CHAPTER 303: LET THE GAMES BEGIN

One week passed in a flash of intense preparation.

Then, the deep, thunderous alarm horns of the First Gate echoed across the mountain passes and provincial cities of Æthrynn. The vanguard of the Nerathil Rot Horde had finally arrived.

Outside the grand perimeter, the sky darkened under a suffocating, sickly gray haze. But inside the First Gate, there was no panic, only a cold, disciplined frenzy. The city warrior lodges mobilized at once, thousands of masked recruits in volcanic glass helms marching in perfect rhythm toward the northern battlements.

The First Gate’s defense was built around Caius's brutal architectural design: the Plaza of Death. Constructed as a massive, three-sided horseshoe barbican, the wide court was broad enough to comfortably accommodate a legion and a half at full surge. High, elevated stone battlements enclosed the arena, but noticeably absent were traditional siege engines, ballistae, or heavy oil cauldrons.

Instead, positioned atop five newly constructed Mage Towers along the horseshoe perimeter, were the fifty-one Void-Filament Bladesmen, divided into teams of ten and eleven, their hands hovering over the spatial thread lattice that sealed the open sky above the pit.

At the central high balcony overlooking the entire plaza, a grand stone seat had been erected.

Caius sat comfortably on the throne, resting his chin on his fist as his golden-and-obsidian eyes swept the killing floor below. Standing silently behind him were Old Bones and the Arachne Princess, her eight multi-lensed eyes gleaming with wicked anticipation.

Along the high walls flanking the throne stood thousands of reserve cohorts, lodge elders, and secondary unit commanders. They were not assigned to fight this wave; Caius had designated the Plaza of Death as a live-fire rotation arena, a brutal training ground where his elite legions would take turns stepping onto the floor to slaughter the rot in controlled batches.

One source fact remains: this chapter was copied without permission from NovelPhoenix, where the author's published version supports them.

"However many enter the outer gate," Caius had decreed prior to the battle, "that is how many will fight on the plaza floor. Not one less, not one more."

A heavy, grinding roar reverberated through the stone as the outer portcullis of the horseshoe was forced open, luring the enemy's vanguard straight into the trap.

Surging through the archway came the first tide of the Ruinborne, four thousand Skulkins. The gaunt, fast-moving stalkers screeched with unnerving, raspy shrieks, their elongated limbs and talon-like claws clicking frantically against the paved stone. At the center of the screeching mass loomed their field commander: a towering Dreadblade Captain, wielding a massive fused greatsword that dripped with dark, infectious miasma.

The four thousand monsters flooded the arena, their fiery red eyes searching for an exit, only to find the inner gate locked tight with Red Sentinel Knights and the sky sealed by invisible spatial threads.

Down on the floor of the horseshoe arena, the first defensive unit stepped forward to meet them.

Three thousand purified, grey-skinned berserkers stood in tight, silent formation, the Order of the Obsidian Feather, known throughout the domain as the Black Crows. Clad in black scaled suits woven from obsidian micro-scales and Arachne silk, their crow helms reflected the cold sunlight. They bore layered hardwood Chimalli bucklers set with three razor-sharp obsidian claws, and held heavy, obsidian-edged Macuahuitls that hummed with a volatile mix of dual-mana, solar light and spatial darkness.

At their front stood Supreme Commander Ix-K'an. Her crow helm glistened as she drew her twin macuahuitls, her eyes burning with pure berserker focus.

On the high balcony, Caius looked down at the four thousand screeching rot-monsters trapped in his horseshoe arena. A sharp, ruthless smile spread across his face, his Tri-Pupil Eye flaring with divine radiance.

"Let the games begin!" Caius commanded.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. In perfect, terrifying unison, all three thousand Black Crows vanished into the sky, practicing the ancient aerial martial style of Ox-Neldë Muwan. Combining spatial micro-teleports with solar-boosted leaps, they descended upon the four thousand Skulkins like a storm of dark, feathered death.

The macuahuitls swung down in thunderous kinetic arcs. Solar fire ignited internal rot marrow while spatial darkness severed corrupted limbs in clean, blinding sweeps. The four thousand Skulkins, trapped inside the horseshoe wall with nowhere to flee, were instantly thrown into a meat grinder of flashing obsidian blades and cleansing fire.