Chapter 51: Purgatory Drill Ground

After the centaur light cavalry entered the battlefield, the demon army experienced what it meant to collapse like a mountain falling—after several waves of charges, their formation shattered completely, and the fleeing coward demons severely disrupted the encirclement of the heavy cavalry; Ugru immediately ordered the heavy cavalry to advance.

With no reinforcements arriving, the line formed by the abyssal great-armored demons was swiftly shattered by the relentless assaults of the boar-headed warriors. The reactivated heavy cavalry became the demons’ nightmare once more; as the heavy horns blared, the army rapidly converged toward the location of the demon lord.

Meanwhile, under Leyn’s leadership, the light cavalry continuously shattered the chaos warriors attempting to regroup; after the fifth time dispersing the reassembled demon units, the demons finally collapsed utterly—all demons facing the boar-headed lines now frantically twisted their bodies, using claws, horns, and any means possible to shove aside their own kind in a desperate bid to flee rearward.

The demon commanders’ hoarse roars were utterly drowned out. No commands echoed across the battlefield—only countless shrieks, howls, and wails of fear, agony, and extreme selfishness merged into a deafening, chaotic symphony of defeat. The weak coward demons became the most direct victims; they were swept aside like trash by towering chaos warriors, and any of their own kind blocking the escape path of the stronger demons were immediately torn apart.

Some cunning succubi unhesitatingly cast spells to detonate or charm nearby low-rank demons, turning them into flesh shields to draw fire from pursuing forces. Meanwhile, wounded soul-judges, fleeing along the way, would casually snatch fleeing coward demons beside them and shove them into their mouths to chew—trying to restore a sliver of strength or heal wounds by devouring the faint residual energy within these demons.

The demon lord Kass the Skinner was swept along in the tide of retreat. His roars brimmed with resentment and pure rage; he personally slew over a dozen deserters, attempting to rally his forces, but the tide of collapse was like an avalanche—unstoppable. Finally, realizing all was lost, he unleashed the most venomous curse of his life, tearing open an unstable portal in an attempt to escape this hellish battlefield.

Yet this was merely wishful thinking—a highly compressed, nearly transparent wind blade shot forth silently. It did not strike the demon lord’s heavily armored body, but like the most precise scalpel, sliced parallel into the most fragile, energy-turbulent upper edge of the portal.

The wind element’s magical force within the blade clashed violently with the portal’s chaotic energy, like a drop of cold water hitting boiling oil. The already unstable edge was violently ripped open into a larger gap.

The delicate, albeit chaotic, magical circuit sustaining the portal was brutally severed. The internal vortex of energy lost its restraint, shifting from orderly flow into utter chaos. Filthy hues erupted wildly, like a pustule burst open, rapidly spreading outward.

The portal could no longer maintain its form; after a flash of blinding, foul light, it collapsed inward—not exploding, but as if crushed by an invisible giant hand. Space itself seemed to utter a pained groan, and the spot where the portal had been became a brief, absolute void of darkness.

Then, a spherical shockwave of invisible debris and chaotic magic expanded rapidly from the void point. Demons swept by—whether powerful soul-judges or weak coward demons—were like meat tossed into a grinder, their bodies twisted, torn apart, and reduced to clouds of blood mist.

Kass the Skinner, who had been maintaining the portal, suffered the most direct and terrifying magical backlash. He let out a shriek unlike anything of this world, his massive body violently hurled out from the collapsing “doorway,” his body covered in deep, bone-exposing wounds as if carved by space itself.

In a state of madness, the demon lord seized a nearby soul-judge, ripped out its heart, and shoved it into his mouth; after repeating this act five times, he seemed to regain strength—and with it, confidence—demanding the defenders face him in single combat. But Brag was clearly not inclined to grant this request.

“Ugru, Blackfeather, Sharut—you three engage him. Don’t kill him. This is primarily to build your combat experience—there are others waiting to train later!” As a Grandmaster, Brag intended to fully exploit this opportunity to accelerate his subordinates’ growth.

“Sharut the Broken Tooth! Demon, remember your grandfather’s name—when your soul reaches your Abyssal Master, make sure you tell him who killed you!” A boar-headed warrior, as tall as a minotaur, charged forward on a giant tusked boar, bare-chested and swinging a spiked club with brazen arrogance.

Seeing this, the demon lord said nothing—he raised his blade and slashed. Sharut made no parry, simply sidestepped the blow, then swung his spiked club upward toward the demon lord’s head. With the martial technique Heavy Strike enhanced, the club smashed clean through the demon lord’s entire left shoulder, severing the arm.

