Chapter 57: Endless Rotnest

Ladies and gentlemen, regarding the issue of changing faith, do you have any concerns? If any priest fears retaliation from Lady Luo, I can arrange for you to stay here or relocate elsewhere—I won’t stop you. If there are no objections, let us begin the conversion of followers.

After Sakavi slaughtered a group of loyalists to Lady Luo, the remaining family matriarchs and priests offered no outright opposition—they had merely submitted to Sakavi’s violence. Now that they had become followers, they could only carry out orders faithfully; perhaps they would leave themselves an escape route, but it would be meaningless.

The most effective method would have been to desecrate the statue of Lady Luo, but Sakavi dared not commit such an act, which would invite lasting hatred. Instead, he pretended not to notice their petty schemes. Without priests as a communication bridge, Lady Luo’s influence would be severely restricted.

"Shadowclaw, you’ve performed excellently lately, but you must understand: your mission is not over. The drow, renowned for their conspiracies, will not submit so easily. The matriarchs will temporarily yield to us for the sake of their family interests, but hidden schemes will emerge endlessly in the days ahead."

"Drow from other regions will also attempt to purge these traitors. Your task is extremely heavy—do not grow careless. So, what plans do you currently have for defense?"

"Master, my plan is not to defend, but to lure. Since they love conspiracy, let them act freely. When the moles finally move, they will discover that no scheme is as effective as a powerful iron fist."

"The matriarchs will come to understand one truth: to protect their interests from loss, they must cooperate with us. Of course, this is a long process—perhaps the Church of the War God can accelerate it."

"Hmm, worth a try. Brag, what do you think?"

"Master, any attempt to outwit the drow is extremely dangerous. I recommend this matter be handled personally by Ulno. If any race can rival the drow in conspiracy, it is only the Bogtoads."

"Your suggestion is sound—do as you say. Also, prepare Sharut and Ugru: the Fang and Cast-Iron Legions will depart for Plane 1634 in three days to relieve the Ironhoof Legion."

"But Master, the Ironhoof Legion has only been there for less than a month—isn’t it too soon?"

"Perhaps. But I believe it’s time for a rotation. I hope I’m overthinking this."

………

The originally deep red earth now appeared covered in a constantly writhing, sickly purple-black fungal mat. This mat was not plant life, but a pile of countless Puswraiths—demons the size of hunting hounds, lacking fixed forms, like translucent sacs filled with pus, crawling on pseudopods.

They continuously seeped corrosive slime, staining the land and everything upon it with filth. There was no thunderous battle cry—only a low, dense, scalp-crawling hiss and the sticky squelching of movement. This was the sound of Puswraiths corroding metal, and their bodies crushing against one another.

Above this nauseating backdrop, occasional thunderous crashes echoed as sections of the wall collapsed after being corroded, or piercing shrieks rang out as defensive arrays overloaded. Gisk stood on the wall, his heart heavy with dread. Reinforcements were still two months away—he could not imagine how to hold out.

Amidst the tide of Puswraiths lurked even deadlier Swallow-Steel Swarms. They resembled colossal beehives woven from countless metal shards and black carapaces, hovering midair. They locked onto metallic structures on the wall and fired dense, magnetic beams that decomposed metal—struck metal rusted and crumbled instantly, turning to iron filings absorbed by the swarms to expand themselves.

This Abyssal plane was like the infinitely vast, still-breathing, cancerous organ of a living beast. The sky was its pulsing membrane; the rivers, its digestive fluids. Everything visible was a living part of it, constantly seeking to decompose and absorb even the demons, turning them into yet another insignificant pustule on its body. The Pantheon called this plane the Endless Rotnest.

"Carlog, let your heavy cavalry rest well. In three hours, we’ll launch another decapitation strike. Another damn Nestbrain has arrived."

In the distance, the Nestbrain resembled a vast, pulsing mountain of purple-black flesh, its surface covered with thousands of eyes opening and closing, and countless nerve cords extending and retracting. It was clearly the command center for all Puswraiths and Whisperers—a living hive, constantly "producing" and coordinating the entire demonic offensive.

"Gisk, Blackfeather hasn’t returned. Should we wait a little longer? Eight high officers, including the Legion Commander, have already fallen. We cannot afford any more risks. And without confirming the Abyssal Whisperers have been temporarily suppressed, our losses if we sortie will be catastrophic."

