Chapter 633: The Clash of Black Hands

The summer evening breeze brushed over the still-warm scorched earth, trenches like ugly scars winding along the nameless hillside.

This was the front line of the Wanren Mountains, a nameless peak just captured.

The First Mountain Infantry Battalion was stationed here; the flag of Leyn's Company flew atop a pile of rubble not far from the tents, beside several charred ratman corpses.

Inside the tent.

Sir Dickbin sat on an overturned ammunition crate, scribbling in a filthy notebook by the dim glow of a half-burned candle.

His fingers were rough, nails caked with dirt and dried blood that could never be washed clean—no trace left of what had once been a nobleman's hand.

Yet he bore no resentment toward Edward, who had sent him here.

Had he not walked into that cave himself, seen the Leyn people locked in cages like beasts, he might still have been an ignorant, arrogant fool, speaking foolish words that invited mockery.

"July 6th, evening: we took another hill."

"Captain Guff told us that if we push northeast another ninety kilometers, we'll pierce this damned mountain range and link up with the dwarves of Gaoshan Kingdom. The distance sounds short—but I'd rather march nine hundred kilometers across a plain…"

At this point, Sir Dickbin's emotions grew tangled; he paused for a long time before continuing to write his observations for the day.

A few hours earlier, before sunset, they had cleared the ratmen's burrows on this hill.

The scene there would shock even demons—he could think of only one word: massacre. But perhaps slaughter was more accurate.

For the rescued ones' eyes resembled fish stunned on a chopping block—empty, like dry wells, devoid of any will to live.

It was hard to imagine they came from Roland City, sharing the same homeland as himself…

"... I once believed I was a noble one chosen by the Holy Light, a knight fighting for a sacred cause—never imagining that worms had already infested the courts and churches behind me, and that I myself had unknowingly become one of them."

"At first I thought they merely overindulged in food—it wasn't a big deal—but I never imagined they had grown unsatisfied with grain grown by serfs, and now devoured their flesh ground into paste."

"Holy Xiangsheng, if you truly exist, why have your thunderbolts not struck? Or is… all we suffer now your retribution for our arrogance and desecration?"

The candle flame flickered, casting shifting shadows across Sir Dickbin's bearded face, outlining the complexity in his eyes.

For weeks he had pondered why desecrations kept recurring, yet never found an answer that satisfied him.

But one thing he had finally understood.

And he believed it utterly.

If power beyond mortal grasp falls into the hands of those unworthy, it will be a catastrophe.

Whether entangled in it or pretending to stand apart, all will bear the shared karmic fruit of arrogance.

The ratmen are using human magic to prevent humans from rescuing their own kin… this is what he witnessed firsthand on the front.

So far it has been rune-heavy crossbows and magical scrolls—he did not know what horrors they might face next.

Those rats were merely stunned, but clearly not broken. When their masters behind the scenes react, this war will drag on…

Sir Dickbin closed his journal, exhaled deeply, as if expelling every foul breath from his chest.

Just as he was about to return the journal to his pack, an odd sound from outside the tent caught his attention.

It was not the wind, nor the footsteps of patrols—it sounded like burning dry wood, and it came from far, far away.

Instinctively, Sir Dickbin seized the bolt-action rifle leaning by the table, blew out the flickering light behind him, and crawled out of the tightly shut field tent on all fours.

Outside the camp, silence reigned—only distant insect chirps broke it.

He squinted, scanning the surroundings warily, searching for the source—but saw nothing, only the oppressive, low-hanging night sky above.

"An illusion…?"

He muttered, turning to re-enter the tent—when suddenly, the unthinkable happened!

The black sky tore open as if ripped by an invisible giant hand; a blinding magical light erupted without warning above the clouds.

In that instant, night became day!

Sir Dickbin's pupils shrank violently—and beneath the orange-red glow, he saw a sight that shattered his soul!

The clouds were burning.

Countless fireballs, trailing long tails of flame, fell like divine retribution—a meteor shower engulfing the entire hill they had just seized!

The thunder of punishment had not come—but the flames of purification had arrived above "Leyn's Company!"

"Holy Xiangsheng above…"

Sir Dickbin choked out a desperate curse.

Before his curse had even left his lips, the first burning meteor struck the ground near him!

BOOM—!

The massive explosion reached his ears half a second late; the earth shook violently, hurling Sir Dickbin to the ground.

He coughed, spitting out dirt, scrambled up in panic, and clutched his fallen journal to his chest.

The shrill alarm finally screamed—but it came too late; countless soldiers had already been reduced to ash in their sleep.

And the ignited ammunition—

Explosions crackled within the trenches!

"Enemy attack!"

"Damn it! Which direction—?"

"Forget the direction—get the hell down!"

"Into the holes! Into the rat tunnels!"

Ignoring the dirt in his mouth, Sir Dickbin sprinted toward the rat tunnels, shouting at the still-burning barracks.

His cries saved some lives.

The Leyn Company soldiers, jolted from sleep, scrambled barefoot through the inferno, racing desperately toward the filthy rat burrows.

The endless rain of fire fell mercilessly, turning the hill, just raised with Leyn's banner, once more into a hell.

Perhaps fate had not yet claimed him.

Perhaps his debts were not yet paid.

Sir Dickbin survived—crawling, rolling, tumbling deep into the rat tunnel, clutching his penitent journal.

Sharp rocks tore his knees, yet he felt no pain. Then a stench of burning filled his nose—he realized his hair had been reduced to a charred lump.

