini intervened with a proclamation meant to halt his hand. “Long live Your Highness, for you are supreme above all. Long live Your Highness, for you are paramount,” he intoned with urgency. This was not mere flattery but a strategic plea to dissuade Armad from a fatal blow that could jeopardize their plans. “Your Highness, we must consider the bigger picture. Our ultimate goal is to conquer their towns and bring them under our rule. To do this effectively, we require someone from within – a royal who knows their secrets and can guide us. Our intelligence has confirmed that every king from the neighboring towns has joined this conflict. We need to capture at least one; someone who can turn the hearts of their people towards us, and do so swiftly. If we extinguish the lineage of their leaders, we’ll face severe obstacles in governing their towns. Furthermore, these kings may hold clandestine knowledge critical for the defense of their realms. We also need to extract information about the natural wealth and other valuable assets of their territories, which would be impossible if none are left alive.”
Armad’s eyes locked onto the commander’s, processing the implications of his words. After a moment, he nodded slowly in acknowledgment. The logic was sound; sparing the king for now would not disrupt his agenda. Time was precious to Armad, and with his objective amended, he promptly leaped, vanishing and reappearing on the battlefield through the Kaban Shisu, a spell of teleportation.
The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos, but within it, only a handful of individuals at the core formation level had the insight and awareness to grasp the unfolding dynamics. Some among them had realized that the conflict’s momentum had shifted. Yet, core formation cultivators do not possess the same prerogatives as devas. A deva, in the thick of combat, can decide to flee, redirecting all his might to escape, and often, only a select few across the world can prevent such an escape. This is a testament to the incredible swiftness and power Devas wield. In stark contrast, core formation cultivators face a harsh reality; they simply do not have the velocity or the means to disengage from combat and evade capture or defeat.
Though some attempted to retreat, recognizing the turn of events, their escape attempts were in vain. The number of core formation cultivators seeking to flee was matched by an equal force of their adversaries, creating a deadlock. The rest of the enemy’s core formation cultivators were either deeply engaged on the ground, collaborating with their compatriots to breach the town’s fortifications, or they were part of a contingent tasked with assailing the town from its unprotected flanks. Bound by duty and strategy, these cultivators had no avenue for retreat.
Amidst the chaos of the battle, another remarkable turn of events is unfolding. Nusi is tirelessly conjuring trees with a remarkable ability: their presence lulls enemies into a deep slumber. This potency had once been thwarted by a skilled commander, who wielded the rare Kilebayan skill to dismantle the mystical essence that allowed Nusi to summon these trees. But, with the tide of battle now shifted, Nusi has noted with satisfaction that the commander, once a formidable adversary, has fled the field of the conflict. Empowered by this strategic advantage, she continues to create her enchanting forest without pause.
The enemy ranks swell, yet they find themselves succumbing to an overwhelming drowsiness. Nusi’s magical trees release a soporific haze that soon envelops the entire battlefield in a thick, dream-inducing fog.
Some enemy combatants make valiant attempts to climb the walls of the town, seeking to gain the upper hand. However, the sedative effects of the smog render them weak; their grips fail, and they collapse back to the ground. Atop the town walls, even those who have managed to maintain their position struggle against the lull of sleep as they clutch their weapons.
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The pervasive smog begins to affect not only the invaders but also the defenders of the town. Nusi, in a bold deployment of her powers, amplifies the density of the smoke, ensuring no level of cultivation can withstand its influence.
Among the ranks of the Armad soldiers, signs of fatigue are evident, even in those cultivators at the core formation level. Nonetheless, these warriors are quick to counteract the enervating effects. With urgency, they partake of energy-boosting pills and herbs. Within moments, they shed the shroud of lethargy and launch into action against their impaired adversaries.
Meanwhile, Armad is lost in reflection over the recent conflict. His pol strings have been significantly depleted; he mourns the loss of 20 precious pol strings. Now, he possesses fewer than 30, and in the heat of the moment, he finds no time to count the exact number of Nagirinki the mysterious system utilized in the creation of these vital pol strings.
