Chapter 674: Counterattack and Betrayal
In this turbulent age, the world teetered on the edge of chaos. Beneath the light of the sun, hidden forces stirred—Ogres, the Abyss, the Nine Hells, the Three Gods of Death—powers long buried in shadow, now itching to rise.
In such a climate, for the Empire of Ashen to become the true overlord of Feanso—let alone surpass the ancient Sacred Fedran and claim dominion over the entire continent—was no small feat.
And yet, the Empire had no deity to call upon. Its only backing was Kai Xiusu, a makeshift, half-formed figure barely deserving the title of "Semi-God," forced to navigate the treacherous politics among the divine.
But even so, once his objective was set, Kai Xiusu would not hesitate. Not for a single step.
With a fierce grin, Kai Xiusu rose to his feet, the Dragon Wing on his back flaring as he shook it out like a storm-torn banner.
"I’d like to see how well you endure," he declared, voice like cracking stone, "when I’ve wiped every last Green-Skinned Ogre from this land. Let the cataclysm of Past Life—the Great Ogre Cataclysm—end here and now!"
Whoosh—
The Dragon Wing unfurled, unleashing a furnace-hot gale. A surge of draconic might erupted into the sky, shaking the very air, making all things tremble.
Instantly, the Half-Dragon soldiers, wyverns, and stone drakes guarding Dragonblood Mountain turned their heads skyward, eyes wide with awe.
"That... that’s a Dragon Wing! Only dukes like Duke Lanpu or Duke Dolo should possess such a trait!"
"George, the military commander—has ascended to Half-Dragon!"
"Look at that massive corpse! He killed the beast! No wonder he’s George’s man!"
"George, the commander!"
The Imperial soldiers erupted in cheers, waving their weapons, shouting in unison.
"Spines—!"
With a grunt, George finally wrenched the longsword free from the beast’s skull, the blade dripping with blood. He raised it high, the tip pointing straight at the heavens.
A mysterious smile curled on his lips.
"My friends—this victory was not mine alone. It was His Majesty’s. The great Emperor of the Ashen Flame! He watches over us like the sun, protects us, and bathes every soul of the Empire in the radiant light of triumph!"
In the sunlight, blood traced down the blade in slow, glistening droplets, falling like crimson rain.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live Emperor Kai Xiusu!"
The battlefield roared with thunderous cheers, waves of sound crashing over one another, echoing across the land.
From afar, the Ogres surged once more—endless, relentless. Though leaderless without Jushan, they charged forward with fearless abandon, driven by the primal lust for war, eager to die in combat.
"Comrades!" George spread his Dragon Wing and soared upward, towering over the battlefield. He raised his longsword, pointing it at the sea of green.
"Crush them!"
The Imperial officers and soldiers roared with fury, their spirits ablaze. Bullets poured forth like a storm, shells bursting among the Ogre hordes, felling them in waves.
Then, at last, the reinforcements arrived—slow, but devastating.
Boom!
The ground trembled. Iron Beasts thundered across the battlefield, their iron hooves crushing the piled corpses of fallen Ogres, spraying green blood into the air.
Above, the sky screamed—screech, screech!—as a line of armored wyverns glided in from the horizon, slicing through the air like a blade cleaving the heavens.
George frowned. His walkie-talkie crackled with the sharp, unwavering voice of Drool:
"Full offensive! Launch the counterattack! These damned, green-skinned vermin think their numbers can break our line? A joke! All of you—let them experience the strength of the Empire! Let them feel the Baptism of Blood and Fire! Eradicate these lowly, filthy Green-Skinned Ogres—completely!"
Drool’s order rang out.
In an instant, the sky and earth shook. The heavens were filled with hybrid dragons and two-headed beasts. The ground was overrun by infantry, steam tanks, and dragon beasts.
Even the flanks and rear of the Ogres were now swarming with Imperial forces—evidence of a full-scale Sky-and-Earth Net.
The Imperial Army marched in full force—unleashed, unstoppable.
Drool had waited for this moment.
First, he had anchored his army behind a fortress of landmines, traps, and bastions—like a living mill, grinding down the Ogres’ strength with relentless attrition.
Then, when the enemy was weakened, he struck.
A decisive blow.
Millions of Orcs fell in an instant.
And the landmines? Already triggered—by the tide of Green-Skinned Ogres.
Now, the ground was a graveyard of corpses, piled so thickly it formed a new, unnatural surface.
Boom!
The Empire’s artillery roared to life. Shells streaked across the sky, trailing smoke like a spider’s web, weaving a deadly net above the battlefield.
They rained down like hail—crack, boom, boom!—exploding with such force they nearly tore the earth apart.
In the face of such overwhelming slaughter, even the Ogres—those who once feared no death—lost all will to fight.
They loved war. But not death.
Not mindless, senseless death—no one to see, no one to fight, just being blown to ash.
"We didn’t even see the enemy!"
"Damn, we died too cheaply—haven’t even gotten a proper kill!"
"Those old bastards wanted us to be cannon fodder! Letting us die here so they can get a clean end later!"
One Ogre, a grizzled warrior named Barn, slapped his forehead. The truth struck him like lightning.
The “old ones”—that was what the Green-Skinned Ogres called the Pure-Blooded Ogres.
The two groups despised each other. The Pure-Blooded saw the Green-Skinned as lowborn, cowardly trash. The Green-Skinned mocked the Pure-Blooded as fearful wretches who trembled at the thought of death.
