Chapter 115: War (X)
Unlike the aimless, tactically inept Players chaotically chasing the Allied Forces from the outskirts, the Tiefling army had already formed a tight, disciplined offensive line. Seizing the gap created by the Players’ reckless charge, they surged forward like a razor-sharp blade, slicing deep into the heart of the three-thousand-strong Allied force.
Meizhuolashi led the charge, his armor splattered with bloodstains, a figure so terrifying that few dared draw near. He raised his blood-drenched greatsword high into the air.
[Channel Divinity: Terror Manifestation]
A wave of shadowy darkness erupted from him, swallowing the surrounding battlefield in an oppressive gloom. Channeling the deepest currents of despair and dread, he unleashed a supernatural aura of psychological terror—a unique ability of the Oathbreaker.
The Allied soldiers, swallowed by the darkness, dropped their weapons and fled in blind panic. Their courage shattered, they screamed in terror.
"No—don’t come any closer!"
"Ah—!"
"Run! Run for your lives!"
"Devil! He’s a Devil incarnate!"
Blood splattered across his face. Meizhuolashi’s lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile.
"A Devil’s化身?"
The words stirred something deep within him—memories long buried.
He paused, silent for only a heartbeat. Then, with chilling calm, he spoke:
"If you all so desperately wish me to be a Devil… then I shall be."
With a thunderous step forward, he swung his greatsword. Crimson light, thick and heavy like blood itself, flashed down in jagged arcs—each stroke a sacred, cursed slash unique to the Oathbreaker.
Screams of agony tore through the air as lives were snuffed out one by one, harvested by the grim reaper’s hand.
Soldiers scattered like frightened deer, fleeing from the sight of a living nightmare. Even his own Tiefling troops, though loyal, felt a flicker of unease at the sheer horror radiating from their chieftain. They followed, firing arrows in hesitant volleys.
Damakos hurried forward, his voice laced with concern.
"Captain… are you alright?"
"I’m fine."
"I’ve never been better."
As he spoke, Meizhuolashi raised his sword once more.
[Channel Divinity: Control Undead]
From the ground, corpses began to rise. Limbs reassembled with sickening crunches, bones snapping back into place. Hollow eyes flickered with eerie, dancing light. With guttural moans, the reanimated dead surged forward—turning on their former comrades.
"No—!"
"Gods above!"
"He is a Devil!"
"He’s resurrected the dead! He commands the Undead!"
Seeing their fallen friends—now twisted, bloodthirsty horrors—rushing toward them, the Allied soldiers’ psychological defenses crumbled completely. They fled in utter desperation. No one wanted to end up like that.
Meizhuolashi lowered his sword, the blood dripping from its edge.
"Effective," he murmured.
His eyes—pure black, without any trace of iris—glinted with a cold, otherworldly light. His ram-like horns, now caked in dried blood, gave him the appearance of a true demon from the depths of Hell.
Control Undead—a power he had never used before. But Meizhuolashi had long since shed the burden of his past.
If he was a follower of the Evil Dragon… then this was no longer a sin. It was merely fate.
He glanced around. Then, his expression flickered—his gaze caught something unsettling.
Even among his own allies, he saw it—the flicker of fear in their eyes.
But he chose to ignore it. Calmly, he issued his order.
"Advance."
With the Undead leading the way, the Tieflings chased the screaming, retreating Allied soldiers all the way to the Bosk Family’s command position.
Compared to a commander, Andrea Bosk more closely resembled a frontline warrior. From the moment the battle began, he had charged ahead alone, abandoning all command responsibilities to his subordinates—aristocratic nobles who had never known real war.
Now, facing the advancing Undead, they were paralyzed with terror. One even fainted on the spot.
To them, war had always been a refined art, not a brutal massacre. The orders they’d received from the Bosk family were clear: Do not fight to the death. Preserve your strength.
But now, the enemy had come crashing through their defenses—far beyond their expectations.
Baron Matthew trembled, his voice cracking.
"W-what… should we do?"
Viscount Luton whispered, barely audible.
"M-maybe… we should surrender?"
"But I doubt they’ll honor noble agreements," another muttered.
"This is the follower of an Evil Dragon."
The Undead advanced, their hollow eyes fixed on the living. The Tieflings stood ready, weapons drawn.
Meizhuolashi stepped forward slowly, his sword raised, pointing at the command tent.
"Yours. Surrender, and you shall live."
His voice was quiet—but clear as a bell.
Inside the tent, silence. Then, the rustle of movement.
Baron Matthew could no longer bear the pressure. He staggered out the back door, leapt onto his horse, and galloped away, cursing wildly.
"You damned Devils! Go to hell!"
Meizhuolashi did not speak. He only watched, cold and still, as the fleeing noble vanished into the distance. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his sword once more.
[Crown of Madness]
A jagged, twisted crown of shadow materialized above Baron Matthew’s head. His eyes snapped wide, madness flaring in their depths.
He fell from his horse, writhing on the ground, screaming incoherently, arms flailing.
Meizhuolashi stepped forward, tilting his head down to look at the broken man.
"You have… remarkable courage."
Matthew rolled on the dirt, screaming, "I’ll kill you all—someday! I swear it!"
Swish.
The sword fell cleanly. The mad Baron was pinned to the earth, lifeless.
Inside the command tent, the remaining nobles stared in horror at the blood-soaked scene. A collective gasp escaped them.
But the horror was not over.
Meizhuolashi pulled his sword free. And then—slowly, impossibly—the body on the ground began to twitch. It rose to its feet, limbs stiff, eyes hollow—yet alive.
Baron Matthew, now an Undead, stood motionless, staring forward with empty, glowing eyes.
The nobles fell utterly silent.
Meizhuolashi turned, leading the reanimated corpse toward the tent.
Again, he spoke, voice calm, almost gentle.
"Yours. Surrender, and you shall live."
He paused.
"At least… I won’t turn you into this."
Viscount Luton’s face was drenched in sweat. His knees gave way. He collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I surrender! I surrender! Please—don’t turn me into a monster!"
"I surrender! Just spare my life!"
"We, the Terman family, will pay any ransom!"
"The Faht family seeks cooperation!"
"I, of the Chris family, offer my allegiance to the Lord of the Ashen Flame!"
Seeing Luton fall to his knees, the others followed—bodies trembling, voices breaking in desperate pleas.
Meizhuolashi gave a single, slight nod.
"Then… I shall take my leave."
The Tieflings moved in, binding the kneeling nobles.
Damakos approached, voice hushed.
"Captain… no, Lord… the right wing of the Allied Forces has been completely routed. The Players are hunting down the remnants. Should we coordinate with Lord Lanpu and strike the enemy’s central command from the flank?"
Meizhuolashi shook his head.
"No. We retreat."
Damakos stared, stunned.
"But Lord—"
Meizhuolashi’s black eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
"Retreat. We’re giving these nobles a grand ceremony."
"Yes, Lord."
Though confused, Damakos obeyed. He led the trembling nobles back across the northern pass.
(End of Chapter)
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