Chapter 668: Feast of Slaughter
"Man, this is awesome! I’m absolutely raking it in!"
High above the battlefield, Stuffed Bun let out a triumphant shout, eyes locked on the flood of Experience Points (XP) flooding across his Character Sheet. The numbers were so dense they seemed to blur into a sea of glowing digits. "I can’t even count anymore—ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, millions... Holy crap, how many exactly is this?!" He squinted at the screen, half-convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Just a few rounds of Boom had already slaughtered thousands of Ogres, and the number of those burned to ash by the Sea of Flames was beyond counting.
Faced with an overwhelming tide of Ogres, the Empire’s new Bombs unleashed their full Power without restraint.
Sure, most of these Ogres were low-Challenge Rating grunt fodder—but their sheer numbers were enough to shower Stuffed Bun with an avalanche of Experience Points (XP), more than enough to push him past the ten-level mark.
Stuffed Bun tapped his Walkie-Talkie. "Hardcore Player, how much XP did you get?"
"Twenty-three thousand."
"Wait—what? That’s more than mine?!" Stuffed Bun was stunned.
"Unbelievable, huh? This is the Imperial Era’s war efficiency. You wouldn’t know, but the high-ranking Mechanical Divinity clerics already have their XP caps bursting."
Singo’s voice remained calm and detached.
Twenty-three thousand XP—enough to kill a single Challenge Rating 15+ Powerful Boss.
And yet, here they were, riding atop a Two-Headed Dragon, following the standard procedure—Unification Command: Throw Bomb—and racking up that kind of score with ease.
If there were no Version Level Cap, Stuffed Bun seriously doubted he’d ever need to stop. He could’ve kept farming this Ogre Nest until he hit Max Level.
Gazing down at the endless sea of Ogres covering the Earth like a churning ocean, Stuffed Bun’s eyes gleamed with hunger. To him, they weren’t just savage, ugly enemies—they were walking, breathing Experience Point farms.
"Best chance I’ve got—gotta grab as much as I can!"
Swish—
The Dragon Wing, armored in hardened alloy, tore through the air with a deafening scream, its wing tips spitting out bursts of dazzling flame from the steel tubes embedded within.
"Full climb—Preparation for the next Boom. Use Napalm Bombs."
The Commander’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
"Copy that!"
Stuffed Bun and the other Dragon Riders responded instantly.
With practiced precision, they adjusted the throttle, increased the angle of attack, and fine-tuned the Armor’s control surfaces, guiding their Wyverns upward in a smooth, powerful ascent.
Most of these pilots had poured countless XP into upgrading their [Modern Riding Skill]. Stuffed Bun had once felt the sting of spending five thousand XP just to reach +6—back then, it felt like a brutal loss. But compared to what they were earning now? That was nothing. One Napalm Bomb run was enough to recoup the cost ten times over.
Stuffed Bun regretted not maxing out the skill back then.
Singo, on the other hand, had pushed his [Modern Riding Skill] all the way to +18, performing death-defying Flight Stunts as casually as drinking water.
Roar—
The Wyvern surged upward, savoring the rush of tearing through the air, the powerful thrust from its engines roaring in its wake.
Stuffed Bun muttered under his breath: "I don’t know why, but that Commander’s voice… feels familiar."
Singo replied, "You’ve heard him before. This mission’s Commander is Curtis—the [Restoration Sect]’s High Bishop."
"Curtis? Really? He’s not—"
"Curtis knows every bomb’s exact parameters. He helped design the Heaven’s Fire Armor. He’s the only one qualified to lead this Boom operation."
"But… be careful. He’s a sociopath. A full-blown Madman."
"Easy there. You’re not on a public channel. It’s a one-way link. No one’s listening."
A cold, calm voice cut in abruptly through Stuffed Bun’s earpiece.
"Ah… private gossip isn’t exactly good form. Please focus on your Quest, gentlemen."
Stuffed Bun froze. His heart skipped a beat.
"Yes, sir!" he snapped back, sweat beading on his forehead.
"That Madman definitely has a backdoor. He has to," he thought frantically.
At that moment, the Wyverns reached their peak altitude. Under the Knight’s control, they banked sharply, carving elegant arcs across the sky at ten kilometers above the ground.
