Chapter 1583: Flexing muscles
"...This?!" The Marshal’s eyes trembled violently as he stared in the direction Sakaar had pointed.
That was the very direction from which the greatest peril surged forth— the artillery grounds, positioned at an unfathomable distance, the very site that threatened to accelerate the downfall of Planet Verilion and bring the war to its tragic conclusion.
And there... something was moving!!
Of course, from a distance nearing a thousand miles, the Marshal could not possibly discern any details. All he could perceive was a colossal shadow, swaying back and forth like a collapsing mountain. Above it, wisps of smoke coiled upward— smoke visible even across such a distance.
That alone was bizarre enough to twist the mind, but combined with the looming silhouette, the entire scene resembled a nightmare clawed straight from the abyss of madness!
BamBam
The thunderous echoes finally reached them from that distant front. Yet they were not the familiar roars of cannons being fired. No— they were different, deep and resonant, as though they were the resounding impact of footsteps!
"Footsteps?!"
The Marshal’s mind stalled in shock, his very thoughts grinding to a halt. "Impossible... could it be that the phantom lumbering out there is...?"
"It is Amon," Sakaar answered with unnerving calm, as though merely stating an obvious truth. "My First General, and the second Marshal of this planet after me." His tone carried no weight of doubt. "And beside him is my General Helga, one of the most terrifying existences when it comes to offensive dominance. Frankly, either of them alone could have been sufficient to annihilate those cannons, but I dispatched both to ensure the matter ends swiftly."
"W-what do you mean? What do you mean they are two
people?!" Marshal Darvion jabbed his finger toward the horizon. "That thing— that shape— it has surpassed a hundred meters in height at the very least! No transformed being could ever attain such size!""Really?" Sakaar tilted his head slightly, his voice touched with a faint note of astonishment, "Then perhaps we will exercise a little more caution the next time."
But with that single remark, Sakaar wasted no further breath on the anomaly. Instead, he pointed downward, dismissing the awe-inspiring scene as though it were of little consequence. "Now, I want you to stop rambling about the so-called ’random positioning’ of my subordinates, and instead direct your focus toward what they are actually doing."
"Focus on what exactly?!" Darvion snapped, still shaken, his pride gnawed by Sakaar’s dismissal. "They are leaping about the battlefield like reckless mountain goats!!"
Sakaar raised his hand, placing it firmly against the back of Darvion’s head, and angled it toward a precise spot in the chaos. "Then focus on just one of them, if you please. That way, we won’t waste so much of each other’s precious time."
"...?!" Marshal Darvion’s eyes flew open to their widest.
He— a Marshal, wielder of the Minor Law of Shatter, an advanced branch of the Path of Destruction. A man at Level 50, possessing one of the highest blood-density ratios in the entirety of the Young Sector 101. A figure whose hand could alter the fate of empires...
In this single instant, he felt reduced to the status of a cornered rodent beneath the paw of a hunting cat. A dreadful certainty pressed upon his soul: that if he moved a fraction too quickly, he would be erased.
And yet, disturbingly, he found he could not dwell on that terror for long, for the scene before him had grown even stranger.
BaaamBaaam
A manic, echoing laughter tore across the lines— "Hahahahaha!!"
One of the crimson-armored soldiers charged straight into the vanguard at that very moment— the critical dividing line between the army of the Shattering Meteors Empire and the Alliance Forces. It was a line soaked endlessly in blood with every passing minute, where corpses piled upon one another with every fleeting second.
And in an instant, that soldier ripped open a gaping breach in it.
He did not unleash any radiant spectacle of flashing lights, nor did he resort to some self-destructive, otherworldly technique meant to astonish the masses. No—his actions were chillingly simple. He merely wielded a massive, extendable spear, its shaft forged as though from the marrow of a titan. With each seemingly casual sweep of his hand, heads were sent spinning into the air, and entire ranks of the coalition’s soldiers were cleaved cleanly in half.
