The victory was theirs.
They had killed every last one of the hive creatures that had swarmed the mountains. More than a million and a half drones and thirty-five hive warriors whose power could rival that of High Champions were defeated. The battlefield was won, but there were no cheers, no triumphant cries of celebration. Instead, a heavy silence hung over the scene, broken only by the labored breathing of exhausted soldiers.
Massive amounts of Origin Force surged into the Soul Dimensions of every man and woman who had fought on that battlefield, a powerful reward for their hard-fought victory. Yet, the energy coursing through their bodies did little to combat the overwhelming exhaustion. They had pushed themselves to their absolute limits, and now, they were barely holding on, their bodies trembling from the effort of staying conscious.
Grand Marshal Anglius, towering over the battlefield like a golden colossus, took a deep breath to steady himself. His body felt heavy from the toll of battle, as he had pushed himself harder than he believed to be possible. Never in his life had he fought for so long and faced such overhwlemgin pressure as when facing the hive.
"Everyone, sit in your positions. Those who are wounded call for help, and the healers will come to you. The rest, rest for an hour before we begin the cleanup." The golden giant’s words echoed across the batteries. He understood the soldiers were just as tired as him, and while there were still many things left, they needed to rest first.
A wave of relief swept over the soldiers. They had been standing through sheer willpower, and now they finally allowed themselves to sit, their armor clattering as they dropped to the ground. The battlefield, once filled with the chaotic sounds of war, now seemed to exhale, taking in a moment of stillness.
There were thousands of wounded soldiers, most of whom would recover thanks to their innate vitality and the healing potions they carried. But there were also those whose injuries were too severe and who needed urgent medical attention. The soldiers of the Golden Wave Legion moved quickly, tending to their comrades and prioritizing the most critical cases.
One Turkin soldier lay on the ground, his abdomen torn open by the vicious claw of a hive warrior. His intestines were exposed, and his breathing was shallow. His comrades surrounded him, their faces pale with helplessness. In the old world, such a wound would have meant certain death on the battlefield.
A Golden Wave Legion healer appeared beside them, his expression calm yet resolute. The Turkin soldiers exchanged uncertain glances—what could a healer possibly do for such grievous injuries?
"Hold him tight!" the healer commanded with firm authority. Though skeptical, the Turkin soldiers obeyed, gently holding their comrade in place.
With a deep breath, the healer let magic flow into his hands, a soft golden light enveloping them as he focused on the soldier’s horrific wound. "This will hurt," he warned.
The wounded man convulsed as the magic touched his torn flesh, letting out a gut-wrenching scream. His comrades tightened their grip, holding him steady as the healer worked. The golden glow wrapped around the wound like a cocoon, and the healer’s hands moved with the precision of a surgeon. He wasn’t just healing a man; he was putting back the pieces of a complex puzzle, repairing damaged tissue, and restoring the flow of vitality to the wounded body.
Minutes passed. The soldier’s screams subsided, replaced by unconscious stillness. His breathing, once shallow and labored, deepened, becoming steady. Slowly, the wound began to seal, replaced by fresh, healthy tissue. Color returned to the soldier’s face, and his comrades stared in disbelief.
The healer wiped the sweat from his brow and stood. "He’ll live," he said with a nod before moving on to the next wounded soldier.
The Turkin soldiers, stunned, looked down at their comrade. The fatal wound was gone, replaced by smooth skin, and the color was returning to his face. They exchanged smiles of disbelief and gratitude, marveling at the skill of the Magic Doctor. Overlord had established this unique profession among the Xaos soldiers, using ancient knowledge of alchemy and magic from Vlad’s Second Past Life memories. It was a skill that had saved countless lives on the battlefield, offering hope when all seemed lost.
Grand Marshal Anglius watched as the Magic Doctors moved among the wounded, their hands glowing with healing magic, saving life after life. A small smile briefly touched his lips as he saw the hope returning to the faces of his soldiers. But the smile faded quickly as his gaze fell upon the countless bodies that would never rise again. Soldiers whose sacrifices had ensured their victory, but who would never see another day.
The battle had been brutal despite their careful planning, ambushes, and tactical brilliance. Many had died. The weight of command settled heavily on Anglius’s broad shoulders.
He raised his hand to the communication gem embedded in his gauntlet, his voice low as he spoke. "How many?"
The response came from Overlord, who had been monitoring the battle from afar. The ancient voice of the A.I. Chip echoed in Anglius’s mind.
"Three hundred and twenty-nine Golden Wave Legion soldiers and two thousand four hundred and forty-eight Turkin soldiers."
Despite the relatively low casualty rates—less than five percent for the Golden Wave Legion and less than ten percent for the Turkin soldiers—a deep frown creased Grand Marshal Anglius’s brow. These were the best soldiers they had, trained to perfection and equipped with the finest armor and weapons. They had altered the terrain to their advantage, prepared for the worst, and still, so many had fallen.
The thought sent a shiver through him. What if they hadn’t been prepared? What if they hadn’t altered the terrain to slow the enemy’s advance? The hive creatures were relentless, their numbers overwhelming. In an open-field clash, without the advantage of planning and preparation, how many more would have died?