Curtis’s voice returned—flat, emotionless.
"Maintain level flight. Throw Napalm Bombs."
The command was met with a unified press of the Bomb Launch Button.
Instantly, the Wyvern’s underbelly hatches snapped open, and the Bombs poured forth like rain.
Swoosh—
Like a storm of fire, the Bombs fell into the Ogre horde, detonating mid-air with violent Explosions that flared like sunbursts. The Surroundings were swallowed in fire, the Ogres screaming as they were consumed.
The Flammable Substance ignited in a thousand directions, spreading like petals from a celestial flower, turning the land into a Burning Brightly Sea of Flames.
Another Success.
Wails. Roars. The thunderous Boom of explosions. The howl of hot winds. The crackling snap of fire devouring flesh—echoed across the Wasteland. Thick smoke choked the sky, rising into the clouds, while the ground trembled beneath Fearsome Fire Dragons racing across the scorched earth.
The Wyverns, armored in Heavy Armor, swooped through the sky like Scythes of Death, swinging again and again, harvesting Life Force with merciless precision.
This was a Feast.
With such Ogre density and the New Bomb’s terrifying Power, the Dragon Riders didn’t even need to adjust targeting parameters. Close your eyes, press the button—massive casualties were guaranteed.
By now, the Ogres hadn’t even faced the Empire’s frontline troops. They were being Massacred—one-sided and brutal.
"Great Chieftain," a Clan Chieftain called from the hill, voice trembling, "the Empire of Ashen’s Spell Strength is too overwhelming. Should we retreat, for now?"
He stared at the smoke-choked sky, the Sea of Flames sweeping across the land.
Soro, the Great Chieftain, raised a hand, cutting off the question. He shook his head firmly, voice heavy with conviction.
"No. We do not retreat."
He looked up at the Wyverns soaring above, their forms silhouetted against the firestorm.
"Such luxury. No wonder the Kingdoms of Northern Aether and the High Mountain fell to him. Letting Arrogant Spellcasters do this job—what a waste of power. But this kind of Spell Boom can’t last forever. Even if every rider on those Two-Headed Dragons is a High-Level Mage, they can’t sustain this level of Fire Spell output indefinitely. We can use our front-line troops to drain their resources—ease the pressure on our main forces."
His tone oozed Confidence.
But there was one truth he didn’t voice:
In the Green-Skinned Ogres’ dictionary, the word "Retreat" didn’t exist.
Even if he gave the order, the Frenzied Ogres would ignore him, charging forward with a "Waaagh!" into the Sea of Flames.
And Soro knew it. He felt it—the same Frenzied Bloodline burning in his own heart.
He wasn’t in charge by nature. He was merely the strongest. The others respected him for his Strength, feared him, but would gladly tear him apart if the chance arose.
Most Ogres only saw him as the "Big Boss", not a true leader.
If a better leader emerged? They’d swarm him like ants.
The Clan Chieftain snapped his fingers. "Right! We can use the Lower-Class Orcs to bleed their spells dry!"
Another Chieftain grinned, teeth bared. "They’re just dirt-born anyway. Their lives are worth less than grass and ash."
Soro turned to the battlefield, raised his Spear, and pointed toward the smoky ruins of Aivendeldan.
"Brothers! That land… will be ours. The Empire’s spellcasters may be powerful—but can they massacre millions of Lower-Class Orcs? When their strength runs out… that will be our moment. The Crimson Blood Tribe will rise!"
He stepped to the very peak of the hill, waving his Spear high.
"My people! Charge! They won’t last long! Once the sky-fire fades, you’ll charge into that fortress—ravage the rich Humans, Dwarves, and take everything!"
Waaaagh!
The Ogres roared in unison, their Morale soaring. They brandished crude Bone Clubs, Stone Spears, and charged into the fire-covered battlefield.
Ogres feared Death—but not Death. They feared nothing—no life, no loot, no killing.
In the Crimson Blood Tribe, those born from the soil were called Lower-Class Orcs—abundant, weak, and despised by the Blood Ogres.
Some pure-blood Ogres, disgusted by their Lower-Class kin’s defiance of tradition, would actively hunt, beat, even slaughter them.