The system’s toll had been steep, deducting a staggering 500 years from his once-robust reservoir of 10,000 years of cultivation. Armad can now sense just over 9,000 years of cultivation energy remaining within his core. A comprehensive examination of his body’s condition is imperative, to understand the ramifications of this depletion.
Despite the concerns over his diminished power, a wave of elation washes over Armad. His heart swells with joy, tempered only by a pang of regret for not vanquishing the King’s Legion. He consoles himself with the knowledge that victory appears imminent. His confidence in his battalion is unshaken; they have developed a deep synergy, no longer requiring his direct command to rout the dwindling enemy forces. Supported by Nusi’s magical prowess and bolstered by the presence of his 2,000-strong personal legion, drawn from the elite ranks of the capital city of Wilberforce, Armad is assured that they are more than equipped to eradicate any remaining resistance and secure a triumphant victory.
On this day, the battlefield told a grim tale. The elite forces among the adversaries had succumbed to death’s embrace, and those who remained could barely hold their eyes open, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Yet, despite their weakened state, the conflict dragged on tirelessly until the sun dipped low. It was a one-sided affair; the soldiers of Armad’s battalion were the only ones actively engaged, delivering fatal blows to the somnolent enemy forces. No warrior within the ranks of Armad’s battalion could deny the weariness that came from such relentless carnage. The earth itself seemed to weep blood, with crimson rivulets streaking across the once-pristine battlefield.
Amid this slaughter, an unexpected turn of events occurred. Armad, alongside Commander Silaini and a select group of nineteen soldiers, all of whom reached the formidable level of devas, vanished without a trace from the front lines. They left behind Nusi and the remainder of the battalion, opting instead to utilize their arcane powers to teleport directly into the heart of the besieged town.
Upon their arrival at the right flank of the town—where enemy troops had managed to breach—Armad and his companions were met with a scene of desolation. The sounds of anguish and despair from the innocent townsfolk pierced the air, a harrowing testament to the cruelty inflicted upon them by the invaders. It was evident from the wails and chaos that the enemy had wasted no time in commencing their ruthless pillage.
Armad and Commander Silaini, driven by a furious resolve, hastened to confront the source of the turmoil. To Armad’s shock, the town walls, which should have served as a sturdy bulwark, had been reduced to rubble. The enemy had not merely climbed over the fortifications; they had obliterated them. With the defenses breached, the marauders had begun a systematic destruction of the town’s infrastructure, tearing through the buildings in a voracious search for plunder.
Armad clenched his jaws tightly, his mind racing with thoughts of vengeance. After careful deliberation, he determined that a swift death was too merciful for these barbarous foes. He knew that regardless of their numbers, these cultivators, who had not attained the exalted level of deva, were as insignificant as ants when compared to the might of an elephant.
It became apparent that the enemy had deployed none of their deva-class warriors to this particular front. All the devas had amassed at the main entrance of the town, channeling their collective strength in a bid to overwhelm the town’s valiant defenders. This strategy could also serve as a clever ruse, designed to give the illusion that devas were among the forces assaulting the town’s flanks. Armad acknowledged the possibility that he might be unaware of the true count of devas in the enemy’s contingent. Consequently, the enemy had sent core formation cultivators and those of lesser ranks to launch a sideshow attack, to distract Armad and his formidable battalion from the more critical points of defense.
Who would believe that Armad could awaken pol strings amidst the chaos of battle, casting a spell that would seep into the consciousness of the King’s Legion and instigate such terror that they’d be compelled to retreat? Who could foresee that the kings, those paragons of strength would falter and fail to endure even a single minute against the formidable Armad in combat? The battlefield has indeed been a stage for countless unforeseen dramas, with twists and turns that the enemy could scarcely have imagined.
Commander Silaini, along with the captains who had been teleported to the fray alongside Armad, found themselves in a position where their most devastating skills were not even necessary to defeat these adversaries.
They were up against a mere battalion of 3,000 troops who had mounted an assault on the town from its eastern boundary. Initially, the absence of cultivators within the town’s walls had sparked pandemonium among its denizens. However, as fate would have it, now that these invaders faced the townspeople of superior cultivation prowess, the invaders’ fortunes dwindled rapidly. They were no more a threat than ants would be to an elephant. Many of the enemy soldiers met their demise in bewildered silence, never knowing what force had claimed their lives.
