Chapter 666: Bombing and the Orcish Advance
"Hahahaha, so fast! It's like riding the damn wind!"
Mantou rode atop his wyvern, soaring freely at 10,000 meters high, trailing two long contrails across the sky.
"Roar!"
Beneath him, Noodles stretched its neck and let out a cry of pure exhilaration. This was the first time high-speed flight felt so effortless.
"Swoosh——"
Suddenly, a sharp gust whooshed overhead. Mantou looked up to see Singo also riding a wyvern outfitted with the 'Skyfire' set—but his was way faster, streaking across the sky like a bolt of crimson lightning!
Singo flew level at first. Then the wyvern's head suddenly tilted upward, forming a dramatic arched posture with its tail in front and head behind—like a cobra rearing up to strike.
Under Singo's precise control, the jets beneath the wyvern's wingplates blasted out violent streams of air and dazzling flames.
In an instant, the beast pulled off a full somersault around its own tail, carving a razor-shaped arc in the sky.
Mantou was dumbfounded. All his earlier pride evaporated. "Holy shit—this flashy bastard already learned aerial stunts?!"
"No way, Noodles, we're not getting shown up!"
Gritting his teeth, Mantou fumbled with the controls. Jets roared with flame, and the wyvern shot straight upward, trying to do a mid-air flip.
But quickly, Mantou realized he'd lost control. The airflow around them became unstable, and he couldn't figure out how to fix it.
Trembling, he muttered, "Oh crap—are we about to crash...?!"
They started spinning out of control, plummeting in a vertical nosedive. Sparks flew from the wyvern's helm.
The 'Skyfire' armor's sharp, aerodynamic plating now felt more like a death sentence.
"Roaaarrrr——" The wyvern screamed in panic, spiraling down with Mantou. At the last second, he slammed the emergency brake.
The gravity-reversal units beneath the wingplates activated instantly, pulling them back into the air just before impact and holding them midair.
"Whew... almost became roast buns."
Singo's voice crackled through the comms, way too cheerful: "Mantou, you trying aerial stunts too?"
Forcing himself to stay calm, Mantou answered awkwardly, "Uh, yeah, I was just trying out that, uh..."
"Vertical descent?"
"Yeah, exactly—vertical descent."
"Idiot, nose-first dives aren't called vertical descents. That's called a crash."
"Alright, you two," came Holland's resigned voice over the comms. "Now that you're familiar with basic flight, it's time for the training mission."
He chuckled. "By the way, these are Empire-loaned assets. Using them outside of missions? That costs rental. One gold per hour."
Mantou and Singo's faces froze. To them, that sounded like the devil whispering in their ears.
Mantou straightened up fast. "Colonel Holland, I'll begin the training mission immediately!"
The two wyverns flew at high speed at 10,000 meters. With the 'Skyfire' armor, their wingspans had reached ten meters.
Mantou focused on his display. A detailed map appeared, with a black dot for his position and several flashing red dots up ahead.
—Clearly, those were their designated targets.
Using the targeting parameters on-screen, Mantou adjusted his heading and speed, maintaining level flight. The black dot edged closer to the targets.
He held his breath. "This is it..."
"Click."
He pressed the release button. Bombs dropped from beneath the wyvern like dense rain, plummeting toward their targets.
"Whoosh——"
The metal shells whistled as they tore through the air, following their pre-set trajectories.
What Mantou didn't know was that the targets weren't dummies—Holland had tied up a dozen unyielding dwarf rebels captured from the corners of Wyvern's Capital.
"You orc-loving bastards!"
"Dwarves never surrender!"
"Let me go!"
"Damn lizards, filthy reptiles!"
These dwarves were chained to stakes, bodies bruised and broken, yet they struggled fiercely, hurling curses at the Ember Emperor and his minions.
"Hahaha! You're scared! One day, King Zain will lead our people back here in glory!"
One especially burly dwarf lifted his head and laughed even in the face of death.
He was General Furn Rockborne—once a famous dwarf commander, known for surviving an ambush by hiding in rubble.
"General Furn..."
"We have to save him! He's a hero of the Shield Dwarves! We can't let those draconic bastards disgrace him!"
In a nearby cave, other dwarves plotted a rescue mission. They were the last resistance in Wyvern's Capital—no, in all of Avenderdan.
"Wait..."
"Look! Over there!"
"General Furn, what's that in the sky?!"
"Swoosh——"
Hearing the sharp screeches, the dwarves looked up—dozens of dark metallic bombs were descending fast.
"Is that..."
