CHAPTER 306: THE FLAME JUGGERNAUTS

As the subterranean spider-drones cleared the bloodied floor of the Plaza of Death, the atmosphere along the high stone battlements reached a fever pitch.

The success of the Lodge brothers had ignited an electric, bloodthirsty competitive spirit throughout the entire citadel. Off-duty officers, provincial lodge elders, and reserve mages began placing frantic bets, tossing glowing mana-stones and gold coins into leather pouches held by dark elf clerks.

"Ten high-tier cores on the Black Flames taking down the next wave in under twenty minutes!" a Sabre-Tiger lodge leader roared from the upper tier.

"I’ll match that, but they’ll lose at least ten percent!" a Crow mage countered, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Those Ironmaw hulks are no joke when they bunch up!"

On the central balcony, Caius rested his elbow on his chair's armrest, a faint, amused glint in his golden-and-obsidian eyes as he listened to the betting chaos. "An invading horde of three hundred thousand, turned into a spectator sport. Old Bones, what are the odds on the floor?"

Old Bones glanced down at a glowing parchment ledger, his expression deadpan. "Three-to-one in favor of the Demon Cohort, My Sovereign. Though several provincial captains are betting heavily against their formation speed due to their heavy plate."

Outside the archway, the third wave of the Nerathil host surged through the bottleneck. Malthuurn, growing increasingly furious, had dispatched another heavy rot legion, five thousand strong, packed with dense ranks of bone-bladed Fleshglaives, quadrupedal Crawlborn, and hulking, spiky Ironmaws.

As the rot-monsters poured into the horseshoe arena, the iron grates of the inner gate ground open once more.

Stepping onto the killing floor were two thousand nine hundred heavy infantrymen, the Black Flame Demon Cohort. They were heavy shock juggernauts, horned, scale-armored legionnaires whose very presence radiated waves of scorching, oppressive heat.

At their front stood their leader, the Red-Haired Demon General.

His towering, scale-armored frame dwarfed even the veteran legionnaires behind him. From beneath his fused spatial obsidian demon mask, a wild mane of crimson hair whipped in the superheated air like living flames. Twin curved demon horns swept backward from his helm, pulsating with a dark, terrifying solar-infernal light. The air around him warped and shivered from the sheer temperature radiating from his core.

In his right hand, he dragged a massive, two-handed broadsword forged from black volcanic iron. As its tip scraped against the stone, it left a glowing groove of liquid magma in its wake.

The five thousand rot-monsters shrieked, sensing the smaller number of defenders. Three massive Ironmaw hulks led the charge, their grinding, enchanted-steel-crushing jaws snapping open as they thundered across the plaza to crush the smaller unit.

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The Red-Haired General didn't order a defensive shield wall. He simply stepped ahead of his legion, alone.

His dark solar hellfire flared. The twin horns atop his helm ignited into roaring spires of dark golden-black fire, enveloping his broadsword in a tempest of infernal heat.

"Burn," he growled, his voice a deep, resonant rumble like grinding tectonic plates.

He swung the broadsword in a sweeping, horizontal arc.

FWOOSH!

A hundred-foot crescent wave of compressed dark solar hellfire erupted from his blade, tearing across the stone floor. The heat was so intense that thirty Fleshglaives and Crawlborn caught in the blast wave didn't even have time to scream; their internal rot-marrow instantly boiled, and their spiky chitin shells exploded into fine, glowing ash mid-stride.

The lead Ironmaw hulk, a towering beast covered in thick, bone-plate armor, plowed through the flames, opening its cavernous, metal-snapping jaws directly over the General’s head.

The Red-Haired General didn't dodge. He didn't even raise his shield.

With a speed that defied his heavy plate, his left hand shot upward, catching the Ironmaw’s upper jaw with his bare, scale-armored gauntlet. The impact shattered the stone beneath his boots, but his arm remained completely immovable, pinning the multi-ton beast in place by its maw.

The General looked up into the monster's fiery crimson eyes through the slit of his demon mask.

"Weak," he spat.

Dark solar fire erupted directly from his gauntlet. The infernal heat poured down the Ironmaw's open throat like liquid sun, instantly cooking its organs. In less than three seconds, steam and black smoke billowed from the beast's ears and eyes before its entire head detonated from within in a geyser of molten sludge.

Without missing a beat, the General ripped his sword upward, cleaving a second Ironmaw completely in half from groin to skull, splitting its corrupted core into glowing cinders.

Inspired by their commander’s terrifying display, the two thousand nine hundred juggernauts behind him roared, unleashing their own dark solar hellfire. They marched forward in lockstep, an unstoppable wall of liquid flame. Every strike of their broadswords brought down waves of beasts; every step incinerated the weeping rot before it could touch the ground.

The Red-Haired General carved through the center of the five thousand-strong legion like a fiery god of war. He was a force of absolute destruction, turning bone, chitin, and rot into smoldering heaps of ash with every casual sweep of his blade.

In less than twelve minutes, the entire five thousand-strong rot legion was completely wiped out. The horseshoe plaza looked less like a battlefield and more like the inside of an active volcano, the stone floor glowing red-hot beneath the lingering infernal heat.

High above, the crowds erupted into wild cheers and groans as bookkeepers began frantically settling the bets.

The Red-Haired Demon General stood in the center of the smoking wasteland. He planted his massive broadsword into the scorched stone and dropped to one knee toward the high balcony, his crimson hair fanning out over his shoulders as the hellfire around his horns flickered down to low embers.

"The floor is cleared, My Sovereign," the General reported, his deep voice echoing clearly through his obsidian mask. "Losses stand at five percent, one hundred and forty-five wounded, less than thirty fallen."

Caius leaned forward on his throne, looking down at the smoking, incinerated plaza and the towering horned general with deep, cold approval.

"Five percent against a heavy rot legion while outnumbered nearly two to one," Caius said, his voice echoing over the battlements. "You fought well, General. Outstanding."

He gestured with his hand, and the heat-resistant subterranean spider-drones scuttled out from the vents once more to collect the glowing cores from the smoldering ash.

"Bring in the fourth wave," Caius commanded softly, his golden eyes flashing with endless hunger. "Let them feed my domain."