https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-579-Sacred-Alliance-King-of-the-Dwarves/13677363/
Chapter 580: The Brutal War at Blackstone Valley
Before the vast and empty expanse of the valley stretching out before Aivendeldan City, the ground was heaped high with the charred corpses of orcs. Embers still flickered and crackled among the wreckage, flames dancing wildly in the wind. The scent of burnt flesh hung thick in the air as the fire tongues flickered and swayed.
Dwarves and Elves stood atop the city walls, eyes sharp, hands clenched around their longbows and war hammers. Calm. Alert. Waiting.
"Comrades! Allies!" Aid’s voice rang out—steady, powerful, each word echoing like a war drum across the banners fluttering along the ramparts. "Now, the fate of Aivendeldan rests in our hands. The very course of the Feiansuo Continent may be rewritten by this great war. If we triumph, your deeds shall be etched into history!"
The King of the Dwarves raised his war hammer high. A surge of raw power radiated from him.
"For Order and Justice! Aivendeldan shall never fall!"
"For Order and Justice!" The cry rose in unison—Dwarves and Elves alike lifting their weapons, their voices thundering across the valley. Even the golden dragon perched atop the city tower let out a soft, proud roar.
At that moment, Ria gripped her silver sword tightly, her expression grave. Her brows furrowed as she stared into the distance.
"This…"
Thanks to her Legendary Holy Knight’s keen Wisdom, she sensed it—the faint tremor beneath the earth, the distant rumble of movement. She lifted the crystal pendant at her neck. Within its core, the sacred water of the holy tree rippled.
"It seems the orcs are coming. May this time fulfill Queen Catherine’s Majesty’s quest."
And soon, the tremors grew stronger. The entire Blackstone Mountains seemed to shudder. The ground groaned like a beast in pain. Rocks tumbled from the cliffs. Even the Dwarf warriors could feel it.
"By Molradin’s name!"
"What is that sound?"
"You… feel it too? It’s not an illusion. The earth is shaking!"
Aid inhaled deeply, catching the stench of blood on the wind. His voice boomed across the wall.
"Orcs! The Orc Army is advancing! All units, stand ready! Prepare for their assault!"
A sentry atop the tower gasped, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock.
"Dumason above!"
Far in the distance, a storm of dust and blood mist rose like a wall, blotting out the horizon. Then, from within the haze, the orcs surged forth—like a mottled tide. They poured across the valley, their numbers overwhelming, their frenzy unrestrained. And still, they kept coming, wave after wave.
An army of hundreds of thousands, the full force of the Orc horde, had emerged.
Far greater than the last time Monke led his vanguard, this army was immense in scale, towering in stature.
"Woo—!"
The orcs lifted their heads, blowing horns carved from human thigh bones—yellowed, ancient, cracked. The sound that followed was deep and mournful, a guttural roar like a mountain beast waking from slumber.
Orc light cavalry galloped across the battlefield, spears flashing, bows drawn, their battle cries sharp and wild. Their dire wolves snarled, foul breath steaming from their jaws, eyes bloodshot, gleaming with feral hunger.
This was the advance guard—the Wolf Light Cavalry. Agile and swift, they were designed to lure fire, exhaust the defenders on the walls.
But atop Aivendeldan’s towering ramparts, Elven archers clad in silver light armor stood shoulder to shoulder, drawing their bows to the limit, arrows aimed at the sky.
"Shhh—!"
A hundred arrows, like comets, tore through the air, carving silver arcs across the heavens. These were no ordinary weapons—each arrow shimmered with magical power, glowing with radiant silver light.
As they soared above the orc ranks, the arrows erupted—bursting open into a storm of silver light. Thousands of glowing projectiles rained down from the sky like a celestial storm, piercing through the orc lines.
"Aaaah!"
"It’s the Elves’ magic arrows!"
"Those cursed pointy-eared bastards! I’ll skin their hides and sacrifice them!"
The arrows tracked their targets. Even the swift wolf riders could not escape. Each arrow struck with pinpoint precision, tearing through orc hearts, ripping through flesh. Hundreds of orc cavalry fell, their bodies torn apart in an instant.
