Chapter 2094 - 559: Clash of the Black Hands (Part 2)

He coughed, spitting out the dirt from his mouth, and scrambled to his feet in a panic, clutching the diary that had fallen into the trench.

The shrill alarm finally rang out mournfully, but the bell sounded too late, as countless soldiers were reduced to ashes in their sleep.

And the ignited ammunition—

The sound of explosions crackled in the trench!

"Enemy attack!"

"Damn it! From which direction—"

"Forget the direction for now, just fuckin' hide—"

"Into the hole! Into the rat hole!"

Dickbin, disregarding the dirt in his mouth, sprinted frantically toward the rat hole, shouting loudly at those barracks not yet turned to ash.

His shouts saved a few lives nonetheless.

The soldiers from Laine Camp, suddenly awoken from their dreams, didn't even have time to put on shoes, scurrying madly through the sea of fire toward those filthy rat holes.

A rain of fire poured relentlessly from the sky, turning the hill newly planted with the Laine flag into a Purgatory once more.

Perhaps it wasn't meant to end.

Perhaps the debt wasn't paid yet.

Sir Dickbin somehow managed to escape, tumbling into the depths of the rat hole with his diary of repentance.

Sharp stones scraped his knees, but he felt no pain. The smell of burning hair filled his nostrils, and he realized his hair had been charred into a lump.

Previously, he might have screamed and reached for a comb. But now he only cared about gulping air, greedily sucking in the turbid air—

It's good to be alive!

Outside the hole, a blazing red light filled the sky, turning the once-dark mountain bright as day.

The scorching fire covered the entire battlefield, licking the rocks outside the trench like twisted venomous snakes, igniting dry branches with crackling bangs, as if the whole mountain were wailing...

This ratman nest capable of housing hundreds was eerily empty now.

Out of over seven hundred men in Laine Camp, only a hundred made it out alive!

The rest of the brothers, either blasted to pieces in their sleep or turned into burning torches on their way to the entrance.

The rifle-toting young men looked at one another, faces smudged with dirt and tears, eyes filled with the terror of survival after calamity.

"Damn it!"

"What was that?! A meteor?"

Curses echoed in the enclosed space.

Dickbin gulped down some bloody saliva, forcing his gaze away from the distant flames back to the darkness of the rat hole.

As a noble, he knew what it was.

That was not a force those hole-digging ratmen could wield...

"It's combined spellcasting..."

Dickbin spoke nervously, revealing the truth to the panicked young men, but they were still confused.

"Combined spellcasting?"

"What's that?"

A large hand rested on his shoulder.

The captain from the adjacent company limped over, one leg injured, half of his uniform soaked in blood, but his eyes were still resolute, staring hard at Dickbin's eyes.

"Do you know who did it?"

Dickbin took a deep breath, striving to keep his voice from trembling.

"I don't know who did it, but I think I should know what it is. I read about it in an ancient war history book; it's the most classic combat technique of the Aus Empire, and they call it the 'Casting Group.'"

With everyone's eyes focused on him, Dickbin slowly pointed his index finger at the embers still falling outside the cave.

"Tens of thousands of Fine Steel Level Fireball Techniques, through a special array enhancing and negating distance decay, converging in the same area, like our volley fire."

"Through clever division of labor and coordination, they can use quantity to achieve a qualitative leap. Often dozens or hundreds of magic apprentices can form a casting group, capable of weaving range magic that only Diamond Level mages can achieve. If they also use Demon Crystals to input power from the outside, they can weave the spell's range even larger, with greater power..."

This should not be difficult for the Campbell people to understand; a clearly divided factory can easily surpass a craftsman's workshop in output.

Although there were hardly any Campbell people here...

Swallowing another mouthful, Sir Dickbin spoke in a hoarse voice.

"The Empire wouldn't deploy such a level of Mage Group here, as they're jointly defending Brass Pass with the dwarves and have no reason to fight for the ratmen. There's only one place left... the Academic State of the Northern Wilderness."

"Fire Meteor..."

The captain chewed on the word, his face stormy enough to drip water.

"Those bastards!"

A young soldier cursed, grinding his teeth fiercely, "This is an act of war! They dare to ally with the ratmen and declare war on us!"

"Don't be naive, they won't admit it."

Interrupting the soldier's impotent rage, the captain turned and stared at Sir Dickbin, speaking calmly.

"Junior Sergeant, since you understand this stuff, based on your experience, what would they do next after finishing this round of bombing?"

Dickbin's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, a chill creeping up his spine as he voiced his suspicion.

"I didn't see which direction that magic light fired from, obviously they attacked from beyond visual range. For them to precisely drop it on our heads, there must be eyes near our position..."

"Either flying up in the sky, or... hiding underground."

Almost as soon as he finished speaking, the sentry squatting at the entrance let out a high-pitched cry.