Chapter 670 – Jushan
“Boom!”
Another explosion tore through the air, instantly filling the battlefield with thick, smoke-laden haze and a sudden flare of flame light. Shrapnel flew in all directions, and blood mist erupted into the sky.
Dozens of Ogres were torn apart—limbs scattered, flesh mangled, heads charred and rolling across the ground, spinning several times before coming to rest. Yet the remaining Ogres paid no mind. They didn’t even turn their heads. Instead, with eager anticipation, they scrambled to pick up the still-hot fragments of shrapnel—this had been going on for days now.
It was the third day of the Ogre assault on Aivendeldan.
The Empire of Ashen’s artillery rained down relentless fire, day and night. Wyverns screamed through the sky, swooping low before unleashing a torrential barrage of bombs. Meanwhile, the Ogres launched hundreds of massive offensives, nearly breaching the Empire’s trench lines—only to be repelled by the merciless barrage. Each day, tens of thousands of Ogres perished in this smoke-choked, hellish “Meat Grinder.”
In just three short days, the wasteland’s ground had been blasted down by three feet. Mounds of earth were flattened into dust, and the land was now littered with the charred corpses of Ogres.
Yet Mok’s strange influence had not been in vain. In this brief span, the surviving Ogres had grown stronger—more ferocious, more resilient.
“Waaaagh!” Jushan roared, a battle cry of pure, unbridled fury, charging headlong into the Empire’s defensive line beneath a storm of shells.
In his massive hands gripped a colossal war hammer forged from countless shards of shrapnel and detonation mechanisms, its haft spewing violent flames. Along the battlefield, Jushan had gathered scraps—bits and pieces of wreckage, broken weapons, and discarded machinery—piling them together like a mad alchemist. In time, he had crafted a crude, brutal suit of armor, forged from the very refuse of war.
“Fellow tribesmen! Charge with me! Their attacks only make us stronger!” Jushan raised his war hammer high atop a pile of corpses, pulling back the shrapnel visor across his face and unleashing a roar so powerful it seemed to ripple the air.
“Waaagh!”
“Jushan! The Brutal Jushan!”
The Ogres’ cheers echoed across the field, their voices rising in frenzy. As their war cries intensified, Jushan’s force field flared into existence—thick, pulsing, almost tangible. It was strong enough to rip apart incoming shells mid-air, reducing them to scrap metal before they could detonate.
To the eyes of the Empire, Ogre technology was primitive, absurd—weapons built from stone, bone, and crude metal, as if from a forgotten tribe. But to the Empire’s researchers, the Ogres’ weapons defied all logic.
According to their observations, in the heat of battle and death, the Ogres generated an almost spiritual power. Their willpower was so potent it could warp objective reality—much like a sorcerer.
If an Ogre truly believed a weapon could fight, then it would fight. Even the most insignificant scrap of iron, when fused with that will, became an unstoppable force. In the distortion of their collective belief, these makeshift weapons achieved terrifying, chaotic power—far beyond their crude appearances.
In essence, every Green-Skinned Ogre was a potential War Mage, capable of warping reality through sheer force of will.
They had their own “unique” technology—mostly war debris, hastily assembled into crude war machines.
“Is it that Ogre?”
“Yes. General Drool’s orders. We must kill it at all costs. Even if it means wasting shells.”
“Got it.”
The Artillery Corps Commander, a massive-headed Ogre, snapped his walkie-talkie shut, spat in disgust, and muttered, “Damn it, these brainless green skinned pests are like cockroaches—can’t seem to kill them all.”
He stepped forward to the frontline, raised his telescope, squinted, and barked, “See the green giant on the hill, covered in scrap metal? I want him obliterated! At all costs! Send him to meet Ghuush!”
“Yes, Commander!”
Within moments, the Empire’s artillery crews calculated angles and parameters with cold precision. The cannons were trained, ready. The order came.
“Open fire!”
“Boom—”
With a thunderous roar, dozens of heavy cannons fired in perfect unison. Shells erupted from their muzzles, screaming through the air like a storm of iron rain, descending with terrifying accuracy.
“Huff… huff…”
Jushan lifted his head, gripping his war hammer tightly. His breath grew ragged—but his rugged face was alight with exhilaration, a wild, euphoric grin spreading across it.
He licked his exposed fangs, then let out a sudden, maniacal chuckle.
“All for me, huh? They’re trying to kill me. Hahahaha! Good! I want to see what else you’ve got besides those exploding tin cans! If you can actually kill me, then you’ve earned it!”
Facing the relentless rain of shells from above, Jushan showed no fear. Instead, he raised his war hammer high, leaped into the air, and let his armor’s flame jets roar to life.
“Waaaagh!”
“Boom!”
“Boom! Boom!”
Explosions erupted in rapid succession. The force field around him disrupted the incoming shells—many detonated mid-air, some even fizzled into duds. The war hammer, forged from scrap and shell fragments, was hurled forward with a violent, chaotic spin. Its jagged crack, neither scientific nor magical, erupted with a dazzling burst of flame, propelling it forward with tremendous force.
“Pang!”
The hammer struck—shattering several shells mid-air—then spiraled back into Jushan’s hands like a corkscrew.
From the damaged shoulder mechanism, several irregular iron balls shot into the sky, detonating the remaining shells before they could strike.
Facing the last few shells, Jushan roared again, swinging his hammer down with all his might.
“Boom!”
A massive fireball erupted in the sky. And as the dust settled, the crude-armored Ogre warrior landed—unscathed, save for a few charred marks.
“Jushan! Jushan! The Brutal Jushan, the terror of the Empire of Ashen!”
