"Bring it on, all of you."
Su Ming took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly as Stranglehold secured his helt.
He flicked the cigarette butt, watching its faint ember arc into a lava pool at the mountain’s base, vanishing in a wisp of smoke.
Whether the enemies understood or not, they surged forward, weapons drawn.
The demon grunts were towering, three-ter muscle masses, but the real threat wasn’t them. The smaller, more agile Maidens of Destruction, with their battle formations and experience, demanded caution.
Given their numbers—split between demons and Maidens, with varied types and speeds—Su Ming’s strategy was to retreat swiftly, letting their differing paces stretch their ranks.
He’d kite the Maidens, using ranged weapons to clear the demons first.
All enemies were immortal, so Su Ming deduced phisto was toying with him—a Hell lord’s greeting.
Cursed by Baal, the Maidens were eternally undying, forever ravenous, sustained only by human flesh.
The demons, spawned by Hell, would reform from ash, their sinful souls reborn in darkness and fla.
Flying up the mountain was the obvious move, but it would signal weakness, delighting phisto.
Su Ming didn’t care personally, but as Ancient One’s ally facing a Hell lord, yielding could spark illusions—like "the Sorcerer Supre’s heir is a coward" or "the Supre’s legacy is weak."
phisto would gleefully share such gossip with other Hell lords, inviting endless interdinsional trouble.
Steve’s words rang true: sotis, you can’t retreat, or enemies will hound you until you’re spent.
Here, Su Ming had to crush any illusions, eting phisto’s challenge head-on. Only dominance would keep Hell lords in check.
As Ancient One’s chosen heir, endorsed by the Vishanti, his reputation likely echoed across the cosmos, perhaps even to other dinsions—a secret among magic circles.
The fa brought benefits, but also responsibilities—a price to pay.
Su Ming halted, stowing his adamantium gauss rifle. While strategizing, he’d already dispatched the demons, leaving thirteen Maidens.
Godslayer and Nightfall sword in hand, he faced the withered, grotesque ex-Valkyries, so nearly in his face.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
His weapons parried a flurry of blows.
Though their weapons were uru-forged—straight swords, curved blades, hand axes, maces—they varied wildly. Enhanced by phisto’s Hell magic, they withstood Godslayer’s strikes.
Nightfall, coated in silver X-tal, was different. It shattered their weapons like dry twigs, brittle and frail.
Seizing the mont as the disard "fury maidens" froze, Su Ming thrust Godslayer, shoving the left-flank enemies back, and flicked his wrist, swinging Nightfall.
But the blow, ant to decapitate three, missed. Spear- and javelin-wielding Maidens in the rear, not engaging directly, pulled their front-line sisters back, dodging the attack.
Su Ming only shaved off a few strands of hair.
"Not bad," he said.
Godslayer extended suddenly, launching a counterattack, but shields blocked it instantly.
Using the force of the clash, Su Ming flipped out of the fray, repositioning.
Worthy of their millennia of teamwork, they’d sha the Titans’ sloppy berserker charges. The Maidens knew how to encircle, giving each other space to shine.
The front five targeted different areas—head, legs, heart, spine, groin—attacking from all angles with staggered timing. Rear Maidens harassed with spears and javelins, able to advance or retreat while tracking Su Ming’s lightning-fast strikes.
Their synergy was like a single entity, honed by countless battles.
Luckily, Su Ming had weapons and tactics they’d never seen.
"Not bad yourself, human," a Maiden in tattered rags replied, indistinguishable from her sisters’ shriveled faces. "As food, that is."
Su Ming transford Godslayer into an exotic weapon, shaking his head with a grin. "Just talk. You can still walk away."
"I want his kidneys. You, sister Gwaley?" The Maiden’s sunken, blood-red eyes locked on him, her twig-like tongue licking her lips as she turned to her comrade.
"The heart, no question," Gwaley, wielding a spear and draped in gray fur, replied, her target clear.
The Maidens shifted into a crescent formation, closing in.
Su Ming was touched. Only they saw his true worth—not his gear, his weapons, armor, or cloak. To them, those were irrelevant; they craved his flesh.
Thirteen madwon, none coveting his equipnt, only hungering for his body.
Sadly, their ugliness and ferocity ant he couldn’t indulge them.
"Godslayer! Extend!"
The transford weapon was a langxian, an ancient Chinese weapon inspired by bamboo, invented by Ming dynasty rebels and used in Qi Jiguang’s "Mandarin Duck Formation" as a frontline tool.
Made from whole bamboo, it required no training—sweep it like a broom. It countered infantry and cavalry, a giant, elongated bamboo broom that attacked armor’s weak points with soft, dense bristles.
In the formation, when enemies were blinded by the sweep, rear allies finished them with spears.
This half-soft, half-hard weapon worked best against unarmored foes with exposed faces. The Maidens, their armor reduced to rags by ti and curses, fit perfectly, resembling mummies from a crypt.
Su Ming wielded the three-ter langxian single-handedly, Nightfall in the other for follow-ups. If the sword’s reach fell short, Stranglehold could draw pistols from his thigh holsters, twirling them with flair.
Rubbing Godslayer in the dirt to coat it in ash, Su Ming swept at the encroaching Maidens.
"Cough... despicable!" a Maiden choked as he pinned her, sweeping her face with the langxian. Her withered flesh tore, an eyeball dislodged.
She clawed the ground, digging pits, but couldn’t match Su Ming’s strength. His black-and-yellow armor pressed her down like a mountain, its cold tal dripping his blood onto her shriveled skin.
Their teamwork was impeccable, but millennia of routine had rigidified their thinking.
Su Ming absorbed their blows, focusing on one Maiden relentlessly. His armor was riddled with holes, wounds bone-deep, but he stuck to his plan.
Eliminating one cracked their formation. Like a machine missing a gear, their system faltered. The more they fell, the weaker they grew. When half the thirteen were down, they couldn’t resist Deathstroke.
"Despicable? Thanks." Su Ming blinded her, severed her limbs, and crouched on her back for intel. Anger made her unstable—perfect for interrogation.
"We’ll make you pay, returning every tornt!" the last Maiden spat, black ichor blending with the ground.
"Yet I’m the victor today. Question: which fool used you as bargaining chips with phisto?"
"Don’t know!" she writhed like a worm, unable to die due to her curse, her sisters’ fragnts still "alive."
"Hiding won’t help. Satisfy , and I might share how to break Baal’s curse."
His red visor flashed. These cursed warriors felt no pain—torture was useless.
She paused, then repeated, "Don’t know."
"Fine. I’ll await your revenge." Standing, Su Ming kicked her head off, sending it flying.
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