Even General Furn, who never knew fear, felt his pupils constrict.
He recognized those weapons—they had taken countless dwarven lives, crushed their walls, and ravaged their sacred mountains.
With soft but rapid pops, the bombs exploded. White mist billowed across the earth.
General Furn roared at the sky, "Empire cowards! Bluffing again? You think this'll scare a dwarf warrior?!"
But the next moment, flames filled his vision.
"BOOM——"
The ground shook. The mist detonated, forming immense fireballs that swallowed hundreds of meters, sucking all air away.
In seconds, the chained dwarves were consumed by flame. Their bodies charred, chains melted into flesh, one dwarf even vaporized completely.
General Furn remained upright, mid-roar—now reduced to a mass of molten metal and ash.
None survived. Not a single corpse was left intact.
The shockwave blasted into the nearby cave. The rescuers were caught in the inferno.
Even thick stone walls couldn't withstand the heat and pressure. The dwarves inside screamed as they were incinerated.
"Aaaah——"
"It's so hot! By Moradin——"
In a single breath, the air was sucked dry, fueling the explosion.
Even dwarves who called themselves Children of the Forge were powerless. Their bodies, though tough, were still mortal flesh—no match for the Empire's weapons.
Afterward, Imperial researchers surveyed the scene: ruins, burnt corpses, shattered buildings.
Oddly, there was no shrapnel damage. The corpses were intact, mouths agape, some biting through their own throats before death. It was hell on earth.
The Empire had invented a new execution method: bombing.
"Damn... those psycho bomb nerds really outdid themselves."
Watching the fireballs bloom below, Mantou clicked his tongue in awe.
[You killed a Dwarven Resistance Soldier. +500 XP.]
[You killed a Dwarven Officer. +800 XP.]
[You killed [Hammer of Freedom—Furn Rockborne].]
Dozens of notifications popped up. Mantou was stunned... then overjoyed.
"I just wanted to finish the mission—did I seriously nuke a boss? And this many mobs? Did I just blow up a dwarf nest?!"
"Nicely done, Count Mantou. Mission accomplished."
Holland sounded amused. In fact, this new form of execution—bombing rebels into submission—had been his idea.
Elsewhere in the sky, Singo grinned, watching the burning earth below. "Now this is getting fun."
Ugo Plains, Redblood Valley.
"WAAAGH!"
"Kill them all!"
Orcs surged like a flood, pouring from the valley with bloodshot eyes, drooling in excitement for battle.
They chanted Gruumsh's name—or just shouted, "War! We want war!"
Blood, combat, death.
That's what every orc craved. It was in their very cells—part plant, part beast, all violence.
On the plains outside, stinky mushrooms grew everywhere. Beneath each cap, green hands burst through the soil.
The fungi spread like a plague, devouring every nutrient and feeding the orcs' spawning cycle.
"This—this is my legion! This is the power of the orcs!"
Soro stood atop a cliff, gazing proudly at his endless green army. Visions of Gruumsh leading ancient wars against dwarves and elves filled his mind.
Past and present, the same fire burned.
He once thought Batu was Gruumsh's chosen—his father god's favorite.
But now, Soro saw Batu as a failure. He had drunk the Blackwater and would bring true glory to orckind.
Raising his bone spear, Soro let out a roar that shook the heavens: "Advance! We'll conquer Avenderdan and fulfill our ancestors' dream! WAAAGH!"
"WAAAGH!"
"CONQUER! CONQUER!"
Most of these million orcs were spore-born—hours to days old. They didn't know about ancestral pride or divine glory.
But they understood one thing: WAR! And war was good.
It meant ripping enemies limb from limb, bathing in blood, tasting brains. Letting loose the beast within.
No matter how Soro tried to wrap it in grandeur, these greenskins were still just war-crazed maniacs.
Looking south, Soro brimmed with confidence. He had two million troops now—and still counting. Even he didn't know the real number anymore.
Even dragons would fall before that tide of death.
"Imperials! Time to pay for your arrogance!" Soro smeared rough runes on his face, grinning savagely.
"If I see it, it's mine!"
"If I grab it, it's mine too!"
"If it breathes, I can kill it!"
The orcs surged forward, devouring beasts and ripping up the turf itself.
Soro couldn't get them to form a proper army—but that didn't matter. Singing crude war songs, a million orcs charged south.
They thought they were headed for glorious battle...
But the Empire had prepared a very different welcome.
High above, wyverns clad in steel soared through the sky, wing edges slicing the air with a screaming whistle...