Aid surveyed the carnage below, a grin spreading across his face. "Well done! No wonder they’re the elite of Serrynia—truly unmatched!"
The Elves drew their bows again, gathering power. The silver light blazed across the wall, threatening to consume the entire rampart in brilliance.
An orc officer slashed his curved blade through the air. "Where are our spellcasters? Hold the line! Block the pointy-eared arrows!"
"Great Father God," a shaman chanted, his voice rising above the chaos. "You who conquer all, grant us protection! Shield us from their spears and arrows!"
Crimson runes painted across their bodies, the shamans hovered midair, lifting bone scepters. Their chants grew louder, more ancient.
"Shhh—!"
The blood mist in the air churned, swirling and coalescing. Before the orc army, a vast crimson veil materialized—thick, dense, impenetrable.
The next volley of Elven arrows struck the barrier—only to be deflected, falling harmlessly to the ground.
But the orcs’ counterattack was swift.
"Fragile pointy ears!"
On a hillside, a noble "Eye of Ghush" drew a rune-etched longbow. His single eye burned with bloodlust.
"Shhh—!"
A black arrow, streaking through the air like a blade of shadow, tore through the atmosphere with a sonic boom. It crossed over a thousand meters in an instant.
"Too late!" One of the Elven archers cried out, but it was too late. The arrow struck him like a hammer. His abdomen burst open, his insides torn into a bloody mess.
His body flew backward, crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Blood painted the stone.
A pure-blooded Elven archer—killed by a single arrow from a thousand meters away. No chance to fight. No chance to live.
Ria’s face darkened. Every one of these warriors was elite. Every one of them a loyal servant of Queen Catherine. If the Silver Moon Followers fell here, it would shatter the queen’s plans—her dream of reclaiming Serrynia’s throne, of restoring the sacred tree.
She would not allow it.
She turned sharply to the Elven mage in the long robe. "Seymour. Protect our people. At all costs."
"Yes, Lady Ria."
Seymour nodded. He raised his staff—carved from ancient wood—and whispered a spell. At its tip, a moonstone pulsed with soft, silver light. Slowly, he ascended into the air, his white robes billowing behind him like wings.
Above Aivendeldan’s walls, a radiant barrier began to form—a vast, shimmering dome of light.
The Seventh Circle Spell of the Elven Kingdom—[Serenia Radiant Barrier]—was being invoked.
"Shhh—!"
Another sonic boom split the air. Another black arrow, like a meteor, streaked across the sky.
But Seymour had not yet completed his spell. He was still suspended in midair.
The arrow’s target? Him.
"Never!" Ria roared.
She swung her silver sword. A burst of twilight light erupted from the blade, lancing forward—striking the arrow mid-flight.
Boom!
The arrow shattered into a cloud of charred dust.
Finally, the barrier sealed. A glowing dome now shielded the entire city wall, repelling all incoming attacks.
On the walls, Dwarves turned the winches. Trebuchets launched wooden barrels filled with gunpowder and alcohol. Some struck the crimson barrier, exploding on impact. Others detonated mid-air, tearing through orc ranks with fire and shrapnel.
The orc light cavalry darted across the battlefield, avoiding the arrows, seeking gaps to pick off defenders.
Meanwhile, the Elven mages raised their staves in unison. Serrynia’s millennia-old magical legacy surged into the sky.
Scorching fireflies, freezing ice spikes, sacred flames—each spell descended in a dazzling array of colors, illuminating the battlefield. Death rained down upon the orcs.
Yet still, they came. The front lines were decimated—nearly three thousand orc cavalry dead, their bodies scattered across the valley. But the horde did not stop.
"Death is not the end!" boomed the commander’s voice, echoing across the field. "The heroic fallen shall gain immortality in Father God’s realm—Nishak Realm! Orc warriors, charge! For the glory of our people! For the rebirth of the world!"
Despite the heavy losses, more orc cavalry poured forth—unstoppable, relentless.
