Chapter 669: Artillery Fire and Spores
“Boom!”
The earth-shattering detonation echoed across the wasteland, another bomb exploding mid-air. The resulting explosion consumed everything in its surroundings—burning forests, shattered rock, and the twisted corpses of fallen creatures alike.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the coppery tang of blood. The ground was scarred beyond recognition—craters from shell impacts, scattered fragments of shrapnel, and mountains of blackened, charred ogre corpses.
Yet the power of the latest explosion was noticeably weaker than before.
Wyverns, after all, needed ammunition. And in this fleeting moment of relative safety, the ogres surged forward—stepping over the bodies of their kin, charging through the blazing Sea of Flames with blind, frenzied determination.
Even as their animal hides caught fire and their feet blistered on rocks glowing red-hot, they paid no heed. They simply charged onward, relentless.
Many stumbled onto landmines, blown apart instantly. A fortunate few survived—though their legs were gone, they dragged themselves forward, crawling on their torsos. One such cripple, clutching the mangled remains of his own legs, let out a low, guttural growl:
"Not over... still got strength... still can charge!"
"Waaaagh!"
Behind him, the war cry rang out again and again—waves of ogres swarmed forward, trampling over their fallen comrades without pause. The crawling ogre was crushed beneath a tide of feet, reduced to a smear of meat.
The death of their kin did not cow them. If anything, it fueled their frenzy. The very air, thick with spores, acted as a catalyst, amplifying their rage.
"Let's go! Those big birds have no more eggs!"
"I'll rend them! Turn their bones into stew! My brothers died in fire!"
"For Ghuush!"
Fervent war cries echoed across the wasteland, reigniting the ogres' spirits. In full march, they advanced toward Aivendeldan—the Dragonfly Capital.
After suffering nearly a hundred thousand casualties, the ogres finally reached the foothills of Blackstone Mountain, closing in on the city walls, now just a few kilometers away.
But they did not know—these explosions were only the beginning.
They had no idea how much preparation the Empire of Ashen had made, how many military researchers had labored day and night, calculating, planning, for this very war.
Far in the distance, at the Empire’s frontline position, hundreds of heavy cannons stood ready, their muzzles aimed skyward, black and hungry.
"Heh heh... this time, I’ll give them a merciful end," chuckled Daitou, the Ogre Artillery Corps commander, puffing on a root-tobacco cigarette. His yellowed teeth gleamed in a grotesque, feral grin.
"Commander! Enemy forces have entered our range!" crackled the voice through the walkie-talkie.
The Empire’s two-headed dragons often served as reconnaissance units—utilizing their aerial superiority to survey the battlefield, gathering intelligence on enemy movements and hidden positions.
Daitou exhaled a plume of smoke, then crushed the cigarette beneath his boot. "How many?" he asked, nonchalantly.
High above, a dragon rider in a circling formation squinted through his telescope, scanning the sea of ogres below. His voice was low, strained. "Commander... the numbers are unbelievable!"
"Give me a number! Damn it, stop stalling!" Daitou snapped.
The scout hesitated, then replied, "Conservative estimate: at least 300,000 ogres have entered our range. And the ones behind them... they’re endless."
"Thirty thousand?!" Daitou’s eyes widened in shock. Then, a wild, manic laugh burst from his throat. "Hahahaha! Perfect! The more, the better!"
With a sweeping gesture, he roared at the artillery units: "Open fire! No need to aim—just blast them! Unleash everything! Unlimited ammunition!"
"Long live the Army Commander!"
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live Emperor Kai Xiusu!"
The frontline erupted in cheers. The artillery crews, thrilled beyond measure, scrambled to load shells with feverish haste.
To serve in the Empire’s artillery corps was to be a man of peculiar tastes—some even relished watching living things torn apart by explosions. And the artillery players? They were ecstatic. In this kind of war mission, they earned the most experience points—without ever having to risk their lives.
"Boom—"
Artillery fire roared to life. Hundreds of heavy cannons fired in unison, shells arcing through the sky like silver meteors, descending upon the ogre horde.
At the sound of the cannons, the ogres paused—confused, bewildered.
"What’s that?"
"Wait... it’s that sound again. I know it! Those fire-spitting eggs!"
"Hey, why’d you hit me?!"
"Shut up! I thought only those strange birds in the sky could lay those eggs! There’s no bird up there now—where’d they come from?!"
Then—like rain from hell—the shells began to fall.
In midair, they detonated. Dozens of ogres were vaporized instantly. Shrapnel, hot as molten blades, sliced through the air, lopping off half a head in one brutal strike.
The ogre, still alive, roared in fury, his face crimson, his voice a final, defiant snarl:
"I said it was eggs!"
"Boom!"
Another explosion. The world turned to fire and ash.
The Empire’s artillery position was in full swing—hundreds of cannons firing without pause, barrels glowing red-hot before being forced to cool. Shells rained down continuously, a relentless barrage.
Compared to the earlier bomb blasts, this artillery barrage was far more intense—higher in power, longer in duration.
Each shell burst among the ogres, shattering limbs, vaporizing flesh, killing dozens at a time. Unlike napalm bombs, they didn’t ignite the ground into a sea of fire—but the sheer volume of destruction was staggering.
Yet the ogres did not falter.
They swung bone clubs, hurled stone spears, and pressed forward through the storm of shells.
"Waaaagh!"
"Charge!"
"Those exploding eggs are made of steel! Seize their strange birds—then we’ll have endless iron!"
