Chapter 666: Boom and the Ogres' Advance
"Hahaha, this is incredible—faster than the wind!" Stuffed Bun laughed wildly as he rode atop his Wyvern, soaring at ten kilometers altitude, carving two long contrails across the sky.
"Aaaawww!" Noodles, the Wyvern beneath him, stretched his neck and let out a triumphant roar—this was the first time he’d ever felt flight so effortless.
Whoosh—
Suddenly, a deafening wind screamed from above. Stuffed Bun snapped his head up—Singo was already there, riding a Wyvern equipped with the Tianhuo set, moving faster than anything he’d seen. The beast streaked across the sky like a crimson lightning bolt.
Singo first leveled off in a flat flight. Then, with a sharp upward tilt, the Wyvern’s head snapped up, its tail leading, forming a perfect backward loop—just like a coiled cobra rearing up in the air.
Next, under Singo’s precise control, the装置 beneath the Wyvern’s wing armor unleashed a torrent of supersonic airflow, blazing with radiant flame.
In an instant, the Wyvern spun a full somersault around its own tail, leaving behind a glowing ring-shaped trail in the sky.
Stuffed Bun was stunned—his earlier pride instantly evaporated. "Holy crap… this show-off’s already doing aerial stunts?"
"No way, Noodles, we can’t fall behind!" Stuffed Bun gritted his teeth, frantically fumbling with the controls. Fire jetted from the tubes, and the two-headed dragon shot nearly vertically into the sky, trying desperately to flip mid-air.
But soon, he realized he’d lost all control. Turbulent winds swirled around him, and the craft wobbled uncontrollably. As a first-time pilot, he couldn’t find a solution.
His body trembled. "Oh no… are we gonna crash?"
They careened like headless flies, spiraling out of control—then plunged straight down, plummeting almost vertically toward the ground. The Wyvern’s head was already sparking with ember trails.
The Tianhuo armor spines, once sleek and deadly, now felt like death’s own teeth.
"Aaaaarrrrgh!" The Wyvern howled in panic, and Stuffed Bun fell with it. At the last second, he slammed the Emergency Brake Button.
Whoosh!
The gravity reversal device beneath the wing armor activated instantly—just in time to halt their fall. They hovered, suspended mid-air, breathless.
"Phew… barely missed becoming charred steamed bun," came Singo’s voice through the walkie-talkie, full of amusement. "Stuffed Bun, you’re doing aerial acrobatics too?"
Stuffed Bun forced a calm smile, voice cracking. "Uh… yeah, of course. Just… practicing… uh… vertical descent."
"Vertical descent?" Singo snorted. "You mean headfirst diving into the dirt? That’s not descent—it’s an accident."
He mercilessly exposed Stuffed Bun’s lie with a laugh.
"Alright, you two. After you’ve mastered basic flight, it’s time to complete the drill mission." Holland’s voice crackled through the comm, laced with weary resignation. These Stellarfallen were impossible to manage—only special measures would keep them in line.
He chuckled. "You should know—these gear sets are imperial leases. Using them without a mission? That’s a rental fee. One gold coin per hour."
Stuffed Bun and Singo froze. The words echoed in their ears like demons whispering from hell.
Stuffed Bun’s tone turned sharp. "Colonel Holland, I’m on it—right now!"
Two Wyverns streaked across the ten-kilometer sky, their wingspan now stretching ten meters under the Tianhuo system’s boost. Stuffed Bun stared intensely at the display screen.
A detailed map unfolded before him—his position marked by a black dot, and several red ones blinking like fireflies.
Clearly, those were their objectives.
Following the aiming device parameters on screen, Stuffed Bun adjusted course and speed, maintaining a level flight. The black dot on the map crept steadily closer to the target.
He held his breath. "It’s… now."
Click.
He pressed the launch button. Below, the Wyvern released its stored bombs—dozens of metallic cannonballs raining down like a storm of iron hail.
Whoosh—
A piercing scream tore through the air as the metal spines tore through the atmosphere, following their pre-programmed trajectory toward the target.
But Stuffed Bun didn’t know—Holland had prepared the targets from a secret corner of Dragonfly Capital: a dozen fearless Dwarf rebels, unyielding to death.
"Y-you filthy Ogres’ mongrels!"
"Dwarves never surrender!"
"Let me go!"
"Damned Crawler—evil lizard!"
The brave Dwarves were chained to wooden stakes with heavy iron links, their bodies torn and bleeding, yet still struggling, cursing Emperor of the Ashen Flame and his followers.
"Hahaha! I see it now—you fear us! Because one day, His Majesty will return—leading the fearless Dwarves to reclaim this land!"
One broad-shouldered Dwarf, his face battered but still grinning, raised his head. Even in this desperate moment, he laughed heartily.
He was Fern Rockwarden—former Dwarf General, leader of this resistance. A legend, known for surviving the rubble after battles.
"General Fern!"
"We must rescue him! He’s the Hero of the Shield Dwarf Race! We can’t let him suffer humiliation at the hands of the Dragon’s Favored!"
Meanwhile, deep in a cave, another group of Dwarves debated how to save Fern. They were the last rebels left in Dragonfly Capital—perhaps even in all of Aivendeldan.
"Wait—!"
"Look!"
"General Fern, what’s that in the sky?"
Whoosh—
Hearing the ear-splitting scream, the Dwarves all looked up. Dozens of black, metallic ellipsoids were plummeting toward them.
"Those…?"
Even the fearless Fern Rockwarden’s pupils widened in shock.
He knew that weapon.
It was the same one that had stolen countless Dwarf lives, shattered their city walls, and ravaged the mountains and earth they cherished.
