Iron Dragon's Advancement Journey

Page 93

　The battle erupted again, this time even more fiercely. The Temple Knights displayed extraordinary combat skills, each swing of their swords claiming several lives. Isis tried her best to cast spells to support them, but her magic was being depleted more and more rapidly.

　Fortunately, the ample traps and rudimentary fortifications were still effective, shredding the surging enemy like a meat grinder.

　"We can only break this trap with magic, or we'll all die here!" someone in Bane's army roared. "Damn Bane!"

　He was a sorcerer; he quickly chanted the incantation and performed the spell with precise movements.

　Ten enormous fireballs blasted through the gnarled trees blocking the army's path, creating a passage. But they also killed all the soldiers who had charged the traps.

　"No!" the mage screamed, "That wasn't my spell!" He tried another incantation, but it seemed to summon an earthquake; the earth trembled violently, triggering more traps, and blood and flesh splattered everywhere. The soldiers around the caster were terrified, their screams rising and falling.

　“You’ll kill us all, you idiot!” someone shouted.

　“Netzbury…” the mage’s voice was hoarse with surprise. Before he could finish expressing his shock, Netzbury struck him on the head with the back of his sword, knocking him to the ground and stopping the earthquake.

　"Forward, for Bane!" Knightsbury roared, "For glory!"

　The knight wielding a warhammer broke through the defenses first, charging directly towards the command post. Kevlar stepped forward, his longsword clashing with the knight's black blade, sparks flying. The knight's strength far surpassed that of ordinary people; each strike forced Kevlar back half a step, but he barely maintained his balance thanks to his superb skill and agility. Isis seized the opportunity, unleashing a bolt of lightning that struck the knight directly in the face. The lightning pierced his helmet, leaving a charred hole.

　But shockingly, the knight remained standing, removing his helmet to reveal his charred face. Taking advantage of the moment, Kavoran charged forward, his longsword plunging into the knight's throat, spun halfway around, and decapitated him, finally ending this unequal battle.

　Just as the defensive line was about to collapse, a messenger rushed in: "Kevoran! The enemy is flanking us from the north! There are at least five hundred of them, and they are heading towards the town!"

　52. Shirek

　Cyril stood at the bridgehead, leaning against the rough stone railing, his longbow string repeatedly strung, calluses already forming on his fingertips. He squinted at the misty forest on the opposite bank, the whispers of refugees dragging their heavy footsteps as they retreated filling the air. No one dared to look back, not even dared to breathe, for fear of disturbing something they shouldn't.

　“Keep your post, Forrest,” Cyric muttered, glancing at the bear-like man beside him. Forrest grinned, revealing a set of uneven, yellow teeth, swinging his scimitar with a whooshing sound like a drunkard showing off a toy after crawling out of a tavern.

　"Don't worry, boss, I've never seen a horse faster than me in my life." Forrest patted his chest, his voice so loud it almost scared the fish under the bridge away.

　Cyric didn't reply, only letting out a cold snort. If this guy really had that kind of skill, he should have been a mercenary making a fortune long ago, instead of risking his life with a bunch of farmers in this godforsaken Shadow Valley. He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the few guys hiding under the bridge pier—those responsible for pulling the ropes to break the bridge were just greenhorns who couldn't even hold a sword properly. At this moment, they were huddled in the shadows, their hands gripping the ropes trembling like sieves.

　"If those lunatics from Santyrburg really come, you'd better not wet your pants," Cyric whispered, his tone laced with sarcasm and a hint of helplessness. He knew these men weren't warriors, not even militia; they were just pathetic creatures forced into this mess by fate.

　In the distance, the deep thud of hooves echoed from the western forest, like war drums pounding on the heart, suffocating and unbearable. Cyrek narrowed his eyes, his fingers instinctively reaching for the bowstring. He wasn't a hero, nor did he possess the lofty sentiments to be one.

　He was a thief, making a living by stealing chickens and dogs, occasionally doing Robin Hood-like acts to embellish his reputation. But now, standing on this dilapidated Assaba Bridge, with refugees fleeing behind him and the iron hooves of Bann's army in front of him, this wretched place had forced him into becoming a "bridge keeper."

　"Here they come." Forrest's voice lowered, and he no longer brandished his scimitar, but gripped it tightly in his hand.

