Chapter 992: The Battle for Gao Ta (27)

Thus, two-thirds of the miner-slaves had lost their combat capability, while the demon army’s casualties remained unclear.

Amid the chaotic melee, no one noticed casualties—but once the lines stretched and formations opened, everyone would face their own reality.

At this moment, the most critical thing was that, after recognizing their disadvantage and casualty count, they could not retreat.

In ancient warfare, losing one-third of combat strength within a short time typically meant defeat, for such losses shattered the warriors’ will, leading inevitably to total collapse.

Often, ancient battles claimed few lives because, upon direct collision, superiority or inferiority became clear within minutes.

Once morale broke, one man turning back triggered a wave of retreat, turning the battle into a chase—throughout human ancient warfare, true annihilation battles were exceedingly rare.

Batman originally strongly opposed extending the line; he did not believe these slaves could maintain combat will after losing two-thirds of their comrades, let alone complete the final annihilation.

The crowd spread eastward like a school of fish, and only when the line fully extended did all realize the bloodbath they had endured—even the dimmest slave or soldier could now see the tide of battle.

More demon soldiers remained, but they had no formation left; their own casualties had been heavy, and the line had been shattered beyond repair—on open ground, such a formation offered no resistance.

But the miner-slaves fared worse: corpses of their comrades littered every side; gazing around, flesh and blood piled high—a single glance shattered the liver and gall.

Even Batman, human and among humanity’s most resolute geniuses, felt waves of dizziness amid such dense combat.

Even if none of the dead were his own kind, sentient beings confronting death are shaken more profoundly than they imagine.

The battlefield fell silent for an instant, then a roar erupted from its center—like a piercing wind howling from the deepest abyss, yet brimming with the fury of erupting lava.

Roar after roar echoed across the empty battlefield, reverberating among the mining mountains.

The incomparable grief, rage, and indescribable emotion within it struck like a sledgehammer, nearly knocking the unharmed Batman down into the bloody air.

What were they shouting?

What filled them with grief?

And what stirred their rage?

In Batman’s disbelieving gaze, the remaining miner-slaves moved—no one commanded them, no one taught them—but they charged like madmen toward the demon soldiers they had once feared as tigers.

Batman stood frozen, like a rock on this vast land, unyielding for millennia beneath wind and frost.

Bloodshed reignited, wind howled; all remaining slaves surged forward with a fury and hatred Batman could not comprehend nor feel, charging deathlessly toward the last demon soldiers.

In prior drills, they had never shown such bloodlust, let alone bravery.

Batman shook his head hard, breathed deeply again and again, trying to lower his heart rate—but his heart pounded relentlessly, like an unceasing war drum.

Blood drowned the last remnants of reason in his genius mind; in that instant, some barrier shattered, and long-suppressed emotions erupted.

The ever-calm, meticulously strategic Batman charged into the slaughter like a foolish demon.

His black cape stained crimson; the lust for killing devoured his reason—when he stopped, only corpses surrounded him.

At the entrance to the mountain cave, Alfred saw Batman, drenched in blood, trudging toward him; his black armor had turned entirely dark red, he carried a spear, and his step was limping.

Yet this bat had finally, through iron and blood, shed the down still warm on his wings, stripped away the soft cartilage of hesitation, and worn away the dull shell from his sharp claws—taking a new step toward becoming an iron warrior.

But Alfred drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and before Batman could read his expression, he forcibly suppressed the pain and sorrow on his face, no longer meeting him with the gentle smile of a caretaker toward a child.

Alfred’s expression grew solemn; as Batman reached him, he extended one hand.

Batman looked down and saw the gnarled veins on Alfred’s hand—like tree roots surging from snow-covered earth, greeting the new sprouts of spring.

Batman extended his trembling hand and clasped Alfred’s; the boy who never grew up and the servant who never aged saw themselves in each other’s eyes.

After releasing his hand, Batman gasped for breath; the slaughter had drained nearly all his strength.

Alfred said nothing, merely stepped aside; Batman walked past in silence, then continued climbing upward, raising his gaze to the giant eye atop the mountain—he knew the Corrupt Heart General waited there.

At this moment, Batman did not know where his courage came from—to face a general-level demon when he had almost no strength left—but he felt no fear, his steps firm.

At the summit of the Seventh Mountain, Batman saw a powerful demon approaching him—it was not the Corrupt Heart General, but a stranger demon.

Batman braced for battle, but the demon extended a hand and said: “You’re Batman, aren’t you? Someone wants to see you. Come with me.”

Batman loosened his fist; he thought, well, this must be a godfather-type demon, still fond of pre-battle negotiations.

Beneath the eye stood a towering castle—this was the Corrupt Heart General’s residence. Batman followed the stranger demon through the gate, down long corridors, and into the great hall.

In the center of the hall stood an extremely long table, as in all Gothic castles: chairs arranged in rows, torches fixed to massive pillars, curtains hanging between them, a long carpet leading to a wall adorned with grotesque demon heads.

Behind the long table, Batman did not see the dragon he had come to kill.

He saw Schiller.

But the scene before him shook him more profoundly than the blood-soaked battlefield ever had.

Schiller sat at the head of the table, still in suit and tie, but drenched in blood; a massive rivet pierced his collarbone, dragging a long chain, making him look wretched—yet his expression was serene.

As if he were unharmed, enjoying a holiday feast with an old friend—and indeed, he was savoring a banquet.

Batman saw a plate before Schiller, holding roasted meat—likely tendons from the elbow.

Behind him hung the Corrupt Heart General, impaled on a giant hook, missing two arms and one leg.

A massive iron hook pierced the General’s neck, suspending him from the ceiling; the stumps were unnaturally clean, cut without struggle—seven wounds total, all severing major arteries, blood drained completely, like a pig slaughtered with precision.

Schiller sliced off the front portion of the tendon, then cut it into smaller pieces along the grain, speared them with a fork, and ate them; Batman instinctively swallowed.

He realized his leg muscles were trembling uncontrollably; his brain screamed for him to flee—but he had come with questions, so he could not leave, and he did not know if he could leave even if he tried.

Schiller finished a bite, looked up at Batman, and said: “You’re here. Sit down.”

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His tone was casual, as if teasing the last friend to arrive at a gathering.

Batman felt as if doused in cold water—but this had its benefit: his surging bloodlust instantly cooled, and then he smelled the enticing aroma of food.

Batman walked to the first seat on the side, hesitated, but did not sit; Schiller tilted his head, looking at him, and at that moment, the stranger demon placed a plate and cutlery before Batman.

Batman sat down, leaned back, and slightly raised his head; Schiller took another bite—and in that instant, Batman noticed Schiller smiling, a madness in that smile that felt terrifyingly familiar.

But the next second, Schiller returned to normal; Batman blinked, and the smile vanished again.

“It wasn’t your illusion,” Schiller’s voice echoed in Batman’s ear, as if reading his thoughts precisely; he sliced meat as he spoke: “I imagine you’re curious about what I’m doing.”

He glanced at the massive rivet piercing his collarbone and shoulder, then said: “Lately, I’ve been injured too often—I look quite disheveled, but I know you’re not the type to kick a man when he’s down or mock the victim.”

Batman opened his mouth, tasted the word “victim” on his tongue, and accidentally spoke: “...Victim?”

Schiller nodded, paused his actions, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at Batman: “Not a victim of demons—but a victim of you, Batman.”

Batman stared into his eyes; Schiller smiled and said:

“All of this began with our first meeting.”