A series of muffled explosions—smaller than usual—rippled through the air. The bombs detonated, releasing a thick, regimental cloud of white mist.
Fern roared into the sky. "Empire fools! You think this frightens a Dwarf warrior?!"
Then—his eyes reflected the sudden flare of blinding fire.
Boom—
Before the Dwarves could react, the ground trembled violently. The white mist erupted into a sky-shaking detonation. A massive fireball expanded with terrifying speed, engulfing hundreds of meters around. It greedily sucked every breath of air from the earth.
In an instant, the Dwarves bound to the stakes were incinerated—reduced to charred remains. The iron chains melted, fusing with their bodies. One Dwarf at the blast center was vaporized instantly.
Fern, still frozen mid-protest, remained upright—only to become a pile of molten metal and blackened flesh.
Not one survived. Not a single corpse remained whole.
The shockwave, still raging at high pressure, swept across the hundred-meter radius—engulfing the entire cave.
Even thick rock walls couldn’t stop the inferno. The Dwarves screamed in agony, their faces twisted in terror.
"Aaaaah!"
"Too hot! By Molradin—!"
In less than a breath, the cave’s air was gone—consumed by the fireball’s hunger.
Under the 8,000-degree heat and crushing pressure, even proud children of the forge—those who called themselves the master artisans of stone and steel—could do nothing. Their bodies, no matter how tough, were still flesh and blood. They couldn’t withstand the Empire’s war machine.
Later, researchers found the site reduced to ruins. Dwarves were either charred to ash or died from suffocation. Massive casualties.
Strangely, the corpses were intact. No shrapnel wounds. Just gaping mouths—some even biting through their own throats in their final moments. The scene was pure purgatory on earth.
After the artillery execution, the Empire developed an even more terrifying method: Bombing Execution.
"Damn… no wonder these mad scientists came up with this. The power is insane."
Stuffed Bun stared down at the burning, trembling ground—flames and smoke swallowing the land, fireballs blooming like flowers from the earth. He couldn’t help but whistle in awe.
[You killed Dwarf resistance soldiers. Gained 500 experience points.]
[You killed Dwarf officer. Gained 800 experience points.]
[You killed 【Free Hammer – Fern Rockwarden】.]
As dozens of notifications flashed across his character sheet, Stuffed Bun was stunned. Then, a grin spread across his face.
"I just wanted to do a drill mission… and I wiped out the boss? And all these little enemies? Did I just bomb a Dwarf nest?"
"Excellent work, Lord Steamed Bun. You’ve completed the Empire’s drill mission with flying colors."
Holland’s voice carried a faint, knowing smirk. In truth, this brutal new method—using advanced bombs to crush rebellion—was his idea.
High above, in another part of the sky, Singo watched the burning earth below, the charred camps, and the wails of Ogres drowning in fire and smoke. A slow smile curled his lips.
"…This is getting more interesting by the minute."
---
Ugo Great Plain, Crimson Blood Valley
"Waaaagh!"
"Kill them!"
Ogres surged forward like a flood from the valley—eyes bloodshot, faces twisted with frenzy, drool dripping from their jaws. They were craving war.
They brandished weapons, shouting Ghuush’s name, but most screamed only one thing:
"War! We need war!"
Killing. Combat. Blood. Death.
These were the very soul of every Ogre—chaos woven into their very cells, flowing through every drop of their green blood.
Outside the valley, the grassland reeked of rot. Beneath umbrella-like mushroom caps, dozens of green hands burst from the soil.
Deep in the cracks of rock and earth, mushrooms spread—greedily consuming the barren land, transforming its meager nutrients into sustenance for the Ogres’ growth and breeding.
"This… is my army!" Soro stood atop a cliff, gazing at the endless sea of Orcs. His chest swelled with pride.
In his mind, he saw the past—Gush leading his people to conquer the land, fighting Dwarves and Elves.
Now, it was the same.
Once, he’d believed Batu was Ghuush’s chosen. The true heir.
But now? He saw Batu as a failure.
He, Soro—drunk on Black Water, destined to bring glory to the Ogres—was the true vessel of divine favor.
He raised his bone spear high.
"Departure! We shall conquer Aivendeldan! Fulfill the ancestors’ ancient desire!"
"Waaaagh!"
"Conquest! Conquest!"
Millions of Ogres—born from spore reproduction, ranging from hours to days old—marched forward.
They didn’t understand "ancestral glory" or "the Father God’s honor."
But they understood fighting.
And when fighting came, it was good.
Because fighting meant tearing enemies apart, splattering blood across armor, tasting the sweetness of brain matter, and finally releasing the primal urge.
That was the only truth the Ogres knew.
No matter how Soro wrapped it in glory and majesty—deep down, they were war maniacs.
Soro looked south, confident. He had two million troops. And the number grew faster than anyone could count. Even he didn’t know how many Ogres he commanded.
Even a dragon, mighty as it was, would fall under the fearless assault of millions of Ogres—hunted to death.
"Empire fools—pay for your arrogance!"
Soro smeared crude runes across his face, grinning fiercely.
"Everything I see is mine!"
"Everything I steal is mine!"
"Every living thing I see… can be killed!"
The Ogres surged forward like a storm sweeping clouds—flattening beasts, tearing up the grass, leaving nothing behind.
Despite Soro’s efforts, they remained disorganized—no real army, just a million green-skinned brutes marching to a rough, vulgar ballad, their rhythm steady, their will unbroken.
They thought they were marching to a glorious battle, to clash on blood-soaked fields.
They had no idea—what awaited them was a carefully prepared welcome ceremony.
Far above, in the sky, armored dragons in steel wings cut through the air, their sharp edges slicing the wind with deafening whistles.
(End of Chapter)
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