Abyssal Whisperers had no fixed form—they were swirling clouds of ever-twisting black mist, their centers glowing with mesmerizing pink light. They continuously emitted psychic contamination waves into the fortress, eroding the defenders’ will, creating illusions, and inciting panic and internal chaos. To counter these dangerous entities, Blackfeather’s group of harpies frequently conducted targeted hunts.

"There’s no time left. The demons here are far stronger than intelligence indicated. Our walls won’t hold much longer—we must immediately curb their assault, or we’ll be forced into street fighting again."

"ROOOOAAAAAAR!!!!!" Suddenly, a massive dragon roar echoed, accompanied by a stirring wave of draconic pressure. Above, an enormous black dragon had appeared—next instant, a fan-shaped, tar-like "Annihilation Breath" swept downward!

Where the breath touched, the writhing Puswraiths, the corrosive fungal mat, even the earth itself, dissolved and vaporized like acid had been poured upon them, revealing the pitted, eroded original ground beneath. The breath carved a vast, smoking void into the purple-black tide.

At the end of the corridor cleared by the breath, the Fang Legion’s boar-man heavy infantry began advancing. No longer in loose formation, they formed an unprecedented "Purification Bastion" formation. The front ranks carried spear-wielding soldiers with door-sized shields, their edges inlaid with anti-corrosion runes. Their steps were synchronized; the massive shields slammed into the ground, forming a moving wall of steel.

In the center of the formation, boar-man archers launched enchanted arrows in high arcs, soaring over the front line to strike precisely at the clustered Swallow-Steel Swarms. The arrows, infused with order magic, inflicted severe structural damage.

Meanwhile, harpies joined forces to summon a colossal tornado, forcibly dragging and crushing the Abyssal Whisperers attempting to rise and harass the Black Dragon Duke, then the accompanying shamans obliterated them with fireballs, turning them into blazing, shrieking fireworks.

War shamans danced wildly, pressing their hands to the earth. The next second, cracks split open along both flanks of the Fang Legion, spewing forth searing Order Flames that formed twin walls of fire, blocking the Puswraiths’ encirclement and burning them to cinders.

Field mages targeted the massive Swallow-Steel Swarms and unleashed extreme-cold rays. The brutal cold clashed violently with the swarms’ internal active energy, freezing them from within and shattering them into glittering piles of metallic shards.

The entire demonic army plunged into chaos under the twin assault. At that moment, the Black Dragon’s molten-gold eyes pierced the battlefield, locking onto the colossal flesh mountain. The Nestbrain sensed mortal threat—it emitted a silent psychic shriek, summoning all nearby demons, including several powerful Abyssal Whisperers, to form a thick wall of psychic and flesh shielding before it.

The Black Dragon let out a roar that shook the plane, folded his wings, and dove like a black meteor! Ancient dragon runes glowed across his body, forming a powerful anti-magic shield. The Abyssal Whisperers’ psychic assaults struck it like waves against a reef—futile.

He did not use his breath. Instead, he revealed his claws—sharp enough to tear space. The blades were wrapped in absolute darkness: necrotic energy that devoured even light.

"Sssssssss—lllllllll!"

Like tearing through thick canvas, the claws effortlessly ripped through the psychic barrier and pierced the Nestbrain’s massive, pulsing core! Its thousands of eyes instantly withered. Its colossal flesh-mountain body began to shrivel uncontrollably, rotting away—within a few breaths, it became dust scattered by the wind.

"Master, why have you come? The demons here are stronger than we anticipated—we failed your mission. Half the Legion has been lost."

"I know. Retreat with the Fang and Cast-Iron Legions. The teleportation gate is fifteen miles from here, guarded by the Cast-Iron Legion. I suspect they’re already facing enemies three times their number. Go now. I have other matters to attend to."

"Yes, Master. Blackfeather hasn’t returned—perhaps she’s in danger. I’d like to wait here for her. She can’t leave safely alone."

"No need. She’s dead. I no longer sense her presence. I can feel the approximate location of every living follower. I’ll handle her affairs—this is beyond your ability to resolve."

"Then please be careful. This plane is truly strange—it feels alive."