Another several days slipped quietly by.
The snows from days ago had almost melted away, and the temperature had dropped to its coldest. Braving the chill, the Mountain People—with help from the druids' spells—had built several earthen forts. They'd constructed countless traps, trenches, dirt walls, and blade gates, preparing for the Demons who could descend at any moment.
From a distance, these defenses looked almost like impregnable walls of steel, as if not even a massive army could break through!
"Whew…"
Standing atop a dais in the camp after a hard day's work, Torun exhaled deeply and pointed at the host of fortifications, grinning. "Charles, brother, you see all this? That's our work!"
Luger, beside him, laughed just as heartily. "Doesn't matter how many Demons show up—they'll all die trying to get through!"
Both men radiated confidence, acting as if the Demons weren't even worth worrying about. Charles, though, could tell that this bravado only masked the deep-seated fear both men harbored: they were two of the sharper ones here, well aware of the Demons' danger, but still unable to let go of this place.
So, he simply gave them a faint smile and played along. "Yeah… throughout history, so many Abyssal Lords have invaded the material world, and every time, some legendary hero banishes them."
"This time, it's our turn to make history!"
He said it half in jest, but the two men boomed with laughter, their nerves eased.
As they laughed, Charles checked the spells on his person. Since learning the Demons could attack at any moment, he'd started each day by casting full defensive buffs before even beginning his work—anything to guarantee he'd be combat-ready if disaster struck.
Meanwhile, across the dais, the brown-skinned half-orc Danche sidled up to him and spoke in a low voice. "Mr. Charles… I'd like to ask you for a favor."
Charles looked over to see the man's face clouded with worry.
"When the Demons come, could I beg you to have your nuns help organize an evacuation for the women and children of our tribes? There aren't many of them, and honestly, as women, they don't have much place on a battlefield. They'd be more useful helping people get away safely."
Charles forced an awkward smile. Don't underestimate women, he thought. This isn't your primitive tribe where physical might is everything.
We're spellcasters—with high-powered destructive gear, too. Sure, the nuns are few, but I bet they could do ten times the work of your warriors.
But Charles didn't say it aloud; instead, he nodded in polite agreement. "Yeah, I was thinking the same. On the front line, it'll be the fighting men who need to hold fast."
The truth was, he had no intention of staying and dying here—he'd been planning all along to find a reason to take the girls and slip away. Danche giving him a legitimate excuse was perfect—why refuse?
Danche, relaxing, offered a grateful smile. "Maybe things won't even get that bad. I heard Liberl Port sent a really powerful group to assassinate the Abyssal Lord himself, right? Maybe after days of waiting and worrying, the news we get is that Montport's been killed—maybe we'll only face scattered bands of minor Demons!"
Charles offered a noncommittal smile. He knew, at a time like this, Danche couldn't help holding out hope.
Suddenly, his brow furrowed—his footing felt unsteady. Luger snapped his head around. "Did you feel that?"
Torun's face went pale in an instant. "It's an earthquake! Again!"
Rumble—rumble—rumble—
As the minotaur spoke, the tremors swelled. The grinding roar of shattering stone thundered across the valley, drowning all thought.
The ground split apart, buildings crashed down, and all the fortifications the Mountain People had just built to stop the Demons were smashed into useless rubble in seconds!
And down in the cracks, Charles could clearly see a gigantic Chthonian—heaving and rolling, sending further tremors through the earth!
His face turned ashen. This Abyssal Lord—he can control Chthonians now?!
...
Outside the alliance camp, surrounded by a legion of Demons, Montport leaned on his massive double-bladed polearm, eyes blazing, staring toward the collapsing tent city in the distance. A cruel smile twisted across his face. "These humans really are idiots. Bunch of sitting ducks—just how I like them!"
"In that case, let all of them become feed for my polearm! Today, I forge my own artifact!"
He howled, and his weapon sang—an eager wail, thirsty for the coming bloodfest.
Then he charged, four hooves thundering. Behind him surged goristros, hezrous, ape demons, dretch and more, thrashing and shrieking in anticipation, all following their lord to the slaughter.
But in the shadows, other eyes watched the Demon Lord's every move.
"It's time!"
On a rocky ridge further off, the group assembled to assassinate Montport was hunkered down, staying hidden. Shapiro—big, powerfully built, with faint violet skin and dressed in jet-black leather striped with crimson—peeked out, eyes sparkling with hunger as he watched Montport's gigantic form.
He lifted his hand. A flash of magic, and an enormous black scythe—easily two meters long—appeared in his grip.
It looked exactly like when Charles, Pact of the Blade, summoned his weapon!
Shapiro gripped his scythe, ready to rush in, but his teammates all grabbed him at once. "Easy, Shapiro! Don't lose your head!"
He glared at them. "The target's right there! What the hell are you waiting for?!"
The party leader—a male sun elf wizard of the School of Evocation—stood in flaming red robes, leaning on a staff topped with a massive milky pearl the size of a soccer ball. He stared at Montport, eyes heavy, then said in a low voice, "They're headed straight for the main headquarters of a massive, very aggressive the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers. Let them fight first. No matter who suffers, it works in our favor. When Montport's distracted enough, then I'll teleport us in for a sneak attack!"
"This is our one shot—we can't blow it. When we strike, the Abyssal Lord has to fall in a single blow!"
Shapiro glared, grinding his teeth, but finally let his scythe fall. "Fine. Whatever."
He stomped off.
At the rear, the team's older half-elven female paladin, Oath of Redemption, massaged her brow and sighed.
She hated the strategy, but even she had to admit the cold logic: to maximize their chance of victory, using the Mountain People as cannon fodder to distract the Demon Lord, then hitting him from behind—it was the best shot they had.
For a greater cause, for long-term victory, sacrifices were necessary.