In the past, he would have screamed and pulled out a comb. Now he had no time—he gasped for air, greedily sucking in the foul atmosphere—

To be alive was good!

Outside, the sky blazed red; the once-black mountain now glowed as bright as day.

Flames engulfed the entire battlefield, like twisted serpents licking the rocks beyond the trenches, igniting dead branches with crackling pops—as if the whole mountain screamed in agony…

Yet the ratmen's burrow, capable of holding hundreds, was eerily empty.

Of the seven hundred men in Leyn's Company, fewer than a hundred had escaped.

The rest were either blown to shreds in their sleep or turned into torches while sprinting toward the tunnel entrance.

Young soldiers, rifles slung over their backs, stared at each other, faces streaked with ash and tears, eyes wide with the terror of survival.

"Damn it!"

"What the hell was that? Meteors?"

Curses echoed in the enclosed space.

Sir Dickbin swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva, forced his gaze away from the distant fire, and returned to the dark rat tunnel.

As a noble, he knew exactly what it was.

It was no power those mere burrow-digging ratmen could wield…

"It's a combined casting…"

Sir Dickbin spoke nervously, revealing the truth to the terrified young soldiers—but they remained baffled.

"Combined casting?"

"What's that?"

A large hand pressed onto his shoulder.

The captain of the neighboring company limped over, one side of his uniform soaked in blood, yet his gaze remained steady, locked on Sir Dickbin's eyes.

"Do you know who did this?"

Sir Dickbin took a deep breath, forcing his voice to steady.

"I don't know who did it—but I think I know what it is. I read about it in an ancient war chronicle: the Empire calls it the 'Casting Circle.'"

Facing dozens of fixed stares, his finger slowly pointed toward the lingering fireballs still falling outside.

"Tens of thousands of steel-grade fireball spells, amplified by special arrays to negate distance decay, converge on a single zone—like… our volley fire."

"Through precise coordination, they achieve qualitative leaps through sheer numbers. Dozens or hundreds of magic apprentices can weave area spells only a diamond-grade mage could manage. If they draw power from magic crystals, they can expand the range and intensity even further…"

To the Campbell people, this should be easy to grasp—a factory with clear divisions easily outproduces a master artisan's workshop.

Though there were almost no Campbell people here…

Sir Dickbin swallowed again, his voice hoarse.

"The Empire couldn't deploy a force of this caliber here—they're defending Huangtong Pass alongside the dwarves, and have no reason to fight for the ratmen. Only one place remains… the Scholarlands of the Northern Wastes."

"Fire meteors…"

The captain chewed the term, his face dark as storm clouds.

"Those bastards!"

A young soldier cursed, teeth grinding, "This is an act of war! They've allied with ratmen and declared war on us!"

"Don't be naive—they'll never admit it."

The captain cut off the soldier's futile rage, turning to Sir Dickbin with cold calm.

"Corporal, since you understand this—based on your experience, what will they do after this barrage?"

Sir Dickbin's Adam's apple bobbed; a chill crawled up his spine as he voiced his dread.

I didn't see which direction the magic light came from—they must have struck us from beyond visual range. The fact they hit us so precisely means they have eyes somewhere near our position…

Either they're flying in the sky, or… they're hiding underground.

Almost the instant he finished speaking, the sentry crouched at the cave entrance let out a shrill, broken scream.

"Undead! They're undead!"

Hearing the scream, the platoon leader forgot his leg wound, snatched up his weapon, and charged toward the cave entrance.

Dickbin followed close behind.

By the firelight burning outside the cave, they finally saw the "things" pouring into the trench—and their blood froze in an instant.

These were no ordinary undead.

They were monsters stitched together from countless shattered limbs, their rotting bellies sewn shut with coarse black thread, green-black organs barely contained.

Some had rat heads attached to human arms; others had human heads stuck onto rat bodies.

They crawled through the flames without feeling pain, their throats emitting eerie shrieks; some young soldiers with weak nerves could no longer hold back their vomit.

Calling these things undead would be an insult even to the undead themselves…

"Prepare to fight!"

The platoon leader roared, yanking back the bolt of his rifle and firing as he shouted.

"Don't let these things get near the cave entrance!"

He didn't need to remind them.

Sir Dickbin had already pulled the trigger.

Bang—

The muzzle flash illuminated his panicked face; he frantically fished out a paper-cartridge round, rammed it into the barrel, pulled the bolt again—and fired once more!

Though the Luo Ke 1054 rifle's rate of fire was slightly slower than the 1053 model, it was still far faster than traditional muzzle-loading muskets.

Even so, against tens of thousands of stitched rats, the surviving soldiers were hopelessly outnumbered.

Tens of thousands of grotesque rat-human hybrids surged over the charred slopes like a ruptured tide of corpses.

They trampled over their own kind, shrieking with grating, nauseating sounds; foul pus and blood oozed from the seams beneath their stitched flesh.

The numbers on both sides were not even in the same league!

Even if these crudely stitched monsters weren't particularly strong, they were enough to drown Sir Dickbin's platoon in a flood of corpses!

Without much effort, one stitched rat broke through the line, its sharp claws piercing a young soldier's skull.

Hot blood splattered across Sir Dickbin's face; though the rat was soon skewered through the head by a bayonet, it still sent a chill through his heart.

It's over—

The thought had barely flashed through his mind when, on another hill far away, a string of brilliant fireworks suddenly flared to life.