　Shirek didn't speak, he just nodded slightly.

　He heard it; the sound of hooves grew closer, mixed with the clanging of metal, like a herd of tin monsters rampaging through the woods. He peered over the bridge and shouted, "Open your eyes wide, all of you, don't fucking slip!" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.

　The boys under the bridge pier responded in unison with a "Yes," but their voices trembled like leaves in the wind. Cyric ignored them and turned to look across the river. A dark shadow gradually emerged from the mist, first a few blurry outlines, then fully armed knights on tall horses, the Bane emblem on their armor appearing and disappearing in the fog like a group of ghosts crawling out of the abyss.

　“Twenty-odd…” Cyric squinted, counting softly. He lightly plucked the bowstring, producing a low hum, as if to encourage himself. The warriors on the opposite bank were already stirring, cursing under their breath as they spread out to meet the enemy. Forrest grinned: “Boss, do you think these guys will just charge straight in to their deaths?”

　"Going to their deaths?" Cyric sneered. "Bane's lackeys aren't that stupid. If they really charge in, this lousy bridge won't hold for long." He paused, his gaze falling on the few broken beams in the middle of the bridge.

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　On the pitted and uneven stone pillars. That was their masterpiece, created overnight.

　The bridge may look sturdy on the surface, but it has long been hollowed out underneath. With just a few ropes, the entire bridge will collapse into the river like a drunkard.

　The sound of hooves grew closer; the knights had reached the bridge. Leading them was a burly, red-haired man with black runes etched into his armor. His warhorse puffed out white steam, like a wild beast about to go berserk. Cyric glanced at Forrest and whispered, "Didn't you say you wanted to die a glorious death? Now's your chance."

　“Heh heh, boss, I never said I was going to die here.” Forrest licked his lips, a mad glint in his eyes. “I’m still waiting to kill that redhead, steal his horse, and exchange it for drinks at the tavern.”

　"With your skills, you'd have trouble even slaughtering a pig." Cyric rolled his eyes, but his hand was already nocking an arrow. He took a deep breath and locked his gaze on the red-haired knight—this guy was obviously a leader, the kind of guy who was usually in charge of the front lines, and probably had nothing on his mind but killing and arson.

　“Wait for my signal,” Cyric whispered to Forrest and the men under the bridge, then ducked down and disappeared into the shadows of the bridge railing.

　Fuzor waved his hand, and the twenty-odd knights reined in their horses in unison, their movements as synchronized as puppets on a string. They didn't rush onto the bridge, but stopped at the bridgehead. The red-haired leader squinted and peered in their direction, as if sizing up prey.

　"What are they waiting for?" Forrest asked in a low voice, his tone tinged with unease.

　"Let's wait for the main force behind us," Shirek scoffed. "These guys aren't stupid; they know we have an ambush."

　He squinted, and through the mist, he could vaguely see more dark figures moving deep in the forest. Cavalry, infantry, and even several catapults. This wasn't just a force for a few hundred militiamen; it was clearly meant to crush the entire Shadow Valley into dust.

　"Boss, should we wait?" one of the boys under the bridge couldn't help but stick his head out and whisper.

　“Shut up!” Cyric growled, his fingers tightening on the bowstring. He knew he couldn’t delay any longer. Once those guys had gathered their main force, the bridge would truly be their stepping stone. He glanced at Forrest and whispered, “Prepare to move.”

　Fleiss nodded, raising his scimitar to his chest, looking like a wolf poised to pounce. Cyric took a deep breath, released his grip, and the arrow shot through the air, heading straight for the red-haired leader's chest.

　Fuzor reacted quickly, dodging Shirek's arrow with a sudden sidestep. The arrow grazed his shoulder and embedded itself in the tree trunk behind him, scattering a cloud of wood chips.

　"Kill!" Cyric roared, and the warriors on both sides of the bridge rushed out of the trenches. Forrest yelled and charged at the nearest knight, brandishing his scimitar. With a swift stroke, he cut the man and his horse to the ground. Blood splattered, staining the soil beside the bridge red.

　Cyric didn't stop; the second arrow was already fired, this time piercing a knight's throat with pinpoint accuracy. The man groaned and fell from his horse, the impact shaking the ground. The boys under the bridge also began pulling on the ropes, the stone pillars creaking and groaning.

