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Chapter 371: 371
Ikenga’s gaze shifted to the demons. Their savagery was as brutal as it was efficient. Yet, what disturbed him most was their apparent disregard for their own lives. The lower-tier demons hurled themselves into the ratmen’s traps and blades without hesitation, their bodies piling up but never retreating.
He turned his head slightly to look at Vaegur, who was tossing in a handful of herbs with a flourish. "Vaegur," Ikenga called, "why do they throw themselves to their deaths like that? It’s not strategy; it’s senseless."
Vaegur’s crimson eyes glinted as he glanced up, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "Senseless? No, no, my dear god of nature. It’s contempt."
Ikenga raised an eyebrow, urging the demon to continue.
"The lower demons hate their higher-ups," Vaegur explained, leaning casually against his cooking pot. "They only follow orders because they must. So when told to sacrifice themselves, they don’t see it as death. They see it as a way to spite those who command them. Why obey perfectly when they can rot the land and make the higher-tier demons’ jobs harder? Even though this rot is helpful for invasion but like my lord Zarvok, many demo lord would like their invaded world as prestine as they could as the benefit is much higher"
"But they die," Ikenga countered.
"They don’t die," Vaegur corrected with a sly grin. "Not truly. Their souls return to the Abyss, to the River Styx, where they’re reborn. It’s a cycle, see? They’re content to burn their bodies, knowing they’ll live again. To truly kill one of us, you’d need to destroy our soul before it escapes. Otherwise, we’re just borrowing time until we return."
Ikenga frowned, the weight of the revelation settling over him. "So... war with the Abyss isn’t just a battle of flesh and steel. It’s a war against an unending cycle."
"Precisely," Vaegur said, stirring his pot. "And a messy one at that. Best avoided if you value peace and sanity."
Ikenga’s jaw tightened as he mulled over Vaegur’s words. The demons were more dangerous than he had initially thought, not because of their strength or numbers, but because of their nature. Fighting an enemy that saw death as inconsequential was a nightmare scenario, one that could drag entire worlds into ruin.
"We should avoid war with the Abyss at all costs," Ikenga said finally, his voice firm.
Keles tilted her head, her crimson eyes gleaming with curiosity. "A rare moment of caution from you."
"I’m not reckless," Ikenga replied with a small smile. "Just pragmatic."
Keles smirked again but said nothing, her attention returning to the battlefield. Below, the war raged on, the endless tide of ratmen clashing against the abyssal demons in a grotesque ballet of blood and fire. Above it all, the gods watched, detached but not unaffected, their thoughts turning toward the precarious balance of the worlds they presided over.
As Vaegur served the first bowl of his concoction to Lavderh, Ikenga sat up, a strange resolve in his eyes. "Let’s not forget, Keles," he said softly, "what happens here is not just a battle for survival. It’s a lesson. One we must remember, for when the Abyss looks toward our world."
The current battlefield was under the command of Phanthom and Malzor. After Phanthom’s orchestration of the ogre general’s defeat and subsequent death, his interest in the war was rekindled.
With this newfound enthusiasm, Malzor, who had initially lost hope for advancement, also found renewed vigor. Together, he and Phanthom devised strategies that significantly shifted the tide of the war in their favor.
The goblins, having learned their lesson from the ogre general’s downfall, refrained from sending anyone of significance to the battlefront. They were wary of the mysterious spell that had caused the ogre general and his troops to abandon formation and recklessly charge into the demon army.
Instead, Phanthom and Malzor observed a new force being deployed: the ratmen. Their appearance piqued Phanthom’s interest, prompting him to employ similar tactics as before.
Capitalizing on the ratmen’s desperation to prove themselves and seek change through success in the war, Phanthom manipulated their perception of the battlefield. Their vision became consumed with ambitious goals and expectations, much like what had happened with the ogre general’s forces. This unsettled the goblin mages observing the battle, as the ratmen spiraled out of control, recklessly driving themselves to their deaths.
