At the edge of the battlefield, deep in a shadow-choked cave, a handful of tall, gangly figures in cloaks silently observed everything unfolding before them.
Not a word was spoken aloud, yet fierce and urgent messages flowed among them, transmitted mind-to-mind:
"Mindless fiends slaughtering thinking beings… what a waste."
"We should intervene."
"The fiends are too strong."
"We can help indirectly."
"Too many mortals will die."
"But if we move, we risk exposure."
"We could harvest their brains."
"We shouldn't act recklessly."
"Reinforcements have arrived."
"The strongest among the humans."
"No need for us to get involved."
...
Had anyone pulled back their cloaks, they'd have seen that these beings weren't human at all: they were mind flayers—blue-green skinned, octopus-headed alien intellects!
At this very moment, these mind flayers were observing the battlefield, the Demon Lord's movements, and the desperate resistance of the Mountain People.
...
Back on the battlefield, Shapiro glared at Montport's grotesque form, cursing himself for lacking the strength to finish the Demon Lord in his opening strike.
But he knew now wasn't the time to play hero. He spun, leapt, and dove behind the paladins—gathering his strength, ready to unleash a second lethal blow when the moment came.
His team—wild warforged barbarian, dwarven Order domain cleric, and half-elven Oath of Redemption paladins—stepped up to the front line, just as planned, preparing to go toe-to-toe with Montport in brutal melee.
The hunting party burst into motion! The warforged barbarian let out a furious roar and charged, arcane energy crackling from his body. The evocation mage began rapidfire incantations, twelve Melf's Minute Meteors circling his head. The bard enchanted the arcane archer with Ranger's signature spell, "Swift Quiver"—the archer nocked arrow after arrow, ready for an unbeatable eight-shot barrage with Action Surge. The paladins unleashed their Aura of Protection, casting a golden shield over the team…
Staring down this crack squad, Montport's lips curled into a wicked grin. "You fools really think, after surviving one assassination attempt, I wouldn't set traps?"
He spoke in Abyssal, but the threat needed no translation. At his words, Shapiro's danger sense exploded.
Montport snapped his fingers.
Thoom—
Montport vanished instantly, protected by pre-laid spells; even the sun elf mage didn't have time to counterspell.
The next second, blinding light flared overhead. From the sky, four blazing meteors thundered down toward them!
Ninth-level spell: Meteor Swarm!
The half-elven redemption paladin's face blanched. "Everyone, to me—NOW!"
She recited a sacred incantation: "Circle of Power!"
Vreeeennnn—
A grayish light surged from her body, stacking atop the golden Aura of Protection and shielding her allies.
Circle of Power—a paladin-exclusive fifth-level spell—granted massive resistance to magic effects. When it came to resisting damaging spells, it was nothing short of perfect timing!
The team huddled close, and then—meteors struck.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The impacts were like intercontinental missiles detonating—earth and stone erupted, the entire mountain shaking as if in a manufactured mega-quake.
Four awesome craters yawned across the battlefield as rock and magma exploded outward, searing everything in range.
Everywhere around them: Demons. In one catastrophic spell, thousands of fiends were burned or crushed outright—Demon casualties soared into the thousands!
"Cough… cough, cough!"
As the smoke and flaming debris thinned, the battered Demon-hunting squad staggered upright from the fresh craters.
The half-elven paladin's face was grim. She'd done everything she could, but all twenty support personnel were dead—only the eight main party members, and they were gravely wounded!
"Don't move! I'll heal us all!"
The dwarven Order cleric bellowed, hurrying to cast an Extended third-level "Healing Light," hoping to patch up his allies enough to keep fighting.
Normally, five minutes would have been enough to restore the survivors and get them back in the action.
But the Demons weren't about to wait.
"ROOOAAAR—"
A blast of superheated air washed across the craters as four towering shapes stalked forward.
The team froze as the smoke cleared: four fiends with massive horns, black wings, standing more than five meters tall. Flames roared from their flesh. In their left hands, they cracked burning whips; in their right, lightning swords flashed.
Balors.
Challenge rating twenty—each one a legendary threat. And now the party was injured and reeling!
"Hahahahaha—!"
Even from a distance, Montport's laughter rang out. "Did you think I wouldn't know there's a spy in my camp selling my position? So enjoy the feast I've prepared!"
As his laughter faded, a distant thunder built. Shapiro glanced over—four battered, bleeding goristros (still stinging from those Storm Warhammer strikes) lowered their heads and charged straight at them!
He swore under his breath. "Dammit, what a mess."
He wanted to pursue Montport, but the balors were already on them, fire whips lashing out toward his body.
With no choice, Shapiro gritted his teeth, raised his huge scythe, and squared up—the party would have to take on these eight nightmare fiends before anything else.
The situation was going from bad to worse.
Back at the Alliance of the Mountain Purifier' camp, Charles and company fought on desperately. They saw the meteors fall—four meteor swarms in one place, nearly splitting half the mountainside. The quake nearly knocked them straight into the pus and gore of dead dretch beneath their feet.
Luckily, they were far enough from ground zero to only feel the shockwave, not the blast.
Still, that Meteor Swarm cleared out thousands of Dretch, lightening the pressure. Their main force still couldn't retreat just yet, but the women and children would have time to evacuate safely.
The nuns were fine, and that was all that mattered—to Charles, at least. He'd never say so, but as long as his own were safe, he could live with any losses.
Theresa, using her abilities to magnify her sight, soon spotted the hunting squad's dire predicament and relayed it to Charles. His heart pounded—at last he roared, "Theresa, Archdruid, go help that squad! They're the only hope to kill the Abyssal Lord—we can't let them fall to a Demon ambush!"
It was a battlefield they could barely touch, but if that group failed, Montport would be unstoppable—everyone else would die today.
In the rear, old but still casting, Ilarode—having blanketed an entire square kilometer with thorn spells—heard Charles's call, his throat flexing with emotion before he sighed deeply.
Still, he didn't refuse. With a wave of his feathered robe, he transformed into a giant roc and soared toward the embattled hunting party.
Theresa became a streak of light, racing toward the distant chaos.
Charles let out a breath—finally, some hope for the critical fight.
Just then, his Sending Stone flared to life.
He hadn't faced any true Demon elites himself, so his own battle had been manageable; sword in one hand, he snatched up the Stone and poured magic into it.
A message flashed in his mind. His face changed in an instant. He took a deep breath and bellowed, "Torun, Luger, Danche—fall back and help, now!"
"Montport—he's teleported straight to the evacuation route where our women and children are escaping!"
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