Chapter 983

In defensive warfare, although there are more classic cases to reference, human resources can still be exhausted, and demons are no different; under extreme inequality of conditions, a defensive battle is nearly impossible to turn around—it’s merely a matter of how long it can be dragged out.

When the gate was breached, Batman didn’t panic; instead, he seemed to exhale a sigh of relief, for he knew the next phase of battle would be his turn.

General Putridheart originally hadn’t taken this suppression campaign seriously; in his view, those miner slaves could never possess any real resistance—the racial gap was real, and that group of naturally weak miners could never stir up any significant trouble.

But this time, the uprising lasted two days and nights, nearly driving General Putridheart mad—he had just assured His Majesty Piel that his troops were ready to deploy at any moment and would be the sharpest spearhead on the front line, yet suddenly, chaos erupted in his own mine, and his meticulously trained elite soldiers couldn’t defeat a bunch of miners???

The fact that General Putridheart had secured the second-largest mine proved he wasn’t incompetent; he understood that when something impossible suddenly occurred, there must be a hidden key he didn’t know.

So instead of immediately throwing the commander into lava, he thoroughly reviewed the entire mountain assault, and then discovered: the enemy had a master.

As a general, Putridheart couldn’t possibly be ignorant of strategy and tactics; amateurs watch the spectacle, experts watch the subtleties—just from the first two rounds of probing and attacks, Putridheart knew this opponent had fought in battles, and hard ones at that.

He didn’t know that Batman had already obtained the answer beforehand; in the war he’d studied, nearly every terrible scenario had occurred—not just once, but repeatedly—and every possible countermeasure existed: some effective, some useless, some bordering on miraculous.

Batman only needed to summarize slightly and adapt locally—even that wasn’t necessary, because even the weakest demon miners were far stronger than humans.

It’s like holding a hammer and seeing every problem as a nail—Batman held the answer, and the so-called elite demons’ capabilities left him deeply disappointed.

After realizing the enemy’s skill level wasn’t low, General Putridheart suspected this might be a conspiracy by other demon lords—they had secretly infiltrated the mine to incite war and disrupt Piel’s military readiness; their intentions were malicious.

Knowing this, General Putridheart understood he couldn’t underestimate the enemy; the opponent was likely as battle-hardened as he was, so he immediately assumed command—just as the demon soldiers had just breached the mine entrance.

After entering the mine, they were stunned: before them were over a dozen branching tunnels, all devoid of fortifications; the once-aggressive miner slaves had vanished entirely, and the entire mine was eerily silent.

When this report reached headquarters, General Putridheart was also baffled—he had received a map from his predecessor when taking over the mine, but it was only a rough overview.

The entire mine had been developed for over a thousand years; hundreds, if not dozens, of generals had taken command, each digging wherever the ore was richest, never considering route planning, so no detailed maps existed.

In short, no one had ever imagined miner uprisings, so they’d been utterly careless; the problem landed on Putridheart’s desk, and his best idea was to find an old miner to guide them.

Unfortunately, all the old miners most familiar with the Central Plaza were now inside the Central Mountain.

His earlier decision to force all miners into the mountain to work had backfired—he could’ve found a few veteran miners in the dormitories or elsewhere, but now he had no one to lead the way.

Not knowing the routes, they had to press on anyway; since manpower was plentiful, Putridheart decided to split into three columns and first explore the three central tunnels.

As soon as they entered the tunnels, problems arose: the largest heavy-armored demons couldn’t fit at all.

These passages were designed for miners, not soldiers storming deep inside, so the further in they went, the narrower they became; halfway through, the heavy-armored soldiers got stuck.

The tallest lava demon in the mine was no more than five or six meters tall; bending slightly, they could pass through three- to four-meter-high tunnels—but those giant demon soldiers, even with armor, stood nearly ten meters tall, and couldn’t even walk inside the tunnels.

The accompanying magic-savvy demons tried widening the tunnels; initially, the method worked well—they successfully passed through several passages.

But later, as they traversed hundreds or even thousands of meters of tunnels, every single mage in the unit collapsed from exhaustion; this “expand one meter per step” approach was pure waste of magical energy.

The widened tunnels totaled only a few hundred meters, yet every path, every tunnel, was roughly the same size—some even smaller—and if they relied entirely on mages to expand them, even Piel’s elite Magic Knight Corps might not suffice.

So Putridheart abandoned the idea of sending heavy-armored troops into the mine and assigned smaller, light-armored demons instead.

Though small in stature, these demons were no weaker in strength and were exceptionally well-equipped; they stood no chance in direct combat, but no one was fighting them head-on.

In the first tunnel, the leading assault team hadn’t gone far before being driven back by smoke; in the enclosed space, thick smoke suddenly erupted—many demons didn’t need to breathe and could hold their breath for long periods, but this smoke carried spores.

In short, it was poison gas; demons unprepared were immediately incapacitated—about half lost mobility after being driven back, and the remaining half could only advance by relying on mages’ defensive shields.

At the upward staircase, they encountered rolling boulders; the small demons couldn’t withstand the heavy rocks and scrambled out, some still crushed into pulp.

Then came ground collapses, spike traps, ceiling falls, ambush arrows around corners…

If you viewed this through the first-person perspective of the demon soldiers, the entire mine was like a Studio Ghibli nightmare—three steps, a trap; five steps, an ambush; they never even saw where the attacks came from before screaming and falling.

Achieving this relied on the burrows of the small demons—tiny, weak demons who had developed their own ecosystem within the mine, known as rat tunnels.

The main tunnels were for normal miners, but the small demons, to move quickly through the mine, dug their own complex rat tunnels—far more intricate.

Perhaps a trait of any highly reproductive, social species, they deliberately designed their tunnels to be labyrinthine and interconnected—almost every branch led to their intended destination.

