Chapter 128

Livog, have you prepared the hiding place I asked for? Return immediately to Deep Abyss Plane 1872 and find Morax alone.

He has full authority over matters there. Do not let anyone else know what’s happening here. I need to sleep here now—this group of fools has failed; the Pantheon won’t act anytime soon.

As you command, Duke. Your will is my direction. But how shall I explain this to the higher-ups? Lady Verna won’t easily relinquish her power.

Tell her I’m here, planning to gain greater advantage in the coming divine war. After she finishes her affairs there, she’d best come here to assist me!

Understood. I will deliver your words.

Karava, have the dragon beasts monitor the surroundings. All other dragons come with me to sleep. Unless there’s major commotion nearby or the Pantheon moves, we stay hidden from these demons.

…………

The blood moon was stained a murky orange-yellow by sulfurous mist, yet the Dragon Worshipers’ encampment deep in Meltthroat Gorge burned with light.

Magic runes powered by magic crystals floated between the tents, illuminating the camp as brightly as day, utterly unconcerned with the demons’ growls in the surrounding darkness—they clearly had full confidence in their defenses.

Along the cliff edge, several figures stood like stone statues, gazing down at the unguarded chaos below.

Gru Ironshield lowered his heavy rune warhammer from his shoulder; the hammerhead struck the ground with a dull vibration. His thick, short eyebrows knitted as his gaze swept over the lavish tent at the camp’s center, embroidered with gold thread and dragon scale patterns:

“Mr. Fednan, there are at least three hundred men below, and they bear the emblem of the Golden Radiance Sanctuary. A direct assault would cost us at least half our numbers to break through.

And even indirect slaughter of allies would brand us as traitors—those lawfully good vultures would peck at us for decades.”

Fednan’s lips curled into a cold, emotionless smile. He wore only a gray-green travel outfit that blended into the night, nearly invisible—but his slender sword occasionally glinted with a faint blue chill in the moonlight.

“Dear Gru,” his voice sounded like the wind above the gorge, “who said we need to lift a finger? The adventurers in that camp—the young fools hungry for fame and ‘justice’—aren’t their passion and swords the perfect cleaners?”

He tilted his head slightly toward the orc beside him, draped in a starlit robe: “Master Xiage, are you worried about those two legendary hardheads?”

Xiage Shadowtalk’s fangs gleamed cold and hard in the moonlight; atop his bone-and-wood staff, a turbid crystal rotated slowly, reflecting the energy flows of the camp below.

“Yes,” the orc mage’s voice was low and grave.

“The legendary warrior ‘Bloodaxe’ Balem, and the legendary thief ‘Shadow’ Lianna. The former can tear a ground dragon apart with bare hands; the latter supposedly stole a dragon egg from the Shadow Dragon’s treasury. Dealing with them will be difficult.”

Fednan nodded lightly, but his gaze drifted farther, toward the shadows at the camp’s edge. “So we only let them ‘discover’ the Dragon Worshipers—and ‘accidentally’ glimpse some evidence of the Ashfire Brotherhood’s presence.

When conflict erupts and chaos rises…” his fingers silently traced the hilt of his sword, “that’s when we enter.”

His eyes swept his companions: “Master Xiage, your area-silencing barrier can cover the eastern side of the camp, cutting off their magical calls for aid.

Gru, when Balem charges, you must hold the first blow with your Mountain Wall. And I,” his slender sword slid half an inch from its sheath, “will ensure ‘Shadow’ Lianna remains trapped forever in her own shadows.”

Finally, he turned to the slender figure nearly fused with the cliff’s shadow: “Lady Korylan?”

The half-elf assassin made no sound—only raised her right hand. Between her fingers, three thin, cicada-wing-like black daggers turned slowly, alive as creatures; their edges caught a sliver of moonlight, reflecting off the unguarded nape of a guard beside the campfire. Her motion was answer enough.

Fednan smiled. “Then the plan is this: use the adventurers’ blood to ignite chaos, use their corpses to pave the way, and then…”

He gazed down at the largest tent at the camp’s center, where faint echoes of draconic chanting drifted upward, “at the moment the Dragon Worshipers least expect it, pluck the fruit they guard.”

The wind atop the cliff suddenly turned icy, sweeping the camp’s noise and laughter skyward—but could not dispel the cold, precise killing intent crystallized here, like clockwork gears.

The hunters were in place. The prey still raised their cups by the fire.

Gru cast one last look downward, then hefted his warhammer back onto his shoulder: “Move at dawn?”

“No,” Fednan turned, his form beginning to dissolve into the darkness behind him. “Wait until the first ray of dawn pierces the sulfurous mist. That’s when their night-watchers are most exhausted—and the ‘righteous’ adventurers… should ‘accidentally’ patrol to the gorge’s entrance.”

The figures on the cliff vanished one by one, as if they had never been. Only on the rock where Korylan had stood remained three deep, dagger-shaped fissures, slowly seeping night dew.

…………

The moment the first pale ray of dawn sliced through the sulfurous mist, the adventurers’ assault began.

No horns, no war cries—only the hum of drawn bowstrings shattered the dawn.

Over a hundred enchanted arrows rose simultaneously from the jagged rocks on both sides of the gorge, trailing faint blue tails before raining down upon the sleeping tents of the Dragon Worshipers. This was the “Morning Wind Mercenaries’” morning greeting.

As the arrowstorm struck, the camp erupted like a pierced ant nest. At least twenty tents ignited or tore open; many drowsy Dragon Worshipers were pinned to the ground before they could reach their weapons.