　Fuzor roared and waved his hand, signaling his men to charge the bridge.

　More than twenty knights spurred their horses on, their iron hooves thundering across the bridge.

　Cyric's eyes twitched, and he cursed under his breath, "Damn it, let's fight!" He fired his third arrow, felling another knight, then grabbed Forrest: "Run!"

　"Why are you running? I haven't killed enough yet!" Forrest yelled as Cyric dragged him toward the east bank. The ropes under the bridge were stretched to their limit, the stone pillars were beginning to tilt, and the whole bridge looked like a drunkard swaying precariously, on the verge of collapsing at any moment.

　"Boss, didn't you say you were going to guard the bridge?" Forrest asked, panting, glancing back at the knights who were still running wildly.

　"Defend my ass! Defending the bridge is a victory if it collapses!" Cyric retorted irritably, but his feet didn't stop. Even the vanguard of Bane's army was a hundred times stronger than this rabble. Their only chance was to bury these guys in the river when the bridge collapsed.

　With a deafening roar, the Asaba Bridge finally gave way, its central pillars snapped, and the entire bridge collapsed into the river as if swept away by a dragon's tail.

　Caught off guard, Fuzor and his knights plunged into the swift river amidst screams and the neighing of their horses. Their heavy armor became their death warrant in the water, and they sank like weights.

　He stopped, panting, and looked back at the churning water.

　The red-haired leader was still alive. He struggled to climb onto the east bank, his armor half off, his wet red hair plastered to his face, making him look like a drowned rat.

　Fuzor and Shirek exchanged a glance, a hint of hatred flashing in their eyes, before Fuzor suddenly jumped back into the water, attempting to swim away.

　"Trying to run?" Cyric sneered, the bowstring snapped, and an arrow pierced the man's back with pinpoint accuracy. The man groaned, his body stiffened, and he slowly sank, his blood spreading crimson across the water's surface.

　"Well done, boss!" Forrest slapped his thigh and laughed heartily, blood dripping from the blade of his scimitar onto the ground.

　“Beautiful my foot.” Cyric sheathed his bow, frowning as he looked towards the west bank. The bridge had collapsed, but more shadowy figures were closing in from the forest—Bane’s main force had arrived. He spat and muttered, “This battle has only just begun.”

　The soil on the east bank was soaked with blood and river water. When Cyric stepped on it, his boots made a sticky "splatter" sound, like stepping into a pile of mud. He frowned and glanced back at the still bubbling river. The red-haired leader's body had sunk to the bottom and was probably being eaten by fish by now.

　"Boss, what's next?" Forrest asked with a grin, carrying his scimitar, his tone smug as if he had just won a battle.

　"What are you doing?" Shirek sneered. "You think collapsing a bridge can stop Bane and his lunatics? Don't dream, the main force is still waiting behind." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the few guys who had crawled out of the trench, all covered in dirt, their weapons trembling like sieves, barely able to stand.

　"What are you guys standing there for? Get back to town and report!" Cyric roared. The boys snapped out of their daze and stumbled towards Shadow Valley. Cyric shook his head, cursing inwardly: If these guys survive to tomorrow, I'll go believe that damn goddess Tamora.

　Forrest scratched his head, watching the approaching shadows on the west bank: "Boss, do you think that old bastard Bane has gone mad? Sending so many people to trample on this lousy place, what's the point?"

　“What’s the point?” Cyric glanced at him. “He’s after our lives. Bane, haven’t you heard of him? The God of Strife, the kind who’ll cause trouble even if there’s nothing wrong with him! The three gods of death love to harvest souls, to do some kind of evil thing with them. Didn’t you see the look in those knights’ eyes? Like they were dead, not even afraid of pain.” He paused, then said in a low voice, “This isn’t an ordinary war, it’s a sacrifice.”

　"Sacrifice?" Forrest's eyes widened. "You mean we're all just meat on his plate?"

　“Pretty much,” Cyric scoffed. “But I’m not planning on being a meal. Let’s go back to town and meet up with Kevoran and the others.” He turned and walked away, his steps quick. Forrest paused for a moment before catching up, muttering as he ran, “Boss, why are you running so fast? Are you afraid of being chased by ghosts?”

