"Battle has co! Everyone, brace for impact!" Reynald’s voice thundered across the field, firm and commanding.
The mont his words echoed, the battlefield trembled under the weight of the incoming horde. A black tide of undead surged forward, their shrieks and roars distorting the air. The defending army stood their ground, their bodies tensing, teeth gritting, and hearts pounding. Even the bravest among them could not help but swallow hard at the overwhelming sight before them.
Yet amidst that storm of fear, two figures stood calm—Reynald and Rein. Generals of their respective forces, the warriors and the mages. Their eyes did not falter; they read the battlefield like a book, absorbing every movent with the poise expected of seasoned leaders.
"Mages! Now!" Rein’s voice cut through the chaos like lightning.
A surge of magic pulsed behind the frontline. The mages raised their glowing hands, and within seconds, dozens of magic missiles launched into the undead ranks. Explosions burst in dazzling lights and raw force, hurling bones and limbs into the air. Waves of undead fell, yet from the smoke erged more—a relentless tide of scorched, broken, yet still-moving corpses.
"Warriors, now!" Reynald followed with a shout, blade raised.
With a deafening roar, the warriors charged. Steel t rotting flesh in a furious clash. Blades carved through decaying torsos, claws tore through brittle limbs, and fists shattered skulls like ceramic pots. But for every undead slain, five more pressed forward. The defenders were vastly outnumbered. The battle wasn’t just fierce—it was grueling, each warrior forced into one-against-many duels of attrition.
The undead had no stamina to lose. No fear. No pain. They just kept coming.
And yet, the living endured.
A thunderous crack echoed as Braun, the tribal master of the Brawlers, smashed his fists into an undead’s skull, sending a shockwave through the battlefield. His body spun, kicked, and collided with such force that corpses exploded on impact. His disciples followed his rhythm—shockwaves spreading like ripples in a lake as bones shattered with every strike.
On the other flank, Reynald activated his Rage skill. Blood surged in his veins, and with his greatsword in hand, he carved a path through the dead. His disciples mirrored his fury, cleaving undead in halves, stomping skulls into pulp.
Ella danced among the chaos, her twin curved daggers flashing in arcs of silver. She moved like a blur, her disciples weaving through the crowd in tandem, cutting arteries and slicing necks.
Kuro unleashed his power next. Having held back at first, he now moved like a shadow of death. With a wide sweeping slash, he felled five undead in a single strike. His soldiers followed, turning the field into a theater of precise decapitations and limb severing.
Braun’s dual weapon mastery ca into play. He switched from blades to heavy blunt weapons, smashing undead into walls of crushed at and scattered bones. Each swing cleared ters of space. The battlefield was painted in gore.
Above the rear line, Rein conjured his phantom weapons and summoned clones. Dozens of illusory warriors joined the fray, their movents synchronized and their attacks as deadly as their originals. Even the clones of his disciples were indistinguishable from the real ones.
From afar, Klein unleashed elental havoc—firestorms, lightning crashes, and walls of ice impaled dozens of undead at a ti. His disciples joined in, each utilizing their elental affinity: fire burned, ice froze, lightning stunned, earth crushed, and wind cut. The battlefield pulsed with raw magic.
In the center, Jeanne held her ground, healing the wounded and casting stamina restoration spells. Her magic bought ti for those on the brink of collapse to return to the fight. Anna blinked across the field with her teleportation ability, decapitating targets and leaving portals behind for flanking maneuvers. Her disciples flickered in and out of space, striking with surgical precision.
Mary’s telekinesis turned the battlefield into a horror show. With the flick of a finger, undead necks snapped. With a gesture, they were crumpled into broken heaps. Her disciples did the sa—limbs bent in unnatural ways and heads were crushed like overripe fruit.
Despite all this effort, exhaustion crept in. Even with Jeanne’s healing, even with stamina boosts, the defenders were burning out. They were warriors, not machines. The tide of undead had barely thinned. Thousands still surged toward the portal.
The generals—Reynald and Rein—were now in the thick of it. Shouting commands while fighting side by side with their comrades. Their bodies ached, their breath ragged, but they never retreated. Their voices kept the army standing.
And then—sothing unexpected happened.
A soft bounce echoed.
Slis.
Slis bounced across the field and clung to the warriors and mages. But instead of attacking, they healed. Wounds sealed, energy returned, muscles no longer trembled.
The defenders blinked in disbelief.
"Slis?"
"They’re healing us!"
"It’s from Master—Master Rolan!"
A collective realization washed over them. The production slis, the ones that helped build their village—he had sent them. Their hearts lifted. Their faith renewed.
They looked skyward—and there he was.
Descending with majestic wings spread wide, Rolan floated above them like a divine figure. His expression calm, confident, in control. Dozens of healing slis and combat mimics followed him like loyal familiars.
"Are you all okay?" he asked, his voice echoing across the field.
"Yes, Master!" the army responded in unison.
"Good," Rolan smiled. "Now, I’ll finish this ss."
Without hesitation, he soared back into the sky.
Every eye watched him rise. They had seen his power before, but now, watching him from the ground—while being healed and saved—they truly understood. He wasn’t just a leader. He was a force.
From high above, Rolan surveyed the battlefield. Thousands of undead remained. But it was ti to end it.
"Solomon," he muttered. "Prepare the spell—Raining Slis and Mimics."
[Skill: Raining Slis and Mimics activated]
[Duplication and High-Speed Regeneration enhancing output]
The skies opened.
Slis and mimics rained like cots. Explosive slis detonated midair. Acid slis lted through hordes. Ice slis froze entire clusters. Mimics dropped and morphed—into basilisks, snakes, even dragons—and rampaged across the undead.
The battlefield turned into chaos.
Undead were devoured, crushed, lted, frozen, shredded.
The defenders could only watch in awe as Rolan’s summoned beasts cleaned up what remained. It was like watching a storm sweep the land, unstoppable and divine.
And as the mimics consud the last of the undead, the once-roaring field grew quiet. The only sounds were the bouncing of slis and the gasps of relieved soldiers.
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