A few dragon-blood hounds, kept at the camp’s edge, howled in agony, snapping their chains to charge the attackers—only to be tripped by pre-set snares and traps.

Chaos lasted less than three minutes. The golden-embroidered tent at the camp’s center exploded outward; a bald, muscular giant, bare-chested and covered in dark red dragon-scale tattoos, the legendary warrior “Bloodaxe” Balem, burst through the tent fabric.

He held no weapon—only snatched up a burning tent pole and swung it like a straw, shattering three enchanted arrows midair.

Balem’s roar drowned out all other noise: “Vermin not of dragon blood! Form ranks! Let these scum know what true fire means!” The ground beneath his feet cracked slightly with his rage.

The adventurers emerged from hiding. Their ranks were chaotic yet orderly. Dwarven shield-walls from the “Iron Oath” Mercenary Company raised tower shields etched with holy inscriptions against demons.

Warriors from the “Dawn Sword” Adventurer Guild glowed with pale golden radiance, blades pointed straight at the figures in black cloaks and hoods within the camp!

Freelancers and mercenary ranged fighters focused instead on the glittering dragon-scale treasure chests and magical artifacts in the camp, their eyes gleaming with greed mixed with “justice.”

Some adventurers rushed toward the supply tents at the camp’s edge, wrestling with Dragon Worshipers trying to defend their goods.

Balem roared to rally a counterattack, but was temporarily held back by a dozen fearless berserker adventurers—they knew the bounty on a legendary warrior’s head.

Just as Balem shattered the third adventurer’s breastplate, preparing to tear through the line, the shadows activated.

Lianna never showed herself—but the command nodes within the adventurer ranks began falling one by one in silence. A priest mid-casting a group healing spell suddenly clutched his throat; black blood seeped between his fingers—his shadow had flickered unnaturally for an instant.

Then two ranger captains coordinating the encirclement—back-to-back—were simultaneously pierced through the ankles by black shortblades erupting from the ground, then dragged into the suddenly viscous, ink-like shadows beneath their feet.

The adventurers’ assault visibly slowed. The front line lost support; the flanks began to waver.

Balem seized the moment to unleash a deafening war cry; his dragon-scale tattoos blazed with searing red light, and with one punch he shattered a dwarf and his shield, hurling them meters away—finally carving a path toward the adventurers’ command core.

Gru’s knuckles whitened on the cliff: “Balem’s breaking the center. Those boys can’t stop him.”

The crystal atop Xiage’s staff spun faster: “Lianna has eliminated seven commanders… her movement through shadows is more elusive than I anticipated.”

Korylan remained silent, but her gaze locked onto a patch of seemingly empty shadow on the camp’s eastern side—where a paladin had just been “swallowed.” Her three black daggers ceased their rotation.

Fednan gently pressed down on Gru’s raised warhammer: “Wait. Let Balem push deeper. Let Lianna… harvest a few more ‘righteous companions.’

When morale nears collapse, when the adventurers’ greed is fully drowned in fear…” his gaze turned icy as a chasm, “that’s when the ‘reinforcements’ arrive.”

Below, the clash of blades, roars, screams, and crackling flames merged into a bloody symphony. Dawn finally bathed Meltthroat Gorge in full light, revealing the blood-soaked ground and the crumbling battlefield.

…………

“Marshal! Urgent report from Meltthroat Gorge front!” Ye Kemu knelt on one knee, his armor still streaked with dew and soot from before dawn.

“The Dragon Worshipers’ camp has engaged our adventurer forces—but,” he swallowed hard, voice lowering, “the battle… is deviating from expectation.”

He unrolled a crude parchment, sketched in charcoal with simple terrain and arrow markings.

“The Dragon Worshipers’ resistance far exceeds estimates. Far from collapsing under surprise, they’ve swiftly organized a counterattack under ‘Bloodaxe’ Balem’s command.

The adventurers’ vanguard has lost thirty percent. The Dawn Sword Mercenary Company’s left flank has been nearly paralyzed by a shadow assassin never seen—seven commanders were silently throat-cut within ten minutes of engagement.”

Ye Kemu lifted his head; his eyes reflected the distant glow and smoke rising from the gorge.

“The adventurers still hold the line by sheer numbers, but morale is collapsing rapidly. Without external intervention… I judge their front will shatter completely within half a standard hour.”

He paused, then added the crucial point: “Yet the Dragon Worshipers’ core strength—including that legendary warrior and at least two high-rank draconic spellcasters—has yet to fully engage. They seem to be… waiting for something.”

“Hah… these old shadows plotting in the dark play a fine game.”

Gisk turned his eyes from the tactical map, lips curling into a cold, humorless smile. “You expect me to send troops to fill this pit? Let them warm their abacus beads well—and keep dreaming.”

He rose, his armor groaning with dull friction, and strode to the tent flap, lifting a corner to gaze at the faint smoke rising from the gorge.

“Every soldier under my command must be used on blades that can tear open demon walls.”

He released the flap; it fell, sealing out the distant battle. “As for the Dragon Worshipers… if the Duke himself ‘invited’ them onto the board, how could I damage his ‘credibility’?”

He turned back, a cold gleam flashing in his eyes. “Order: All scouts of my army withdraw three li from Meltthroat Gorge. Without my wolf-head token, not even a single messenger bat is permitted to fly toward that direction.”

“They’re waiting for reinforcements?”

Gisk sat back on his iron chair, knuckles tapping a slow rhythm on the armrest. “Then let them wait. Let the blood soak into the gravel of the gorge. Let those old foxes grow restless enough to show the claws hidden beneath their robes.”

“—Then we’ll see… who is the hunter, and who is the sacrifice, on this battlefield.”