Their logic remained as twisted as ever. To them, shells and bombs were nothing but eggs laid by strange birds.
But given their mere one-month lifespan, any ogre who could think such thoughts was already considered a “wise one” among their kind.
"Waaaagh!"
"I’ll seize them all!"
War cries echoed across the battlefield—drowned out by the thunderous boom of artillery. Yet still, the green-skinned horde advanced, pushing forward through the storm, stepping over the corpses of their fallen.
The front-line ogres fell in countless ways—landmines, falling shells, flames from incendiary bombs. Their deaths were grotesque, varied, tragic.
But no matter how horrific the fate of their comrades, they pressed on—marching forward, trampling over the dead.
Their simple minds could not grasp words like courage or willpower. They could not comprehend complex magical circuits. But one thing they knew, deep in their primal instinct:
We fight.
"So this is how the Empire of Ashen conquered Northern Aether… how they seized Aivendeldan?"
On a hill behind the ogre battalions, Soro clenched his teeth, his face as dark as ink.
Even if lower-class orcs were as numerous as grass and ash, they couldn’t survive such attrition!
From his vantage point, he’d already seen over 200,000 of his kind fall in just half a day.
Each explosion carried the power of a third-level spell. And the Empire had unleashed thousands of such detonations.
Did they have dozens of legendary mages or priests, endlessly casting low-tier spells to slaughter hundreds of thousands of orcs?
Impossible.
The Crimson Blood Tribe had long lived isolated in the remote Ugo Grasslands—cut off from the Feiansuo Continent by the towering Blackstone Mountains, blocked by the High Mountain Kingdom.
Like the ancient Northern Kingdom, they had been isolated, forgotten. Their only enemy was the Dwarf Kingdom.
Months ago, strange humans had appeared on the Great Plain—claiming to be “Stellarfallen” from beyond the stars, sent to help them defeat the dwarves.
But the ogres had not believed them. Instead, greed filled their eyes. In a land where every scrap was precious, human corpses were no exception.
They slaughtered the humans, severed their heads, stripped their skins, even tried boiling their flesh into stew.
But strange… soon after, the corpses vanished without a trace.
The starving ogres had been left furious and disappointed.
They could never know—Empire of Ashen’s rise had changed the world. War itself had been transformed.
Soro growled, "We can’t let this go on. If we don’t act, every last one of our people will be slaughtered. Damn Empire of Ashen—they throw spells around like they’re nothing. Endless!"
"Mok!"
He bellowed the name.
Mok, the current shaman of the Crimson Blood Tribe, stood before him. He, too, had been granted the Black Water’s blessing—transformed into a half-green, monstrous “new ogre”—and now wielded powerful divine spells.
But the source of his power? Whether it came from orcish deities… or some nameless, unspeakable entity… that remained unclear.
"Great Chieftain, what is your command?"
A low, rasping voice emerged from beneath a heavy black robe. The ogre before them was hunched, his green skin covered in thick, mossy growths—crawling, pulsing, emitting a foul stench.
Soro sighed. "Mok, the Empire’s spells are too strong. How do we break through?"
Mok let out a slow, chilling chuckle. "Simple. Let the Great Father God and Mother God protect us. Then the ogres shall break through the fire blockade—and claim what is rightfully ours."
Soro frowned, but didn’t press further on the identity of the “Mother God.” He simply ordered:
"Then do as you say. Cast your divine spell. Let our brave warriors break through the enemy’s blockade."
"Very well, Great Chieftain. As you wish."
Mok raised his head. His moss-covered face, like gnarled tree roots, twisted into a grotesque, terrifying smile.
Guided by several strong ogre warriors, Mok stepped onto the frontline battlefield. He looked up at the sky—now choked with falling shells—then at the charging horde below.
With a trembling hand, he gripped his staff, slick with viscous green fluid.
He whispered:
"O foolish children… you do not yet know the strength within you!"
"You will be saved. You will become the beginning of chaos. You will be the destroyers of the old world!"
His voice grew louder, more fervent, wild with excitement. In his milky eyes, a strange, unnatural light flickered.
Mok raised his scepter high.
From its tip, a fine mist of spore mycelium spilled into the air—invisible to the naked eye, spreading like fog across the battlefield.
It wove through the soil, the trees, the rocks—connecting every green-skinned ogre, forming a vast, intricate network of tens of thousands of nodes.
The ogres, linked by this web, began to think—not individually, but collectively.
Each one yearned for bloodshed, for war, for the release of their primal instincts.
And now, through the network, they awakened a faint, shared consciousness.
Their eyes turned crimson. Drool dripped from their jaws. Their breaths grew ragged, urgent.
In unison, they lifted their heads and let out a thunderous war cry:
"Waaaagh!"
Instantly, thousands of spores erupted into the air, coalescing into a translucent, web-like substance.
At the same time, a powerful force field flared around each ogre.
At the center of it all stood Jushan—a towering, powerful ogre, standing three meters tall, his body like living rock, veins bulging like tree roots.
With a roar, he hurled a monolith into the sky.
It shattered the descending shells midair.
"Waaaagh! Follow me! These things are nothing! Kill them all!"
The others surged forward—driven by instinct, by the network, by the force field.
Shells that should have struck them detonated mid-air, becoming duds. The enraged ogres, in turn, seized the unexploded shells, disassembled them, and repurposed the metal into crude but effective weapons.
Some failed in the attempt—and blew themselves apart.
But for the rest, the tide had turned.
(End of Chapter)
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