A battle between 4,000 soldiers and just over ten individuals shouldn't really be called a "battle"; it would more aptly be described as a massacre. This confrontation was no exception—indeed, it was a massacre. Yet, the ones being massacred were the 4,000 soldiers, and the slaughterers were a mixed group of more than ten half-humans and two humans.
Although these 4,000 soldiers were a hastily assembled patchwork force, it didn't mean they were pushovers. In fact, they were far more formidable than Alrasia's regular army. The church's protective militias in Alrasia's dioceses were trained by retired holy warriors from Celeste, and many of the soldiers were candidates who had narrowly failed the rigorous selection process for the holy warriors. Even just qualifying for the Celeste trials was a testament to one's strength. Among them were numerous skilled mages and clerics, hardened by countless battles against Nigen and Tatalia. Their mastery of magic far surpassed the petty tricks of adventure party spellcasters.
From a certain perspective, this unit was elite, save for its isolated location in the wilderness and its slightly insufficient numbers. Yet, this elite force was completely annihilated without a fight.
The battle was nearing its end. Over 300 of the most elite warriors encircled five high-ranking mages and a dozen clerics in the center. With a mix of desperation and burning anger, they watched the approaching enemies.
Three fully-armored ogres, resembling walking fortresses of steel, stood panting heavily. The guttural huffing from behind their blood-streaked steel helmets seemed to carry the stench of death itself. Even they were exhausted from the slaughter.
These ogres were nearly unstoppable engines of destruction. The spiked maces in their hands, as large as a grown man, were like the grinding teeth of death itself. Even the shields designed to withstand the charges of heavy cavalry crumbled under these weapons, let alone human bodies. Their impenetrable armor rendered most attacks futile, and the magical runes inscribed upon it made them resistant to spells. Each ogre had withstood multiple magical assaults, their gear containing enough enchanted materials to outfit ten mages.
The four orcs didn't boast such extravagant armor and weapons, and two of them were even injured. They hadn't killed as many as the ogres, but they had exclusively targeted the elites of the unit. The warriors skilled enough to hold off an ogre through sheer technique and experience were slain by these orcs. Their talents were not merely physical; their combat techniques rivaled those of the most seasoned fighters. One of them wielded not brutal, blunt weapons like maces or flails, but two finely-crafted steel longswords that demanded finesse and speed. Orcs, being naturally more agile than humans and comparable to elves in dexterity, were fearsome opponents in combat.
The three lizardmen with enormous blades and four armed with finely-crafted repeating crossbows demonstrated deadly precision. The bolts from these crossbows, clearly products of dwarven craftsmanship, were capable of devastating damage. The lizardmen provided support and cover for the ogres, ensuring they could wreak havoc without interruption.
These ten-plus half-humans were drenched in blood from head to toe, dripping with the lives of over 3,000 church warriors. They looked as though they had crawled out of the blood pits of hell itself.
Yet these devils did not roar savagely or strike terror with frenzied howls. Instead, they stood silent, disciplined, like a company of well-trained soldiers. The gazes of the remaining church warriors were not even fixed on them. These creatures, monstrous as they were, did not seem as horrifying as the figure standing before them.
It was a human—or at least appeared to be one. Tall and slightly thin, with a pale complexion and a physique more perfectly sculpted than the finest statue. No sculptor's chisel could replicate the primal, almost feral vitality that radiated from him, though it was still and unmoving as a mountain.
Almost every surviving warrior stared at this man. His jet-black eyes were like an endless abyss, a sea of darkness that seemed capable of swallowing everyone present without so much as a ripple. This man was the exception to everything. Despite standing amidst a sea of corpses and rivers of blood, there was not a single speck of blood on him—only a faint, white aura of battle energy.
In this hellish slaughterhouse, he seemed almost divine.
The man sighed softly, and the white glow around him dissipated. His face, as rigid as stone, revealed a faint trace of weariness. After all, he wasn't truly a god but a living, breathing human.
The phrase "a one-man army" is usually a hyperbolic description, as no one can truly fight tens of thousands alone. And even more so when faced with elite warriors. Killing nearly a thousand such opponents would leave anyone, no matter how invincible, fatigued if not injured.
The remaining warriors gazed at the man, their expressions filled with terror, devoid of anything else. Compared to the blood-soaked half-humans, this man—spotless and calm—was far more terrifying. In his presence, warriors ceased to be warriors because they could no longer fight. They didn't even have the chance to attempt it. In his vicinity, they were like sheets of paper, tossed into the air, shredded, and scattered without resistance. His attacks weren't grandiose or awe-inspiring; they were simple and efficient. He dashed through the crowds, grabbing, striking, kicking, or colliding with his enemies, and the warriors fell in waves like crumpled paper, leaving behind a storm of blood.
While the warriors stared in fear at this man on the ground, the mages and clerics focused on another human—a man not on the ground but riding a wyvern in midair. The warriors' gazes were filled with terror and anger, but the mages' and clerics' eyes, though brimming with hostility and rage, also betrayed an undeniable sense of admiration and respect.
A silver-haired elder holding a wand sat atop the wyvern, his short silver beard gleaming under the light, his eyes sharp and piercing. He was the only one among the orc side capable of magic, yet he alone, with that single wand, managed to hold off the hundred-plus mages and priests below. His opponents had to devote nearly all their efforts to dealing with him, leaving no chance to focus on the Nigen or the man by their side.