In a past life, Big Tooth had led a Blood Rebellion, Massacring every pure-blood Ogre, making the Lower-Class the new legitimate rulers of Feanso, sparking the Ogre Plague that shook the North.
But now? The Empire of Ashen had changed everything.
Boom!
Another deafening explosion. The sky and earth trembled. Bombs rained from above, Explosion after Explosion, turning the air into a storm of fire.
The Aerial Corps’ fourth Boom began. The Ogres answered with a Battle Cry, charging once more.
Anzeta Great Wasteland. Dragonblood Mountain.
The Red Dragon lay sprawled across the peak, wings spread wide, exhaling a plume of Sulfur-Scented White Smoke. Beneath its chest, Dragon Crystals pulsed with Ten-Thousand-Zhang Light, blazing like a second sun.
Kai Xiusu was still absorbing the Divine Power of the Sun God Amanatara.
But within that golden glow, a deeper, heavier Ochre Yellow light flickered—Dumason’s Divine Power, left behind when he descended. It belonged to the Earth and Mineral realms.
Without hesitation, Kai Xiusu ordered his Subordinates’ Construction Crew to dig up every rock around him, ripping the earth apart, extracting the Divine Power buried beneath.
Meanwhile, the Red Dragon’s eyes glowed with fierce light—its [Heaven’s Judgment Dragon Eye] scanning the war raging below. Not a battle. A Massacre.
From Kai Xiusu’s vantage point, the entire Earth had become a Sea of Flames, devouring Ogre life force. Yet still, they came—endless, relentless.
But he noticed something.
The Ogres were evolving.
In the fire, some had sprouted Spores on their skin, forming a tough Guardianship Membrane that blocked the Extreme Heat—but in the end, they still burned to death.
Even Kai Xiusu couldn’t help but mutter, "Hmph. Remarkable adaptability. In just seconds… they’re mutating. Of course. This kind of nonsense must be crushed at the seed stage."
The Red Dragon clenched its claws, bones grinding together with a sharp, crisp crack.
In its memory, Green-Skinned Ogres transformed by Abyssal Power were true War Machines. Not for their strength—but for their Frenzied Will, Ferocious Reproduction, and Unstoppable Adaptability.
Newborn Ogres were fragile—like plants. But their Spores multiplied instantly, evolving traits to survive.
They were the offspring of Evil’s Deity and the Abyss—born to Massacre, to Chaos, to War.
True Biological Weapons.
They were meant to grow stronger in battle, evolving into Nightmare Avatars, feared across the world.
But now? They faced Kai Xiusu.
And the Empire of Ashen, ruled by the Red Dragon.
Staring at the battlefield, now a Blazing Fire and Smoke-shrouded inferno, Kai Xiusu’s pupils flickered.
With the Bloodline Gift’s power, he reached across space and time, delivering the Emperor’s Edict to the Giant Ogre General far away:
"Drool. Clean it up. Eradicate every last Green-Skinned Ogre. If necessary… destroy the soil they stand on."
At the City of Flying Dragons, Drool dropped to his knees, his heart pounding with hot blood, his eyes wild with Frenzy and Excitement.
No wonder he was so thrilled. This was the Emperor of the Ashen Flame himself speaking. The direct will of the Great Red Dragon!
Few in the Empire’s vast, multi-dimensional realm had ever received such a command.
Even his superior—Marshal Dolo, Minister of Military Affairs, First-Class Dragon Blood Duke—rarely heard such a Verbal Decree.
It was clear how much King Kai Xiusu valued this mission.
And that meant Drool had a chance. A chance to shine before the Emperor, to earn his favor, to become the Favored One.
Kneeling, he roared, voice like thunder:
"Yes, Your Majesty! I will complete the Quest! Every last Ogre will be wiped out—zero survivors!"
The Great Goblin raised his head, golden eyes fixed on the horizon, where Ogres surged like a tidal wave, swallowing the skyline.
In those eyes—beyond the killing intent, beyond the Bloodlust—burned a deep, hidden Greed.
For the Empire’s Glory.
For the Great Blueprint of the Red Dragon.
For my glorious Future.
You must die.
Drool thought.
(End of Chapter)
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