This chaotic frenzy turned the battle in the demons’ favor. The vast number of ratmen casualties became a source of power for the demons. The souls of the dead ratmen were consumed by the demon soldiers, who viewed this as an opportunity to gain strength and advance in rank.
It was now a common sight to see demons fighting among themselves to claim the souls of fallen ratmen. The talent of the abyss demons became increasingly evident, as the more souls they devoured, the stronger they grew, further overwhelming the already disoriented ratmen forces.
However, Phanthom’s interest in the war began to wane. The initial allure of exploiting the ratmen’s ambitions no longer brought him satisfaction. As the war progressed, he noticed a significant change: the ratmen had lost their sense of purpose and drive, reduced to fighting solely for survival.
The ratmen began to realize that their aspirations might never be fulfilled. The army they faced was far beyond their ability to overcome, and it became painfully clear that the goblins cared little for their losses, driving them relentlessly to the front lines.
The technological advancements they relied on were no longer enough to match the demons’ innate, otherworldly knowledge. This turning point began with the introduction of the mana energy disruptor bomb.
When the disruptor first appeared on the battlefield, it gave the ratmen a glimmer of hope. The sudden disruption of mana left the demons disoriented and unable to access their magical abilities.
Balrogs, accustomed to wielding flames in combat, found themselves unable to summon even a flicker of fire. Similarly, other abyssal demons struggled without their powers. Seizing this confusion, the ratmen launched a ferocious assault, managing to take down a significant number of demons that day.
Encouraged by their success, the ratmen attempted the same strategy the following day. However, this time, the demons were neither surprised nor incapacitated by their loss of magical abilities. Instead, they responded in a way that stunned the ratmen.
Deprived of magic, the demons discovered a new joy in unleashing their raw physical strength. They abandoned any sense of efficiency, taking a sadistic pleasure in the pain they inflicted. Rather than simply killing their enemies, they relished in the screams of ratmen whose limbs were torn off one by one.
The firearms and long-range weapons that had initially worked well after the energy disruption were rendered ineffective. The demons adapted quickly, taking ratmen hostages to shield themselves as they closed the distance.
Faced with this new tactic, the ratmen hesitated to fire, torn by the fear of harming their own. Observing this hesitation, the goblin mages began their own insidious manipulations from behind the scenes.
Phanthom, watching the carnage unfold from above, was reminded of a fellow cursed being, The Despairing Virtuoso. He mused about how much the Virtuoso would delight in the overwhelming despair radiating from the ratmen as they, with tears streaming down their faces, were forced to shoot through their own comrades used as shields.
The demons, vile and unrelenting, were not discouraged by the diminishing effectiveness of their tactics. Instead, they noticed something peculiar: the souls of ratmen consumed after experiencing utter despair were far more flavorful and potent, granting greater power to their devourers.
Driven by this discovery, the demons devised increasingly cruel methods to inflict pain and suffering, ensuring that every ratman they killed added to their strength in the most agonizing and despair-filled way possible.
The despair of the ratmen grew palpable, a sickening aura that permeated the battlefield. The demons thrived on it, finding new joy in tormenting their enemies. Phanthom watched with detached amusement as demons donned trophies made from ratmen—skin, skulls, and severed limbs—taunting their prey with grotesque displays.
It was a strategy born of malice, but it was undeniably effective. The despair-ridden souls of the ratmen, consumed by the demons, provided far greater sustenance and power than mere death alone.
Phanthom turned to Malzor, who stood nearby, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he directed units with sharp, precise gestures. "They’ve become predictable," Phanthom remarked, his voice carrying a note of disdain.
Malzor raised an eyebrow. "Predictable? They’ve adapted far more than most mortals would under these conditions."
"Adaptation is only interesting when it leads somewhere," Phanthom said, his tone flat. "The ratmen have lost their edge. Their hope is gone. They fight because they are forced to, not because they believe in victory."
Malzor considered this for a moment before nodding. "And yet, their despair feeds our soldiers. Perhaps predictability has its own uses."
"Perhaps," Phanthom said to Malzor, a bit absentmindedly.
Malzor smirked. "You sound like you’re already done with this war."
