Elsewhere on the battlefield, another City Guard Sub-Commander—a sword-wielding Fire Warlock—was carving a bloody path through a section of the invaders’ frontline, relieving pressure on the embattled human defenders.
One slash felled a Class 4 Goblin Warrior. Another stroke finished off a Class 3 Desert Ant Soldier he had previously wounded.
This final act enraged the surrounding Desert Ants, regardless of Class. With screeches and hisses, they abandoned their original targets and surged toward the Warlock.
Tapping into the latent power of his Hell Salamander bloodline, a surge of fire elemental mana flooded his mouth.
"[Salamander Flame Breath]!!"
The Great Warlock (Class 4) exhaled a blazing cone of fire, engulfing the swarm in a semi-circular arc. Desert Ants screamed as they burned alive.
But the flames didn’t die down.
The more they burned, the more vigorous they became—feeding off the frenzy. The more ants rushed in, the hotter the flames roared. It was a vicious feedback loop of incineration.
Eventually, the ants realised their folly and froze, refusing to advance.
The Warlock clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock pity.
Though the Desert Ants halted, it didn’t mean others lacked the courage.
A massive tower of flesh and muscle charged forward—leaping through the flames—and brought down a colossal War Axe aimed straight at the Warlock.
The Warlock rolled away with sharp reflexes, slashing with his blade mid-roll.
The sword struck the attacker’s side... only to leave behind a mere white scratch on the beast’s thick hide.
"A Champion... Taurus?"
Steam hissed from the nostrils of the towering Class 4 Boz Taurus. It glanced at the shallow mark, then grinned with a brutal, almost gleeful menace.
It pawed at the ground. Steam built up. Pressure surged.
The Taurus barreled toward him like a cannonball.
"[Salamander Fire Palm]!"
The Warlock flung a jet of flame from his free left hand. But it barely slowed the monster. It simply charged straight through the inferno—undaunted, unstoppable.
Eyes narrowing, the Warlock cancelled the spell and readied his sword.
He managed to parry the descending axe, angling it aside. But the sheer force threw him off balance.
The Taurus didn’t let up.
A powerful hoof lashed out like a spring-loaded hammer, slamming into the Warlock’s side. He flew like a ragdoll and smashed into a stone wall—blood spraying from his lips.
Dazed and winded, he barely pushed himself up when the Taurus roared and lunged for the kill.
A second figure appeared—a Knight Sub-Commander. His tower shield intercepted the next blow, halting the Taurus with a resounding clang.
Steel clashed with muscle. Flame backed steel. The Warlock and Knight joined forces against the beast.
Neither side could gain the upper hand.
The Taurus’s hide was too tough to pierce, while the coordinated defence of the two human soldiers was too tight to break.
They were locked in a brutal deadlock.
Yet to the defenders, it was enough.
This stalemate, this small resistance, gave them hope. Perhaps they could hold out just a bit longer. Perhaps they could stall the Wildkin’s advance.
But hope never lasts long.
Atop a small hill overlooking the battlefield, the Orc Chief watched in silence.
He raised a single hand—and swung it forward.
The high-variant Orc Warriors, powerful elites among their kind, let out savage cries and charged toward the city. Their feet crushed bone and flesh of corpses beneath them without a shred of care.
They weren’t here to win a war.
They were here to bask in carnage. To earn glory.
Or to die beautifully in battle.
However, it seemed the Orc Chief wasn’t satisfied with sending just the Elite-ranked Orc Warriors, who—unlike the rabble from the other races—were hardened, iron-blooded soldiers.
He had also dispatched half of his Orc Rider Guards, numbering about twenty-five. Each of these warriors was at least Peak Elite-rank, with more than half already having stepped into Veteran rank.
The City Guard Deputy Commander’s face paled.
Despite the stabilised morale, he knew the defence forces were already stretched to their absolute limit. The addition of the Orc Warriors would already be difficult to manage. But the Orc Wolf Riders? They were a force multiplier the Commander simply couldn’t allow to enter the battlefield.
Breaking the etiquette of Soldiers against Soldiers, Generals against Generals, the City Guard Deputy Commander was forced to act. This time, he moved himself—targeting the incoming Wolf Riders directly.
He slowly unsheathed his sword.
As he did, a suffocating pressure pressed down on the Orc Riders.
The Commander was deploying another Concept derived from the Laws of Earth—Weight Amplification.
[A.N: Similar to increasing gravity, but unlike a general area effect, this concept targets individuals directly.]
To others, it looked like a typical sword-energy wave that any Intermediate-rank Warrior could produce—but to the Orcs, it was anything but ordinary.
The slash was laced with the Weight Amplification Concept.
What seemed like a simple attack felt to the Orc Wolf Riders like a mountain crashing down upon them.
A snort echoed across the battlefield, followed by a thunderous explosion and a devastating crash.
All eyes turned in disbelief towards the ruined ground.
It wasn’t the Orc Riders who had been struck down.
The City Guard Deputy Commander!
One punch to suppress the battlefield...
Had Alex been present, the phrase would’ve immediately flashed through his mind.
Since the Commander had broken battlefield etiquette, the Orc Chieftain no longer felt bound by it either.
Still seated atop his wolf mount, the Chieftain had casually thrown a punch—one that not only shattered the Commander’s sword slash but also blasted the man from the sky, slamming him into the city below.
His fate was unknown.
With their final emotional pillar crushed, the city defenders lost all cohesion. Their line broke.
The Wildkin surged in.
Orc Warriors and Wolf Riders rampaged through the defences. No one could stop them.
The Orc Chieftain didn’t even need to lift a finger again.
Far away, a group of six men stood watching the city’s fall.
At their centre was a man in his late twenties, fists clenched behind his back so tightly his nails dug into his skin, drawing noble blood.
This was the heir of the Kellerman Family, Young Lord of the Kellerman Earldom, and City Lord of the fallen Werth—Josiah Kellerman.
"Worry not, Young Lord," said a cloaked figure beside him, voice dripping with persuasive charm. "This is but a temporary setback in the grand design. The city will soon return to your hands."
That voice, tinged with something unnatural, lulled Josiah. He nodded slowly.
He turned to another of his retinue. "Send word to the family. The city has fallen. The Guardian of the North must take responsibility and act."
The messenger bowed and stepped back.
Josiah turned back toward the burning city.
A city of twenty thousand... gone in a single day.
With a wave, he signalled for the group to continue their retreat toward the Kellerman heartland.
The first domino had fallen. Now it was time to ensure the rest would follow—just as planned.