They believed it. If they died in battle, their spirit would be taken by Ghuush to the divine realm. There, they would serve as warriors in endless interdimensional wars—fighting the Goblin gods, forever.
But they did not know the truth.
Every night in Nishak Realm, the orcs slaughtered each other in bloody civil wars. No peace. No diplomacy. Just endless violence. And Ghuush, from his steel citadel, watched with delight.
Worse still—there was no true death. All beings were reborn at dusk. The weak orcs, doomed to live again and again, were endlessly broken, never truly dead, never truly free.
Yet now, they believed. They raised their weapons, screaming in euphoric joy.
"For the Great Father God!"
"Orcs live forever! We are immortal!"
Behind them, the main force advanced steadily. They stepped over the bodies of their kin, closing the gap between themselves and Aivendeldan’s walls.
Frenzied beasts charged through the rain of arrows. Half-orc giants, bearing massive bone shields, led the way. Behind them, tens of thousands of orc infantry marched forward.
Above, the sky swarmed with creatures—giant eagles, vultures, circling and shrieking. Scorpion-lions, wyverns—drawn by the blood mist—joined the fray.
And at the rear, Batu Skullcrusher stood atop the back of a massive steppe land drake, his gaze fixed on Aivendeldan.
There, atop the city tower, the golden dragon emerged—wings spread wide, tail lashing, muscles coiled, ready to strike.
The orc chieftain lowered his head, teeth grinding until his fangs cracked.
"Damn golden-skinned crawler… Why is it here? As long as that dragon stands, our army cannot breach the walls. We must strike now—while it’s off guard."
His eyes darkened. His right eye gleamed with cold fury.
He raised his hand, voice harsh.
"Nasu. Bring me my blood spear."
"Of course."
The old shaman reached into the air, pulling out a folded, dried animal hide. He unfolded it, revealing a spear—ancient, bloodstained, its shaft worn from countless kills.
"Ah… still feels right in my hand, old friend," Batu murmured, running his fingers along the weapon’s rough surface. This spear had pierced the hearts of enemies, even slain a powerful Titan divine offspring.
Now, it had one purpose.
To kill the golden dragon.
Batu gripped the spear, his eyes fixed on the beast. A feral grin spread across his face.
He pressed the spear to his forehead, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer.
"Great Father God… Supreme One-Eyed Lord, Watcher, Ever-Wakeful… Your humble servant seeks to eliminate the obstacle blocking our conquest. Grant me… the strength to slaughter!"
Boom!
Thunder split the valley.
Batu’s single eye snapped open—pulsing with crimson fire. Thick blood mist poured from his eye socket, swirling around the spear. The runes on his forehead flickered, alive with malice.
"Thank you, Father God. As my offering, I shall sacrifice your most precious gift—Aivendeldan City! And the heads of its Dwarves, Elves… and that golden dragon!"
The spear thrummed with frenzied power.
Batu laughed—a jagged, guttural sound. White, stinking smoke poured from his mouth. His arms bulged with veins like ancient roots.
"Golden Dragon! You have made the greatest mistake of your life!"
The wind howled. Thunder roared.
Batu charged—running nearly a hundred meters—then, with every ounce of strength, he hurled the blood spear into the sky.
Boom!
The air split open. The sky screamed.
A narrow, dark-red wound tore across the heavens. Blood poured from the sky.
The spear soared—thousands of meters away—curving through the air like a perfect arc, trailing a river of bloodlight. Its path formed a colossal, jagged spear in the sky.
Dwarves and Elves looked up in terror. In their minds, they saw a titan—a hundred meters tall, one-eyed, his face twisted in a feral grin, wielding a colossal spear.
This was Ghuush’s power.
In the face of such majesty, even the thirty-meter golden dragon seemed small. Fragile. Doomed.
"Titus, watch out!" Ria shouted, sword drawn, silver hair whipping in the wind.
"Roar—!"
The dragon’s roar thundered—so loud it drowned out the scream of the spear.
All eyes turned to the city tower.
With a rumble of stone, the golden dragon spread its wings, rising into the air, unleashing a storm with its wings.
(End of Chapter)
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