“Filthy pig, you’ve made me angry! You’ll pay for this!” A shadow flashed forward; Sharut had no time to dodge, so he raised his club before him to block. A grating, teeth-chilling sound rang out, sparks flew—and Sharut was instantly flung backward, crashing heavily into a pile of coward demon corpses.

The demon lord, now regrowing his arm, lunged forward again, swinging his blade once more. Just as the chaotic greatblade neared Sharut, it suddenly and without warning retracted. Simultaneously, using the martial technique Side Slash, Sharut swung his club in a bizarre arc, striking the exact spot where the demon lord’s arm had just swung.

Sharut attacked again; the demon lord roared in fury and blocked. The spiked club clashed against the greatblade with a deafening crash. Sharut staggered half a step back, his palms split open—but he let out an exhilarated roar. He ignored defense entirely, leveraging the club’s weight and power to unleash relentless heavy strikes, each aimed squarely at weapons and joints—hard points of direct impact.

Sharut seemed to be using his body to feel the power level of a Grandmaster. He tested his own limits in live combat: how many such impacts could he endure head-on, and how to exploit weapon traits (like the club’s armor-piercing blunt force) to inflict effective damage under superior strength. After ten strikes, he was gasping, arms trembling, yet his face glowed with excitement as he stepped back—his spiked club now bore a notch where the demon lord’s weapon had shattered.

Seeing Sharut exhausted, Ugru rushed forward with his battleaxe, replacing the boar-headed comrade. His massive double-bladed axe gleamed with cold light in the dim illumination. Unlike Sharut, his combat style fused the minotaur tradition of raw power with pinpoint precision.

Ugru did not charge recklessly. His massive hooves moved in steady, measured steps, circling the demon lord, whose movements had slowed from prior combat. Suddenly, he lunged forward—not to slash, but to execute a treacherous upward hook, targeting the weak junction between the demon lord’s arm and torso.

Every strike landed precisely when the demon lord’s old force had spent and new force had not yet formed. The heavy axe in his hands seemed alive—sometimes striking like thunder to force a hard block, draining the demon lord’s dwindling stamina; sometimes stabbing like a venomous snake, using the axe tip to pry open the already cracked breastplate, driving the demon lord into furious rage.

Ugru practiced how to fight an opponent far stronger and more experienced, yet in abysmal condition. He learned to read micro-expressions and muscle movements, seeking openings in defense. His combat was the ultimate demonstration of killing technique. After a heavy blow that nearly split the demon lord’s shoulder blade, he calmly retreated, leaving space for his final comrade to train.

A harpy descended from the sky, her pure black feathers making her seem to coalesce directly from shadow. She did not approach, but hovered at a safe distance, her golden vertical pupils calmly assessing the demon lord—wounded, furious, yet stumbling.

She raised her hand—no incantation needed—and several compressed wind bullets, like invisible hammers, struck precisely at the demon lord’s ankles, knees, and wrists. These were not lethal strikes, but further weakening and disruption—destabilizing his balance, interrupting any secret spell he might be preparing for a final desperate act.

She manipulated air currents to swirl the battlefield’s dust and sulfurous smoke into localized obscuring zones, impairing the demon lord’s vision. Simultaneously, she summoned a Wind Blade Barrier—rows of invisible yet tangible wind blades spun rapidly before her, detonating or deflecting the demon lord’s futile throws of demonic fireballs or ground-shaking strikes.

Blackfeather practiced how to single-handedly torment a powerful melee fighter. She tested the limits of his magical resistance, honing how to achieve maximum control and harassment with minimal mana expenditure. She demonstrated to all how a top-tier spellcaster could render even a brute incapable of touching her sleeve.

After the first round of combat, Brag sent out another batch: the centaur Leyn the Red Steppe, the jackal-man Jisk the Rustclaw, and the boar-headed Karlog the Irontusk. Aside from Karlog, the warrior, the others were rangers—yet unlike Leyn, who favored ranged bow attacks with dual scimitars for close defense, Jisk preferred setting traps and ambushes with short daggers.

After three consecutive rounds of combat, the demon lord appeared utterly spent, kneeling on the ground, gasping for breath, barely propping himself up with his chaotic greatblade. Seeing this, Brag stepped forward and ended him with a single axe blow, then ordered mid-rank troops to train in batches against high-rank demons as opponents.