Chapter 90

“Archers—fire!” The command cut through the battlefield’s din, cold and unyielding. The voice came from a dark figure standing atop the fortress wall.

He was a dragon-man, far bulkier and taller than ordinary black dragon-men. He wore a full suit of black plate armor, devoid of any ornamental engraving, only countless fine scratches from battle and dried demonic blood, as if swallowing all surrounding light.

Merely standing there, he resembled a statue carved from marble, radiating a suffocating pressure. His frame, far more massive than his kin’s, and the overwhelming dragon aura he could not fully conceal, made it clear—he was an elite warrior of the “Black Dragon’s Wing.”

Under his command, the goblin archers, whose movements had been wracked by fear, now barely maintained their firing rhythm, unleashing a sparse but still deadly rain of arrows onto the surging demonic tide below.

Sakavi, after years of refinement, finally crafted a fragmented soul capable of perfectly integrating with a master-class warrior’s flesh puppet. His mission was to gather precious battlefield data through real bloodshed, perfecting the immature soul-forging art.

Under the dual influence of the blood-dementia vine’s sweet, metallic stench and the black dragon-man commander’s dragon aura, the goblin archers on the line moved like puppets pulled by invisible threads, mechanically reloading and firing, their eyes filled with a hollow chaos of fanaticism and terror.

When the first hellspawn—its skin dark red, oozing slime—used its twisted claws to dig into the wooden fortress wall, producing a grating, teeth-on-edge screech, the taut string snapped.

“Gaaahhh—!”

No one knew which goblin screamed first, but the piercing, distorted cry spread like plague across the entire line. The primal fear of the Abyss doused the courage granted by the blood-dementia vine and shattered the goblins’ reverence for the dragon aura.

The next instant, bows and crossbows were carelessly discarded. The surviving goblins, heedless of orders, erupted like a startled nest of insects, shrieking and shoving, their sole goal: escape the wall now crawling with demons, flee toward any possible haven behind them.

Yet A Kuilong, having placed them here, would not allow this line to collapse so easily. As the fleeing goblins tumbled and scrambled past the fortress, racing toward the entrance to the underground air raid shelter on the square, believing salvation near, a sudden transformation occurred.

The goblins at the front slammed into an invisible wall, their bodies jerking to a halt. Instantly, the wave of panic was erased as if by an unseen hand—all screams and wails ceased.

Their eyes turned vacant and dull, their movements frozen in place, like puppets whose souls had been abruptly yanked away. The next second, a more unnatural “order” descended. They turned in unison, their eyes reigniting with a light—fanaticism forcibly implanted, burning like a soul on fire.

The goblins silently and swiftly retrieved their discarded bows, crossbows, and short knives. No longer fleeing toward life, they precisely and efficiently dispersed into the ruins and pre-set cover surrounding the square. Clearly, A Kuilong’s backup plan was far colder than any earth-and-timber defense.

Watching the goblins’ performance, the black dragon-man showed no expression. After slashing apart a hellhound attempting to approach, he spread his dragon wings and flew to the rear, landing steadily behind the line, his cold vertical pupils showing no ripple.

The bizarre transformation of the goblins—from fleeing to being controlled, returning to the line—did not stir the slightest ripple in the dragon-man’s cold vertical pupils. He swung his greatsword backward, cleaving a hellhound that lunged at him into two halves. The splattered foul blood coated his plate armor, yet he did not glance at it.

He suddenly spread his massive dragon wings, unleashing a gale laced with sulfur and blood, his colossal body rising into the air, leaving the chaotic fortress behind without a second thought. He landed precisely in the core area behind the line, his claws crushing the ground with steady force.

Clearly, he had no intention of personally diving into the bloody quagmire of street fighting. As a commander and puppeteer, his value lay in controlling the whole battlefield. He stood firm behind the line, like a calm chessmaster, watching the flow of battle with unwavering focus.

Perhaps, within his fragmented mind, the concept of “fear” did not exist. The black dragon-man was merely a weapon of war, precisely executing the core directives of “command” and “control” until ultimately destroyed or overwritten by new orders.

The demons who entered the line, sensing the scent of material-plane beings, out of hatred for order and life, frantically searched for every hidden goblin—but the process proved difficult.

The demons who stormed the line were immediately stimulated by the scent of material-plane life. Their deep-seated hatred for order and life plunged them into greater frenzy, tearing apart every possible hiding spot, frantically searching for the concealed goblins.

Yet the anticipated massacre progressed with extraordinary difficulty. This zone, composed of ruins, trenches, and specially reinforced cover, had, under A Kuilong’s deliberate arrangement, become a labyrinth of malicious design.

Under the black dragon-man’s battlefield-spanning will, the entire ruin seemed to awaken, transforming into a slithering, malevolent beast. The goblins became its venomous fangs and razor claws, “welcoming” the invaders in ways no one could anticipate.

Cracked arrow tower gaps, pits seemingly blocked by rubble, even the backs of half-suspended signs—all could, at any moment, silently reveal a crossbow coated in neurotoxin.

“Shhh—” The faint whistle of arrows was often drowned by demonic roars and destruction. Only when the neurotoxin-coated bolt struck precisely into a Kusak demon’s eye socket, or pierced the tendon behind a Berserker demon’s knee, did its deadly accuracy become clear.

The wounded demons, enraged, would destroy the source of the arrow—only to find a narrow passage behind it, where the attacker had already vanished along a pre-set route. This omnipresent ambush steadily eroded demonic numbers and sowed tension among them.

When a patrol of three lesser demons and one berserker demon grumbled their way into a narrow alley, true death descended.

“Boom!”