She repeated this in her heart, telling herself to be strong. And in the farthest, shadowiest corners, another group watched—tall, thin figures in robes, blue tentacles just visible under their chins.
"The Demon Lords are rampaging in the material world. The fallout will be unimaginable."
"Demon summoning. Is this another Dark Elf conspiracy in the mortal plane?"
"They've done it before. Highly suspicious. We need evidence and more clues."
"Observe first, discuss later."
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
Rumble, rumble, rumble—
The quake continued. Down below, Chthonians rolled through the earth, shattering home after home; defenses painstakingly built were pulverized back into ruin!
As the tremors intensified, cracks split open the ground, and more Chthonians, massive and hideous, squirmed through the ruptures. Just glimpsing their forms would drive anyone without intense mental training to the brink of madness.
When the spellcasters finally arrived—Charles, Theresa, and Willo among them—they managed, with united strength, to destroy the Chthonians. But by then, only scraps of the camp and a fraction of the Demon-warding structures remained.
And this was only the beginning. As the earth finally stopped shaking, and the exhausted, wounded survivors tried to catch their breath, shrieks and howls suddenly echoed across the hills.
A never-ending tide of dretch, ink-green and reeking of filth, surged across the wasteland, charging straight at them!
Montport's demon army had arrived!
Thankfully, Montport himself wasn't the first to the field. Even with the power to command tens of thousands—and keep them from turning on each other—he couldn't control every demon's individual action.
So before he even arrived, many dretch, overwhelmed by bloodlust, lunged straight for the ruins.
Dretch were weak demons—but even so, their sheer numbers flooded the defenders with despair.
Only now, for the first time facing a real demonic horde, did the Mountain People finally understand why Anno had begged them to flee instead of stay and "fight like heroes."
Now, it was too late. Battle was the only option left.
"Warriors of the Highmountain tribes!"
As the fiends cackled, Torun—his crimson eyes blazing with rage—bellowed to the sky: "Warriors of the great bloodline of our ancestors!"
"With me—charge!"
He flew into a rage, bloodline power roaring through his minotaur form. The burly bulls stampeded, axes and clubs sweeping out—and every swing cut two dretch in half, spraying foul blood everywhere.
Behind him, the Stonehide tribe's werebears transformed into giant bear forms, enchanted by tribal mages; growling, they waded into battle, not even flinching at the stench, using their claws and fangs to tear demons to ribbons and feast on the poisonous flesh.
Not every priest knew Stoneskin, so most werebears got by with basic Barkskin, but against feeble dretch claws, it was enough—these bears were like tanks, raking and smashing, jaws full of toxic demonic blood.
The chimeras and their shepherds couldn't match this, but even they loosed dozens of chimera, unleashing torrents of flame to incinerate the hellish foe.
These three tribes thrived on toughness—and now, fighting for their very homes, they wielded their fury like a sacred weapon, swinging with no thought of their own lives.
As for the Mountaineer and Green Vines tribes—one had the druids conjure thorn fields across the land; with their defenses destroyed, these new magical brambles shredded dretch that dared to approach. The other focused on restoration magic, patching up wounded warriors and curing poisonous wounds—dretch blood and stench were both venomous, and a careless fighter could see his strength destroyed by a single cut.
Krammer's mercenaries, after initial chaos, joined in. Ogres barreled forward, swinging clubs with one hand and grabbing, then eating, dretch with the other, hardly caring about poison—eating, puking, eating again, leaving the ground coated in slime and corpses.
Hobgoblins formed disciplined battle lines, working in unison to slay foes. Bugbears—with their long arms—swung spiked clubs, killing a dretch with every blow.
Goblins, too small to fight dretch head-on, hid in the rear, manning catapults and bows to kill from safety.
The two sides clashed in the ruins and rubble, battle raging hot. Even Charles had to admit, these 400 mercenaries fought better than he'd expected.
Beyond all this were his nuns—and the Blackstaff Tower soldiers.
They were the fewest, yet their impact was massive; all handpicked elites, the Blackstaff lines never buckled. Whenever the storm nuns unleashed their ion beam emitters, they could slice bands of demons apart in an instant.
Ekta's Fireballs blasted out, igniting wood and wreckage—fires roared, blackening the sky, painting the battlefield blood-red.
But killing like this couldn't last…
Watching the chaos from the rear, Charles mechanically sent off Eldritch Blasts, mind racing. The warriors' physical endurance would fail; ion beam emitters could overheat.
And Montport's real army had yet to show…
They had to retreat.
"Carol!" he shouted, calling to his first storm nun and captain of the squad. "Stow your weapons! Take your squad—get the women and children organized, and evacuate now!"
"Head for the dwarven mines—they'll be safe there!"
Then he stepped forward himself. Covered in magical buffs, he seized his shield and broke through the lines—alone—rushing headlong into the ink-green sea of dretch.
He had to draw their fire, to ease the pressure so the nuns and civilians could break away.
At once, the demons swarmed him, blocking any way back. There was no turning around.
"Charles!"
Watching his solitary figure, Anno cried out, panic crashing over her. She knew he was a mighty high-circle spellcaster, but this was suicide!
And then, right before their eyes, something astounding happened.
Shield up, but making barely a gesture of defense, Charles's blade was wreathed in pure white fire—it looked like Purifying Light, like searing flame.
Everywhere his blade swept, dretch fell in droves, cut down like butter beneath a burning knife.
But that wasn't all—whenever a dretch managed to claw him, sudden frost struck them, freezing each attacker half to death!
He stood unharmed, sword flashing—killing each dretch instantly and making way for the next to try and die.
In that moment, any demon that struck Charles was committing suicide.
Soon, the ground around him was piled high with dretch corpses, pus and blood pooling at his feet.