Normally, these tunnels were hidden in every direction of the main passages; only small demons, tiny and light enough, could navigate them—but now, these tunnels became perfect tools for setting traps.

Even if the small demons barely understood complex trap mechanisms, they could still stand inside the tunnels, holding sharp wooden spears, and jab them into armor seams.

One jab might mean nothing, but there were tens of thousands of small demons in the mine, constantly reproducing—if these demon soldiers ever wrote memoirs, the title of this chapter would surely be: “You’ve never been jabbed—you don’t understand.”

Fortunately, demon soldiers possessed regeneration and had mages accompanying them; although traps slowed their advance, they staggered forward and finally reached the first large cavern—the very one where Batman had been working.

All demon soldiers surrounded the central mound; they saw no enemies, yet felt surrounded on all sides, forcing them to remain perpetually alert against potential attacks.

Though demons didn’t need food, drink, or sleep, they still required rest; two days and nights of siege had drained everyone’s energy—advancing endlessly through long, pitch-black tunnels while constantly dodging traps, wounds healing only to reopen again—this was psychological torture for any sentient being.

Eventually, the commander ordered a brief rest—and as they did, slave miners surged from tunnels in every direction, hurling various weapons and rocks at them indiscriminately.

These attacks were weak in damage but extremely insulting; demons had short tempers and charged after the miners without thinking—those familiar with the terrain vanished instantly, and the pursuing demons encountered more traps.

The commander ordered no pursuit, but the miner slaves simply stood at tunnel corners, continuing to throw things.

At first, they only threw spears and rocks—some couldn’t even pierce demon armor—but later, they began hurling bombs seized from insect bombers, strange viscous fluids, toxic spore clusters…

Among the light troops were archers and magic-stone users with ranged capabilities, but the slave miners had no other skills—except running faster than anyone; after throwing one volley, they vanished immediately, giving no time to draw bows or channel magic.

Unfamiliar with the terrain, they couldn’t chase them down; if they did, they faced more traps; if they tried to rest, they were constantly harassed.

The commander knew the best course was to withdraw completely, regroup, and reorganize based on the mine’s conditions.

But the problem was—they’d already come this far; withdrawing meant enduring the traps again, and re-entering would drain them once more; in the end, this entire force would be useless.

The commander knew Putridheart’s temper—if he returned without results, he’d face a terrible fate; if he pressed deeper, he’d be well-protected, and only the soldiers would die—but if he captured even one or two masterminds, it would be his chance for glory.

So the commander decided to press deeper—and what followed was no longer gentle.

The traps that followed no longer focused on killing, but on splitting the force: spreading poison smoke in the center to scatter troops forward and backward, suddenly triggering a trap that dragged a demon soldier in and made him vanish.

The tunnels were too narrow to form formations; they could only advance in a single-file line—the classic “Seven Brothers Saving Grandpa” formation—causing the rear to lose contact with the front, the front to lose contact with the rear; soon, this snake was chopped into tiny pieces, soldiers broken into groups of two or three, separated from the main force.

After that, they witnessed true hell—Batman had prepared a thorough plan for combat within the mine.

First, he ordered all miners to hide, avoiding direct confrontation; then, through constant harassment, he drained the enemy’s stamina and energy; once the enemy grew weary, he split the main force into small groups and picked them off one by one.

Once they lost numerical superiority, two or three demon soldiers couldn’t withstand the onslaught of countless slave miners throwing punches; if they tried to flee, the miners—familiar with every passage—would catch up; in short, there was no escape, no refuge.

Yes, the answer Batman held was only one sentence: When the enemy advances, we retreat; when the enemy camps, we harass; when the enemy tires, we attack; when the enemy retreats, we pursue.

As the battle eased, Batman, alone in reflection, looked up in the pitch-black mine space—and saw the old black-and-white film still playing; the clatter of wheels over rails grew urgent, the horn piercing through smoke echoed across ancient land.

One after another figure crossed mountains, rivers, and seas, walking toward the distant, boundless earth—their silhouettes like the wind that, for ten thousand years, had blown across this land, never returning.

Meanwhile, standing in the abandoned mine, Schiller and Alfred, from the distant wind, smelled the scent of smoke.

“You traveled thousands of miles, plotted meticulously, even cut yourself just to drag Batman into hell—just so he could join the war?” Alfred turned to Schiller and asked.

“Batman has learned much—even Gotham,” Schiller sighed faintly, gazing at the river of molten lava flowing in the distance. “But learning one city isn’t enough to unleash his extraordinary talent.”

“Gotham’s darkness is deep, but not vast; mastering Gotham is merely the first step for such a genius out of the cradle.”

“No one likes war,” Schiller paused, then spoke again. “But the forging of iron and blood in war shapes a person’s character at its root.”

“The relentless artillery and smoke, the sacrifices and deaths unfolding before one’s eyes, the immense love and hate, the deep grudges and vendettas within the era—these will truly transform a person.”

“The petty struggles, hesitations, and confusions within the self will ultimately be washed away by the tide of clashing weapons and the vast, epic sweep of war, reforged into a soul of steel.”

Schiller lowered his head and spoke in a low tone: “Through endless war smoke, he will see the grand ambitions of greater men.”

“One day, he will understand: if his goal is merely to save Gotham, he will never stand shoulder to shoulder with the titans who towered over human history.”

Schiller’s sigh scattered with the wind, vanishing into the ancient, desolate land—like a breeze, gone without a trace.

“If he cannot emerge from this age of chaos, he will never understand…”

“How astonishing the courage of those sages who rode the storms and waves, how they dared to cry out in a world of mutual fear—‘Let us change the sun and moon to a new heaven!’”

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