Despite the concentration of enemy forces, Commander Silaini had no intention of wasting precious moments. Propelled by a sense of urgency, he took to the skies, and with a series of deliberate, graceful hand gestures, he conjured a formidable magical wall. This wall was no mere barrier but a weapon from which arrows, forged from pure cultivation energy, showered down upon the enemy ranks. The anguished cries of the afflicted soon filled the air, and within a blink, the battlefield was littered with over a thousand fallen enemies.
The captain who teleported alongside Armad quickly dispersed to all cardinal directions—north, south, west, and east. They summoned magical barriers and covered the enemies. From these barriers, a deadly smoke began to billow forth. Any of the enemy combatants who dared to breathe it in found themselves writhing in agony, gasping for air as they clutched their throats. They did not die immediately; the smoke left many incapacitated and unconscious on the ground. This was Armad’s will: that the enemies should endure the consequences of their actions against the town before death claimed them. He had determined that their end should come not swiftly but befittingly, in retribution for their deeds. Once the defenders had vanquished all the intruders on the eastern front, they swiftly pivoted to address the threat on the western side.
The western side of the town was experiencing its nightmare, arguably even more dire than what had transpired in the east. The invaders had encircled the largest insect-repellent factory in the town, intent on breaching its defenses. If not for the counsel of a few level-headed among them, who desired to plunder rather than destroy, the facility would have faced certain ruin. The attackers had already seized control, capturing and restraining all of the company’s workers.
The leaders of the enemy forces, who were brazenly taunting the company workers they had captured, announced to their prisoners that anyone who could deliver 100,000 Airids would be spared. Despite the gravity of their predicament, the workers could not collectively summon more than 10,000 Airids each. With a sense of morbid satisfaction, the enemy commander collected the paltry sums offered by the workers, then sat down beside them, resting his chin on his hand in a pose of mock contemplation. Moments later, his demeanor shifted to one of cold decisiveness, and he gestured contemptuously toward the captives. He turned to his troops with a cruel command, “Kill them.” The soldiers, eager to please their leader, chuckled with sinister anticipation as they readied themselves to execute the helpless workers.
However, the grim scene was abruptly interrupted as cultivation arrows, imbued with mystical properties, appeared from nowhere and embedded themselves into the chests of the enemy soldiers, killing them instantaneously. Before the stunned onlookers could even comprehend this turn of events, Armad, and his elite troops materialized out of thin air, having previously been concealed by their enchantments. The element of surprise was total, and in the chaos that ensued, many of the enemy were slain before they could even grasp the reality of their dire situation.
A similar spell was cast, creating a magical barrier that encircled the remaining adversaries. Clouds of smoke billowed around them, and a relentless volley of cultivation arrows rained down, leaving no chance of escape or survival. In a brief but brutal confrontation, all of the enemies were dispatched.
In the aftermath, the once besieged town of Tiriba stood eerily silent, devoid of any remaining foes. Armad approached what was left of the town’s defenses, only to discover that the central portion of the wall had been utterly destroyed—not by outside forces, but by Armad’s troops in their effort to reclaim the town. Rather than attempting the arduous task of climbing the fortifications, they had chosen to demolish them, allowing for a swift and forceful entry.
As Armad surveyed the scene, it became clear that not a single section of Tiriba’s walls had been spared from destruction or damage. With a weighty sigh, Armad and his warriors turned away from the ravaged perimeter and marched back to the front lines. Upon their arrival at the outskirts where the battle had raged most fiercely, they were greeted by silence—a stark contrast to the cacophony of war that had reigned just moments before. The ground, as far as the eye could see, was carpeted with the fallen bodies of combatants, a grim testament to the ferocity of the conflict. Despite the expansive scale of the battlefield, there was no spot untouched by the tragic tableau of the deceased—a complete covering of corpses, layered one atop another, marking the end of the battle for Tiriba.