The elder didn't employ any earth-shattering, forbidden spells. Aside from the atmospheric shield surrounding him and the wyvern, he used only low- to mid-level spells. But the speed of his casting, the ingenuity in his combinations, and his creativity in applying magic turned the battlefield into a breathtaking magical performance. Spells of all kinds emerged from his hands—fire, water, earth, wind, dark magic, even light magic—interweaving and clashing with the attacks of the mages below, erupting in dazzling explosions of magical fireworks.
None of the attacks managed to harm this airborne mage. With a single instant-cast spell, he could neutralize or redirect three to four enemy spells through collisions or explosions. Even when one of the senior mages below reluctantly unleashed a precious Blazing Nova scroll, the elder countered it with two fireballs and a simple Wind Control spell, sending the scorching orb spiraling back toward the ground. The redirected magic obliterated at least thirty soldiers, reducing them to charred remains.
Meanwhile, his wand, crafted from unicorn horn, released Thunder Bursts that wreaked havoc below. Massive explosions and shockwaves left death in their wake, spreading destruction across the ranks of mages. When he found time for direct attacks, his methods were both creative and devastating: combining black magic's corrosive acid with water-elemental Ice Blast, shattering the frozen shards midair to scatter poisoned fragments onto his enemies. Or igniting water-element poison spheres with fireballs to release toxic fumes, which he directed toward his foes with Wind Pressure.
Once, in a clash against several water-elemental mages, he turned falling ice shards into a lethal trap. As icy fragments and water droplets rained down, a Thunder Burst followed by an earth-element Disintegration spell turned the area into a zone of crackling electricity. Over a hundred people fell screaming, consumed by the devastating magic.
If any of the surviving mages returned from this battlefield alive, their combat skills would surely improve significantly after witnessing such artistry in spellcasting.
"You have one chance—surrender. We guarantee your safety." The man who had dispersed his aura of battle energy showed an uncharacteristic hint of impatience on his face. "We've already issued you a final warning, demanding your withdrawal from the highlands. This battle is your doing. The outcome is decided—surrender now."
Among the remaining warriors, a younger soldier, his eyes bloodshot, gazed at the man and whispered hoarsely, "He looks exhausted. We could pretend to surrender… With so many of us still alive, and the mages casting with all their might, we might be able to…"
"It's useless," an older warrior in his fifties or sixties interrupted, shaking his head. But his expression wasn't one of despair or resignation—it was firm, resolute. Once a Paladin of Celeste, he now served as the temporary commander of this group. "That is Theodorus and Grutt, the two lords of Orford City. Only Lancelote and the temple knights could stand a chance against them.
"And the key is that we cannot surrender. What we fight for is not our personal gain—it is for the radiance and glory of our Lord. For the glory of the Lord, we cannot surrender, not even as a ruse."
"…Understood," the young warrior muttered, lowering his head in despair.
"For the splendor of the Lord, let us spill our blood and courage here!" The old holy warrior's hoarse voice reached everyone's ears, stirring their spirits. The mages began chanting incantations, and the warriors gripped their weapons tightly.
"I've always hated that phrase. Such a waste of my time," Grutt muttered irritably, letting out a frustrated sigh. The message from earlier had already been delayed for some time. He took a deep breath, and his aura of battle energy reignited.
"Don't go—what are you planning to do?" In the sky not far away, five gryphons circled with five riders. One of the priests maneuvered his gryphon to block a young mage's path toward the battlefield.
"I still have two Cloud Incineration spells, a Starfall scroll, and a Chain Lightning scroll. I can't stand idly by and watch them slaughtered by those heretics and orc demons!" the young mage roared, pointing toward the battlefield. The combat below, already fierce, had grown even more brutal with the remaining elites.
"You're crazy! You'll die before you can cast any of those spells!" The priest, hearing the distant sounds of clashing swords and exploding magic, was also heartbroken, but he desperately stopped the young mage from rushing to his death. At the start of the battle, there had been ten gryphons. The mages and warriors who attempted to use their aerial advantage were immediately struck down by Grutt, who hurled spears and javelins with lethal precision, killing gryphons and riders alike.
"Have you forgotten the mission given to us by Bishop Aescher?" the soldier yelled, halting the young mage's reckless charge.
The word "mission" made even the soldier himself smile bitterly. At this stage, what mission could still matter? Their orders were to distract and harass the forces of Orford and, if possible, use scrolls to inflict heavy casualties on the orc troops. But with the main force wiped out, those tasks now seemed like a cruel joke. The Nigen had sent only a dozen elite troops, and the scrolls—designed for large-scale destruction—were either useless or suicidal to use, as demonstrated by the Blazing Nova scroll.
Now, only one mission remained: observe Orford's combat style and report back. This was the most critical task assigned by Bishop Aescher. The priest, enhancing his vision with Eagle Eye, watched the battle unfold in excruciating detail, memorizing every move while enduring the agony of seeing his comrades slaughtered like lambs. His heart broke with grief, anger, and helplessness.
When the battle finally ended, the priest immediately turned his gryphon westward and shouted, "Scatter! Those caught by Theodorus must delay him to buy time for the others!"
But Theodorus had no intention of pursuing the survivors. He leapt off his wyvern, landing before Grutt. Frowning, he said, "What now? That message came during the battle—it's been a while. I fear we're already too late…"
"Better late than never," Grutt replied without hesitation. "Let's go!"