The Ogres screamed his name in frenzy, their spirits soaring. In the thunderous roar, Jushan’s force field grew even stronger.
Mok’s mycelium network pulsed beneath the ground, connecting the Ogres into a single, unified will—so powerful it could warp reality itself.
Even the Empire’s observers stood frozen in disbelief.
Staring at the magical image of what looked like child’s toys—crude, laughable weapons and armor—they whispered in shock:
“How… how is this even possible? From every angle, it shouldn’t work! By Kai Xiusu’s grace, damn it—those are just fragments of exploded shells!”
The researchers groaned, gripping their thinning hair, cursing the green-skinned beasts.
“WAAAGH!!”
“Seize them!”
Under Jushan’s call, the Ogre offensive surged forward. They seized rusted scrap metal, forged from the battlefield’s wreckage, and charged once more toward the Empire’s defensive line.
This time, they had armor—improvised, but functional—and their force fields could disrupt incoming fire. Though many were still torn apart, their bodies mangled, the rest surged forward, filling the gaps, roaring toward the distant fortress.
This time, under the crushing weight of artillery fire, the Ogres advanced—closing in, within hundreds of meters of the Empire’s defensive line. They were almost there.
And there, the Empire’s engineers had already built their defenses. Deep foxholes, winding like serpents, stretched for miles. Dozens of bastions—small, fortress-like strongpoints—stood in a horned formation, mutually supporting one another. Each held multiple light and heavy machine guns, manned by squads of elite soldiers, forming deadly kill zones.
As the Ogres stepped into the sector, the voice of the Giant Ogre General Drool boomed through the fortifications:
“Open fire! Open fire! No one gets within a step of the Dragonfly Capital!”
Instantly, rifles spat flame. From every direction, over a thousand machine guns roared to life, a storm of bullets pouring down like rain.
“For the Empire!”
“For Emperor Kai Xiusu!”
“May the great Kai Xiusu protect us! The Dragonfly Capital stands with us! These green vermin will not cross the line!”
The Imperial soldiers screamed, their dragon-blooded strength rivaling even the fiercest Ogres.
“Dak-dak-dak-dak-dak—”
Heavy machine guns vomited bullets, cutting through the air in sheets. The front ranks of Ogres were the first to fall—ribs shattered, bellies torn open, skulls blown apart. They dropped like wheat before a scythe.
The Empire showed no mercy. Each bullet tore through enemy flesh, shredding bodies to bits. Even the Ogres’ incredible resilience couldn’t withstand such relentless, brutal fire.
“Empire filth! I’ll turn you into meat paste!” Jushan heaved a massive steel shield—crafted from scrap metal and shrapnel—up in front of him, charging forward like an armored vehicle.
“Jushan! The Brutal Jushan!”
“I’m with him! Forget the little iron scraps! Kill the ones hiding in the holes—then we win!”
Inspired, thousands of Ogres surged behind him, launching a furious charge.
“Die!”
“Green vermin! Taste our bullets!”
Under the withering machine gun fire, the Ogres fell in waves—like fields of grain cut down by a harvest. Even the armored ones couldn’t withstand the barrage.
“Come on! Where are you?!” Jushan roared, charging forward—then paused. No response. He turned.
His subordinates—once a proud horde—were now riddled with holes, lying dead or dying, their bodies pierced like sieves.
And still, the Empire’s artillery kept firing. The Ogres were caught between a storm from above and a storm from below—trapped, outnumbered, yet still advancing.
“Kill him!”
“That’s the leader! The green one in front!”
The Imperial soldiers in the bastions spotted Jushan—recognized him as the key. They swung their rifles, firing in unison.
“Bang!”
Within seconds, Jushan’s shield was torn apart—punctured, shredded. Bullets ripped through the metal and pierced his body.
“Aaaah!”
Jushan screamed in pain. As the bullets tore through him, exploding open inside his flesh, it felt as if his entire shoulder had been ripped away.
But in the grip of Mok’s spores, his body was unbreakable. His cells reformed instantly. Mycelium from the air swarmed to his wounds, sealing them in moments.
“You… dare to hurt me?” Jushan growled, rage replacing pain. His eyes turned blood-red. Reason vanished. He became a mindless beast of war.
“WAAAAAGH!!”
He dropped the shield, roared, and charged forward—his armored frame a living fortress.
“Die!”
Bullets tore into him again and again. Blood mist rose with every impact. His body was now a sieve—riddled with holes. Yet the mycelium network pulsed around him, healing him, rebuilding him, piece by piece.
And within the distortion of his force field, countless bullets veered off course—missing him entirely.
“Follow the Brutal Jushan!”
“He’s the boss! Follow him—we’ll wipe out the Empire!”
The Ogres surged forward once more, a tidal wave of green fury, surging toward the bastion.
At the heart of this sector stood George—now a Dragonblood Baron, Major General, and commander of an entire sector. He commanded over three thousand Imperial soldiers, a rank barely qualifying him as a senior officer.
He watched the charging horde through his scope, face calm.
He picked up his walkie-talkie. “The special Ogre is charging my Fifth Sector. My men are holding the line—but that strange force field is disrupting our weapons. We need cannon support. And two-headed dragons.”
After receiving confirmation, George lowered the device, wiped his pistol with a cloth, and drew his officer’s longsword, gripping it tightly.
He looked again at the monstrous, majestically terrifying Orc army—especially the towering figure leading them. His golden eyes gleamed with anticipation.
He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of gunpowder, the familiar tang of battle.
“Ah… this is the taste of the battlefield.”
War was always a dance of risk and reward. And to George, this war—under the Emperor’s gaze—was a golden opportunity.
With that, he stepped out of the underground bastion and marched toward the front line.
(End of Chapter)
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