Every step of his tall legs brought detonations beneath him—formations set to bind and obliterate—yet chains that erupted from the ground shattered like brittle twigs against his advancing frame. He marched forward as though the battlefield itself were powerless to hinder him.
In the span of only five swings, he ripped open a breach in the iron wall—an unyielding bastion that had stood, unmoved, for many years. And then, mercilessly, he pressed on, carving his path along the length of the defensive line, tearing down everything in his wake.
This was no battle—not anymore. No... it was more fitting to declare that the battle upon the border strip had already been decided.
Without the exhaustive preparations, the mass scale arrays, and the decades of fortification invested into that one line of defense, the alliance’s armies were like dry reeds before a storm. For the army of the Shattering Meteors Empire, advancing beyond that shattered strip was now nothing more than child’s play.
"My Heavens... My Heavens..."
Krrr
As Marshal Darvion stared wide-eyed at the terrifying spectacle wrought by that crimson-armored soldier, he suddenly felt his neck twist violently. It was not of his own will. His head was forced away, dragged by the beast behind him to another vantage, his unwilling gaze pulled toward a far different scene.
There—in that direction—unfurled a colossal battle in the skies, a storm of fire and steel between the fleets of the Shattering Meteors Empire and the vast alliance armada. It was no mere skirmish confined to the strait below. No—this was a war in its own right, stretching across the entire breadth of the sea.
Thousands of warships surged and clashed, their cannons spitting flame in a desperate attempt to punch through the continent’s atmospheric veil, seeking to annihilate its cities. Their plan was to wheel around and strike the army’s rear—a maneuver that would shatter the campaign in a single decisive blow.
But what Darvion beheld was no ordinary battlefield. The sea itself had been transformed into a graveyard of steel and bone. Hulks of shattered vessels drifted amidst bloody waves, the broken bodies of aerial beasts rained down like meteors, their blood and innards staining the ocean until its vastness.
Above, clouds burned red, lit not by sunlight but by the endless explosions of dying ships. Only the colossal defensive formations shielding the Empire’s warships and beast-legions allowed them to cling to cohesion against that overwhelming tide of destruction.
And amidst this chaos, there was... something else.
WooshWoosh
Upon the jagged edge of a cliff that overlooked the raging sea, a lone crimson soldier stood, a silhouette against the storm. In his hand was a bow black as midnight, yet it pulsed with a blood-red aura so thick it seemed alive. Each time the soldier drew back the bowstring, an arrow of coagulated blood materialized—sharp, vicious, humming with killing intent. And then:
Swoooosh
BOOOOOOM
"Nooooo!"
CraaaackCraaaack
"Abandon ship!"
"Abandon the ship!!"
"....." Just when Marshal Darvion thought his eyes could stretch no wider, he realized how wrong he was. "That... that was a mothership... destroyed with a single shot?!" His words were barely more than a whisper, drowned by the carnage.
And before the thought had even finished forming, the crimson soldier drew the bow again, releasing another arrow of blood. A second mothership—an immense fortress of the skies, thought indestructible—erupted in flame and smoke, torn apart as though made of paper.
Darvion was not the only one to witness this unthinkable reality. His generals and advisors, who had descended to reorganize the lines and prepare for what they believed would be the decisive confrontation, all stood frozen, their mouths open in silent disbelief.
Each commanded a different front, and yet on every front, one of those crimson soldiers had appeared—each enacting some unfathomable feat of power that shredded the natural order of battle.
"Are the enemies poisoning us with some kind of hallucinogenic gas?!" one general screamed, his mind scrambling for a rational explanation.
The most distraught, however, was General Basil. His voice broke with rage and despair as he watched his painstaking, selfless plan of attack crumble before him, undone in an instant. Not only his plan—but the alliance army itself—was unraveling under the unstoppable advance of these crimson-clad monsters, "Someone tell me what in the name of Hells is happening here!!"
"....." Marshal Darvion could not take in any more. He could no longer stomach the sight, no longer even remember the primal terror that had shaken his soul moments earlier. Raising his hand, he shoved Sakaar’s palm away from his head with all his strength.
"What... what are you people?!"