Pre-set alchemical bombs detonated—not to kill, but to cut off retreat and mask the next move. Simultaneously, a full dozen goblins erupted from the ruined walls on either side, silent as shadows, hurling every spear and throwing axe into the alley.

One berserker demon was pierced by dozens of thrown weapons. As it swung its weapon to retaliate, the wooden floor beneath it collapsed. Several goblins leapt from cover, fearless, rushing forward with hooked ropes to bind its limbs, driving short knives wildly into the gaps and joints of its armor.

The entire process lasted no more than fifteen seconds. By the time the demons behind were drawn by the explosion, the goblin squad had vanished through underground tunnels, leaving only the gruesome corpses of the demons in the alley.

The black dragon-man stood firm at the rear, his cold vertical pupils reflecting the entire battlefield’s slaughter map—like the most efficient chessmaster, precisely maneuvering each “piece,” turning the ruins into a quagmire that delayed the demons. His will was the core of this death labyrinth.

Legendary demon lords sat like gods upon the clouds, overseeing the entire battle. They had noticed this fortress, a stubborn wart hindering their army’s advance, and the black dragon-man manipulating events from behind.

Yet, as giants do not stoop to pluck lice from their fur, the demon lords’ dignity forbade them from descending personally. Their wills became invisible orders, transmitted to the minds of their master-class demons.

They cared nothing for the casualties of low-tier demons. Lesser demons, berserkers, even the mid-tier Soul-Judgers—these were mere numbers to the lords, expendable to drain the defenders’ stamina and traps.

The master-class demons granted authority immediately displayed tactical thinking utterly alien to their chaotic nature. They did not blindly charge into the alley labyrinth; instead, they “formatted” the entire area for eradication.

The Infernal Ash, Malgath, a Balor demon, hovered above the fortress. He no longer sought specific targets, but continuously vomited hellfire novas onto the zones where goblin crossbow fire was densest and ambushes most frequent.

Thick, demonic fireballs rained down like meteors—not aiming to kill individual goblins, but to vaporize entire sections of cover, ruins, and the hidden soldiers within. He intended to dismantle the labyrinth with pure bombardment.

The Weaving Sorcerer, Sathos, a powerful Illusion Demon, stood at a safe distance, waving his tentacles and chanting blasphemous incantations, casting a mass frenzy spell that forcibly twisted the minds of low-tier demons, turning them into tireless destruction machines, dismantling cover at a pace several times faster than before.

The Plague Nest, Gruutla, a vast, bloated demon shaped like a giant toad, squatted directly on the line’s edge. Her distended belly pulsed, then spewed a vast cloud of plague mist toward the core zone.

This mist not only corroded flesh but seeped into cover, poisoning the goblins inside. She performed “biochemical cleansing”—ignoring terrain, indiscriminately killing all life, including low-tier demons.

The Shadow Strider, Hano, commander of the master-class demons present, while issuing orders, also directed his shadow demon kin to infiltrate shadows and assassinate goblins stationed at critical nodes, tasked with transmitting the commander’s will.

Malgath reveled in the joy of destruction. He hovered above a relatively open ruin, a zone just cleared by demonic fire. His burning pupils scanned the area, searching for the next target worthy of annihilation. To him, this zone was utterly purified—no threat remained.

Yet this open ground was precisely the grave the black dragon-man commander had chosen for him.

A controlled goblin shaman, faint magical aura flickering on his body, panickedly emerged from a subterranean shelter entrance, as if preparing to relocate.

“Insect!” Malgath snarled in contempt, too lazy to move. He simply opened his mouth and spat a concentrated hellfire breath like a spear toward the goblin.

The instant the hellfire left his mouth, the seemingly charred and level ground beneath exploded! Four thick, frost-iron spikes, inscribed with energy-absorbing runes, erupted from four angles like the fangs of a beast, instantly clamping onto his wings and lower limbs.

Malgath crashed to the ground. Anger and a flicker of shock had barely risen when the true killing blow struck. From both sides of the ruins, intense gravity magic flared—pre-planted magical scrolls activated simultaneously. Gravity, multiplied several times over, pressed upon him like invisible mountains.

Almost as the gravity took effect, a dark figure, indistinguishable from the shadows, shot down like lightning from the half-collapsed tower above. The dragon-man commander gripped his greatsword; the blade ignited with deathly runes that devoured light the moment his hands closed on it.

The dragon-man made no extraneous motion. The greatsword, fueled by his full strength and the momentum of his fall, became a black streak, driving deep into Malgath’s heart. Decay energy surged through his body, extinguishing the last of the hellfire and beginning to devour his life.

The instant the dragon-man’s finest muscles relaxed after delivering the killing blow, a shadow surged like a venomous snake! It had no form, yet in an instant coalesced into a dagger forged from ultimate soul curses.

It was not the dragon-man’s own shadow. It was Hano— Qianfu here from the start, perfectly fused with every surrounding shadow. No scent, no warmth, not even a whisper of malice—like a true shadow, waiting for the perfect moment.

When the dragon-man’s battle instinct finally sensed the faintest spatial ripple behind him, it was already too late.

“Pth—”

The shadow dagger pierced precisely into the gap between skull and cervical vertebrae—the weak point of armor, the nexus between neural center and soul. The terrifying negative energy within erupted like a furious tide, shattering his soul.

The dragon-man commander froze instantly, still holding the pose of withdrawing his sword—but the light in his cold vertical pupils had been utterly extinguished. His massive body lost all support, collapsing forward, crashing onto the corpse of the infernal he had just slain.

“Sakavi, your Puppet 005 is now completely dead. Just now, our Shadow Intelligence Bureau lost contact with him. You should know what that means on the battlefield.”

“So what? Don’t tell me you didn’t gather enough data. I can’t make new puppets—not yet. I have no materials.”