　“Not ghosts, but Bane’s cavalry.” Cyric said without turning his head, his voice laced with gritted teeth. His ears were sharp; the sound of hooves from the west bank had returned, even more intense than the wave led by the red-haired leader earlier, like a pack of hungry wolves pouncing on a sheepfold. He didn’t want to wait here to be trampled into mincemeat.

　The Valley of Shadows isn't far from the Asaba River, but running that stretch of road felt like half a lifetime.

　The roadside was littered with the rubble left behind by fleeing villagers—overturned wooden carts, scattered pots and pans, and a few children's shoes that they hadn't had time to take, painful to step on. As he ran, Shirek cursed, "These guys can't even escape properly, leaving so much stuff for Bane!"

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　"As a supply depot?"

　"Hey, boss, stop complaining. At least they're gone, and we can catch our breath." Forrest panted, grinned, and slung his scimitar over his shoulder like a fire poker.

　"Take a breath?" Cyric sneered. "Once Bane's army tramples over, you won't even have a chance to catch your breath."

　He had barely finished speaking when a sharp horn sounded behind him. Cyril turned sharply and saw a troop of cavalry charging out of the forest on the west bank, a dark mass of them, the Bane emblem on their armor gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

　"Damn it, run!" Cyric growled and charged forward. Forrest yelled and followed, the two of them running like rabbits chased by wolves along the rugged path. The sound of cavalry hooves grew closer behind them, mixed with shouts of battle and the clanging of metal, like a herd of tin monsters roaring.

　"Boss, we can't outrun the horses!" Forrest shouted as he ran, his smile long gone, replaced by panic.

　“Nonsense, I know that!” Cyric gritted his teeth, his mind racing. He glanced at the watchtower by the roadside—a dilapidated tower with several crossbows mounted on top, probably the last line of defense left by the Shadow Valley militia. He grabbed Forrest: “Up the tower!”

　"What?" Forrest was taken aback, but Cyric had no time to think, and the two stumbled into the tower. There were only a dozen or so archers inside, all pale-faced, their crossbow bolts trembling like leaves. Cyric rushed forward and roared, "What are you standing there for? Shoot!"

　"Boss, there are too many of them!" an archer stammered, nearly dropping his crossbow.

　"Screw you! Even if we don't kill them, we'll hold them off!" Shirek snatched the crossbow, aimed at the leading cavalryman, and pulled the trigger. The bolt whistled through the air, striking the man squarely in the chest. The knight groaned and fell from his horse, the impact shaking the ground. Seeing this, the other archers quickly opened fire, and arrows rained down on the cavalry like hail.

　The cavalry formation faltered, but they didn't stop. The leader waved his hand, and the men behind him immediately scattered, circling the tower. Cyrek squinted and muttered, "These guys are pretty smart; they know that charging headlong is suicide."

　"Boss, what do we do?" Forrest leaned against the wall, panting, his scimitar gripped tightly.

　“What do we do?” Cyric sneered. “The bridge has collapsed, so not many of them can get across. If we hold this tower, we can at least hold them off for a while.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the archers inside the tower: “You lot, stop fucking trembling. Bane’s lackeys aren’t immortal. If you shoot accurately, you can still survive.”

　These words had some effect; the archers gritted their teeth and their crossbow bolts became slightly more steady. Several more cavalrymen were shot down, and the rest began to hesitate, circling the tower a few times before retreating to a distance, like a pack of wolves sharpening their teeth at their prey.

　"Boss, have they retreated?" an archer peeked out and asked in a low voice.

　"Retreat my ass," Shirek scoffed. "They're waiting for reinforcements."

　He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, but his mind was racing. This tower wouldn't hold for long; once Bane's main force arrived, this wretched place would be utterly destroyed. But there was no escape now; he could only hold out here.

　"Cyric!" a shout came from afar. Cyric peered out and saw a blood-covered man stumbling towards him. He recognized him; it was a messenger from Kavoran's men, probably running from the eastern frontier.

　"What is it?" Shirek asked, frowning.

　"The north... the north has been breached!" The messenger gasped for breath, his voice filled with despair. "Five hundred men have already entered the town!"

