Chapter 991

The moon was dark, the wind howled, and smoke rose; when torches flared in the night, they flickered like ghostly flames, one cluster after another igniting, lines of fire surging forward from the horizon like tidal waves.

“Hum—”

The low blast of horns shuddered the air, harmonizing with the screech of mine carts grinding over rails to compose the prelude to battle.

“Aaaooo!!!” A mysterious glow ignited in the darkness, like molten lava pouring from the clouds; in the instant the Lava Demon raised both arms, a blazing, radiant orange-red radiance burst from his chest.

A heavy fist slammed down—“Crash!”—a small demon soldier collapsed instantly, his weapon flying far away.

The weapon rolled several times on the ground, its sharp blade chipped with a notch; in the blade’s reflection, the panicked tide of night-risen souls writhed helplessly like mosquito larvae struggling on an autumn pond.

In an instant, the camp erupted in screams; no one knew which demon had first shrieked: “Ambush! Ambush! They’re here, they’re here!!!”

The cry erupted, and the camp instantly boiled over; many demons burst out half-dressed, only to see more panicked comrades sprinting toward the camp gate.

The first demons out heard only an explosion and saw two corpses; they assumed enemies had breached the camp and rushed to alert their commander as fast as possible.

But later demons, seeing them flee in panic, believed the enemy had already broken in—no time to don armor or grab weapons, they simply followed the crowd, and in an instant, the entire camp descended into chaos.

The commander, also unarmored, burst out of his tent in confusion, shouting: “What’s going on! What’s going on! Who broke in?! What are you doing! Stop! Don’t run!!!”

Newly awakened demons searched for enemies but, lacking organization or discipline, ran like headless flies; soon, they were picked off one by one, and after a few screams, the rest panicked even more.

“It’s them! It’s definitely them! Those damned slaves!! Grab your weapons—I’ll tear them apart!!!”

“Aaaooo!! They’re finished! I just saw fire over there—I’m going to chop them into pieces right now!!!”

“They’ve been hiding for so long—finally dare to show themselves? Wait for me, Aaaooo!!!!”

For a time, shouts, roars, and curses filled the air; the commander’s two shouts were useless.

Only when the entire camp was in full chaos did the commander realize the worst scenario had occurred: their camp had broken.

In relatively classical warfare, one scenario must always be guarded against: camp panic, also called a rout.

Simply put, in traditional warfare, soldiers needed only combat competence—they needed to follow orders and fight well; everything else lowered efficiency and wasted resources.

To make one’s troops both fierce and obedient, the commander must establish an unshakable authority; to secure that authority, he must enforce iron discipline—in ancient warfare, the more elite the unit, the stricter the discipline.

Discipline and instinct are nearly opposites: discipline demands fearless courage, yet fear of death is the instinct of any sentient being.

On a battlefield of fierce, tense combat, soldiers face crushing discipline above and monstrous enemies below, never knowing when death will come, their minds perpetually taut.

Rest time is the only moment to relax, usually after major battles or brutal training; physical exhaustion loosens the mind, and sudden intense stimuli can trigger instinctive panic responses.

Batman’s strategy combined terrain tactics with psychological warfare to achieve breakthroughs without bloodshed.

The miners knew the terrain intimately—they could navigate the minefields blindfolded; they knew every small ravine, cover, hidden layer, and crevice. For days, they had harassed the Seventh Mountain defenses with hit-and-run tactics.

Everyone knows defense isn’t just sitting in camp—it requires reconnaissance units, fortifications, daily patrols; those reconnaissance teams, patrol squads, and engineer squads building defenses were their targets.

Their tactics were always the same: divide and conquer, strike one by one, retreat when they advance, advance when they retreat.

Heavy-armored demon soldiers couldn’t join reconnaissance; light demons lacked the physical resilience—if they triggered a trap or were surrounded by large miner slaves, survival chances were slim. In the first few days, the Seventh Mountain defense lost three patrol squads and two reconnaissance squads.

Logically, after suffering losses, they should counterattack—but they were defenders; a full-scale sortie would invite a feint-and-flank maneuver.

Batman’s forces were like a small knife, continuously slicing flesh from the Seventh Mountain defense’s perimeter; the enemy bled and raged, yet couldn’t retaliate effectively.

When heavy-armored regulars charged, the enemy avoided battle, retreating behind several mountains; small units couldn’t break through.

But if they sent more troops with a few mages, they could penetrate—but the enemy then traded space for time.

Meanwhile, whenever Seventh Mountain’s defenses weakened, Batman sent reconnaissance units to infiltrate, forcing the commander to scramble back.