But under the sway of the half-breed chieftain Soro, the Green-Skinned had been forced into submission, lured by promises of glory—of seizing Aivendeldan.
Now, they understood.
Why die in silence, blown apart by distant shells?
Better to fight. To kill. To die with blood on their hands.
In their twisted logic, the fighting was everything.
It didn’t matter who they fought—only that there was blood, that there was killing.
So, in a wave of madness that defied all reason, tens of thousands of Green-Skinned Ogres turned their backs on the frontlines.
They charged—not forward, but back, straight into the heart of the Pure-Blooded Ogres’ position.
"Old ones! We can’t beat the Empire! Can’t even get past the lines! So we’ll fight you instead!"
"Brothers! One last good kill before we die—charge!"
"Waaagh! You old fools! I’ll kill you all! Make you beg me to be cannon fodder! You wanted us dead? Now you die!"
With bone clubs and stone axes, they howled like beasts, charging forward, shaking the earth, sending boulders tumbling from the hills.
"By Ghuush!"
"Return! Are you deserters?!"
"Damn low-class Ogres! What are you doing? Rebellion?!"
"No… no—it’s real! They’re revolting!"
The Ogres’ guards screamed in disbelief.
Barn swung his club, crushing the skull of one screaming guard. Brain matter splattered.
"You old bastards tried to make us die for nothing! You should’ve been killed long ago!"
The frontline position was unprepared. A few shouts, a few curses—then the Green-Skinned tide swallowed them whole.
They never imagined their own kin—mere kin, by blood—would turn on them… all because they were denied a fight.
But even so, their rebellion was like a spark in a storm.
Against the millions of Ogres on the battlefield, their revolt was meaningless.
"Chieftain! Chieftain! The low-class Ogres on the frontline—they’re rebelling!"
"Chieftain! The Empire’s magic is too powerful! Our low-class warriors are all dead—none remain!"
"Bad news! The Iron Beasts are coming!"
Ogre scouts, riding dire wolves, galloped from every direction, bringing word after word of disaster—each message worse than the last.
Soro sat upon his bony throne, his face as dark as a stormcloud, sweat dripping from his brow. His right hand gripped the blood spear, trembling, bones cracking with each tense breath.
"Damn Empire!"
He stood, voice like thunder. "You fools! Useless trash! Can’t even control a few low-class Ogres! We have three million! Three million to assault a single fortress—and we’re being slaughtered!"
He spun, eyes blazing, locking onto the shaman in the black robe—Mok.
"Is this your so-called plan? You said thousands would turn on us? That’s all?"
Mok bowed his head, voice dry and emotionless.
"Great Chieftain, I planted a seed. A seed capable of birthing powerful Ogres. But… the enemy is too strong. A being of Legendary stature has intervened. Even I… cannot stop it."
Soro’s fury boiled over. He lunged forward, seized Mok by the throat, and lifted him off the ground, roaring into his withered face:
"That’s your failure! Your incompetence!"
Mok, choked, still spoke—calm, clear.
"Such rage is meaningless."
Boom!
A shell struck just outside the camp. The explosion tore through the air, engulfing several soldiers and clan chieftains, leaving a blackened crater at the command tent.
"Black Bird Clan’s chieftain is dead!" someone shouted outside.
Inside, the Ogres froze. Their faces paled.
The Empire’s weapons… had reached even the heart of the rear—deep in the phalanx!
Soro dropped Mok, but his eyes burned with rage, fear, and something deeper—something unsteady.
He panted, breath ragged. After a long silence, he looked around, voice hoarse.
"Friends… what do we do now?"
"Fight!" someone shouted. "Even now, we have over two million! Even two million pigs—those Empire bastards can’t kill them all!"
"But their weapons can kill from thousands of meters away!"
"Those low-class Ogres are useless. More of them won’t help!"
"We should retreat to the Ugo Great Plain, scatter into our pastures. The Empire won’t follow."
Yet more Ogres shook their heads, whispering among themselves.
After the fall of the Crimson Blood Tribe under Batu’s leadership, they had grown cautious.
The reckless, the bold—most of them were dead.
Buried beneath Aivendeldan’s city walls.
Soro’s face darkened further.
He had dreamed of becoming the hero who would fulfill the Ogres’ ancient desire—of surpassing Batu, of making history.
Now, that dream was dust.
The truth was brutal: under his command, the Ogres had never even seen Aivendeldan’s walls. They had died by the millions, their corpses covering half the land.
Mok stepped forward.
"Let us go, Great Chieftain. Retreat to the valley. Look at them—those Green-Skinned Ogres. Like grass on the plain. Cut one patch down, another grows. They can’t be wiped out.
We hide in the Ugo Great Plain. We breed them endlessly. They reproduce, replicate, again and again.
One day, the Empire will grow careless. And that will be our chance."
The clan chieftains murmured in agreement.
After all, only low-class Ogres died. They were like weeds—easy to grow, easy to replace.
But their elite warriors?
Each one lost to the Empire’s fire—costs years, even decades to cultivate.
Wasting them here was madness.
And some had their own plans.
If the Crimson Blood Tribe broke apart again, they’d need strong warriors to fight for pastures, hunting grounds, power.
Soro stared at the ground.
He clenched his fists.
After a long silence, he slammed his hand down on the table.
"Fine. Do as you say. We retreat to the Crimson Blood Valley. We’ll continue cultivating Ogres. One day… Aivendeldan will be ours.
As for these low-class Ogres?
Leave them here."
(End of Chapter)
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