　"What?" Cyric's eyes widened, and he nearly lost his footing. A breakthrough from the north? What the hell was going on? Didn't Kavoran say their rear defenses had a third of their forces? How could they have collapsed so quickly?

　"Boss, are we finished?" Forrest swallowed hard, his crazy expression completely gone.

　"Finished my ass!" Cyric gritted his teeth. "I'm not dead yet!" He grabbed the messenger. "Quick, tell me, where are Kevoran and the others?"

　"The eastern defense line is still holding on," the messenger replied tremblingly. "But the wave from the north is heading straight for the town; they're probably trying to cut off our retreat."

　"Damn it, that old bastard Bane's pretty shrewd," Shirek cursed under his breath, his mind racing. They'd broken through to the north, were bogged down to the east, and the cavalry was blocking their way to the west—this battle was like a meat grinder. He glanced at the cavalry outside the tower and whispered, "Forrest, prepare to run."

　"Run? Where to run?" Forrest's eyes widened.

　“The town.” Cyric sneered, then paused, his gaze falling on the messenger. “Go back to the east and tell Kevoran that the bridge in the west has collapsed, but reinforcements will arrive soon.”

　The messenger hesitated for a moment, then nodded, turned, and ran. Cyric took a deep breath, turned to the archers in the tower, and roared, "You lot, give me some cover fire! I'm going to break through with my men!"

　"Boss, are you crazy?" an archer shouted, trembling.

　“I’m not crazy.” Cyric grinned. “I just don’t want to die in this damn tower.”

　He grabbed Forrest and growled, "Let's go!"

　53. Rout

　The twilight, heavy as iron, pressed down on the third line of defense in Shadow Valley.

　Trenchs, spiked stakes, arrow towers, and layers of traps formed this final barrier, even more formidable than the previous two. This was a composite defensive line designed by Isis in collaboration with Kevoran, drawing inspiration from some of her observations of the Dragon Territory. Behind the defensive line, multi-layered fortifications built under Isis's guidance formed the final barrier—unfortunately, there were no cannons here, nor were there half-dragon warlocks or hordes of dragonblood trolls or ogres.

　Isis stood atop the arrow tower, her fingers gripping the edge of the spellbook. Her demonic eyes reflected the distorted magical trajectories on the battlefield, like a spiderweb torn apart by a gale. She took a deep breath, trying to suppress the growing suffocating feeling in her chest.

　“Here we go again.” Kavoran climbed the arrow tower, the bloodstains on his armor dried to a dark brown, and his longsword was chipped in several places. He stood beside Isis, his cold gaze sweeping over the distant torrent of firelight.

　Bane's army, with thousands of torches writhing in the setting sun, resembled an inextinguishable fiery serpent.

　“At least twenty thousand…” Isis murmured, her voice trembling slightly, “We have less than a thousand left.”

　Her demonic eyes caught sight of a growing shadow behind the enemy lines, death energy surging like a tide, each fallen corpse adding to its power.

　“Their chain of command is broken,” Kevoran said in a deep voice. “But these guys don’t care about command at all. They’re not afraid of death, not even of pain.”

　“That’s because Bane is manipulating them,” Isis gritted her teeth. “He’s harvesting souls; with each one that dies, he becomes stronger. This isn’t war; it’s sacrifice.”

　Kavoran frowned: "Is this his real purpose in starting this war?"

　“Partly so,” Isis replied. “With the gods banished to the mortal realm, Bane must have wanted to take the opportunity to accumulate power and regain his divine position. And the souls of the dead are the best sacrifices.”

　Kavoran paused for a moment, looking at her with a complicated expression: "No matter what, we have to hold it. This is the last line of defense; behind it is the town, and there's nowhere to retreat."

　Isis didn't speak, but looked down at the town behind her. In the firelight, the faces of countless residents were faintly visible; some were trembling, clutching children, while others stood at the crossroads, their eyes filled with fear mixed with a faint hope. She clenched her fist and whispered, "I'll try a large-scale spell; maybe it can buy me some time."

　“That’s too risky.” Kevoran frowned. “Your magic has become like that of madmen. If you accidentally blow yourself up, we won’t even have a chance to escape.”

　“I know,” Isis sneered, “but do you have a better way?” Without waiting for Kevoran's reply, she turned and began drawing runes in the air. Demon Eye Lock

Chapter 296