Finally, the commander had no choice: he shrank the defensive perimeter, reduced patrol range and frequency, and forbade any demon from leaving camp without orders.

But this left the demon soldiers seething; demons were inherently more volatile than humans, and demon soldiers differed from other slaves not just by race but by their bloodlust and malice—every thought in their minds was to decapitate the enemy and kick their heads like balls.

The enemy commander had never studied psychology; he didn’t know that suppressing emotions for long periods could turn them into a bomb, waiting to detonate.

Tonight was the night Batman lit the fuse.

Previously, comrades on patrol and reconnaissance kept vanishing, placing immense psychological pressure on the demon soldiers; they could accept fighting face-to-face, but not dying unseen, like haunted ghosts.

Alone, they vanished; together, they couldn’t find the enemy. Attacking the enemy camp failed; retreating brought reprimands; after shrinking their perimeter, they were trapped in camp day after day—these demon soldiers were nearly mad.

At this moment, a special forces squad led by Merker slipped into the camp during rest time; of course, none in this squad could match any demon soldier in strength, so they had no intention of fighting head-on.

The Slither-Serpent Demon hurled two fire spears, igniting tents and forcing out the first wave of demon soldiers; these raw troops had no tactical training, didn’t understand what a rout was—upon spotting enemies, they immediately screamed.

Other demons, hearing the alarm, surged out—but normally, they chased enemies and gained victories only because someone commanded them; without leadership, they crashed about like headless flies.

Some large demons, awakened, thought enemies were behind camp and dashed that way, knocking over medium demons and crushing small ones; small demons scattered everywhere, mages didn’t know where to cast light spells, and ended up blasting their own allies.

Within minutes, the entire camp exploded; all demons screamed. The commander, caught in the fleeing tide, had his arm crushed underfoot; many demons fled outward, and soon all demons fled.

Once outside, they didn’t know what to do, so they tried to return to camp—but once the crowd was split and scattered, the waiting miner slaves used prepped traps and coordinated tactics to pick them off one by one.

Standing atop Third Mountain, Batman saw flames surrounding the Seventh Mountain defense camp; as a bomb-made signal flare shot into the sky, he knew the perfect moment to seize Seventh Mountain had arrived.

What followed could no longer rely on trickery; though the enemy had routed, their remaining forces could still resist. To swallow so many demons with mere tricks was unrealistic—now, only direct assault would do.

The pre-organized miner army charged the camp; Batman led one squad to smash the gate, splitting the chaotic tide in two; flank units followed, dividing the enemy into smaller fragments, then encircling them.

Without a commander, demon soldiers could no longer form unified tactical lines—but their raw strength remained formidable; if attacked, they fought back fiercely; for a time, blades flashed, blood sprayed.

Batman, torch raised, saw that in the first instant of direct contact, at least a third of the demons in his squad fell.

These frail miner slaves could not possibly match the naturally superior, heavily trained demon soldiers.

A heavy-armored demon punched a Slither-Serpent Demon in the head, crushing his upper body into pulp; he swung again, flinging a Slime Demon off his arm, then stomped it down—the Slime Demon shrieked, its blood splattering Batman’s cloak, making him feel dizzy.

Batman had never thought himself faint at blood.

But now he realized: in large-scale warfare, the brutality and gore of frontal clashes dwarfed any street fight; standing at the heart of a meat grinder, no first-time soldier—not even Batman—could stay calm.

Frontal combat allowed no flashy tricks—fists met flesh, blades drew blood.

Batman realized his strength was insignificant in this war.

True, he could outmaneuver a medium demon through tactics—something nearly impossible in Hell’s power hierarchy, since even medium demons towered over humans by at least two meters.

But Batman could use various tactics to mislead the enemy, then strike their weak points.

But then what?

Blood-soaked, Batman pulled his gauntlet from a demon’s heart, gasping for breath, trying to recover his drained strength in moments.

This was his second demon killed—but it did nothing to reverse the frontline’s disadvantage. Killing two demons, even twenty, had little effect against such a chaotic, grinding melee.

Batman shook his head, forcing himself calm, then shouted: “Open a gap on the right flank! Stop advancing! Open the gap—let them out!”

The order passed down; the encirclement opened a breach, the line stretched eastward, shifting from a wedge into a flatter line, as miner forces drove the trapped demon soldiers eastward.

Batman’s palms grew sweaty; his heart pounded with a rhythm he’d never felt before—because the next turn of battle would decide victory or defeat.