Chapter Fifty-Two: Curtain Rises, the Battle from Afar

Crack! Yet another thunderbolt streaked across the sky, rattling people’s eardrums. Above, the half-transparent magical portal had, at some unnoticed moment, begun to thin out, gradually dissolving into nothing. The air was once again clear and transparent, but tinged with a faint metallic, salty scent that made one’s lungs ache with each breath.

The last to step through the magical portal was a towering troll, even hunched over he was as tall as two men stacked together. His face was smudged with white chalk ink, forming menacing patterns, and in one enormous hand he clutched a massive staff. The head of the staff was set with a human skull carved from magical black crystal, nearly the size of a real skull. Above his head, the name displayed: the leader of the troll race who betrayed the continent of Falvie, the evil troll warlock known as the “Hand of the Void”—Mrak.

The clouds gathered anew, lightning and the glow of magic fading, and the world seemed to darken. I could no longer observe the enemy ranks as clearly as before; all I saw was a heavy, oppressive mass of darkness.

Boom, boom, boom, boom… A soul-stirring drumbeat rolled from the enemy lines. A row of towering siege engines slowly emerged from their ranks. These machines were enormous, nearly as tall as our city walls, with thick wooden planks suspended atop them and long staircases stretching down to the ground. Once these colossal constructs drew near enough, their planks would be laid atop the walls as bridges, allowing the soldiers of the Apocalypse Empire to pour into the city without end.

At the same time, the low, mournful horns of Cloud Fortress sounded. The silent soldiers of the Primordials lined up for battle, wordlessly standing atop the walls and staring down the advancing enemy. On the ramparts, catapults crafted by dwarves and scholars whirred into motion; burly minotaur soldiers strained at the winches, ropes biting into the thick wooden machinery with a nerve-jangling creak, a wild destructive force hidden behind that unsettling sound.

“So laggy, how are we supposed to fight…” My comrades grumbled bitterly, but each still raised their weapon, preparing for battle.

This was the most suffocating moment before combat began. Neither side had engaged yet. Even the longest-ranged defenses couldn’t reach the enemy. But on this silent battlefield, it felt as though an invisible steel wire was being wound ever tighter—each step the enemy took made it tauter. As the row of siege engines drew closer, the wire seemed stretched to its limit…

Thunk… When the siege engines were within about a hundred paces of the wall, a catapult perched atop the fortress hurled a massive boulder. The spring’s release echoed like a solemn sigh, shattering the silence that hung over the field. The stone traced an ominous arc through the air, crashing heavily into one of the siege engines with a thunderous impact. The machine shuddered violently, its advance briefly halted before it pressed onward. Though still functional, it was badly damaged, its progress slowed. At its crest, the green durability bar had been halved.

It was an inspiring start. Soon, the other catapults along the walls followed suit, their great stones launching one after another, each finding its mark upon the siege engines. For all their imposing size, these machines were not as sturdy as they appeared; two well-placed hits from a catapult would reduce them to nothing but splinters.

Before the wrath of the catapults, the Apocalypse Empire’s siege engines crawled forward like ugly insects, inching along in terror, always at risk of annihilation.

Yet, the catapults atop the walls were limited in number and couldn’t cover the whole battlefield, while the enemy had so many siege engines. More than thirty managed to slip through the hail of stones, closing in on the fortress walls, and there were plenty more still advancing from the enemy rear. The defenders unleashed volleys of sharp arrows at the attackers below; atop the siege engines, two rows of “Empire Marksmen”—dark elves—retaliated with a dense rain of arrows upon the walls.

At this range, volunteers specializing in long-range attacks finally came into their own: rangers wielding bows, crossbows, and firearms, as well as mages and warlocks, all joined the fray. They were formidable—level forty and above, most having completed their class advancement quests, with a few already at level fifty. Their attacks were varied and powerful, imbued with various additional effects, far surpassing the damage dealt by the thirty-eight-level elven archers on the walls. Although they moved slowly and stiffly—blaming the “lag”—these minor inconveniences mattered little in a long-range skirmish.

Initially, only those specializing in ranged attacks engaged, but soon more people refused to remain mere spectators and joined the battle in their own ways.

The first to lose patience was our old friend, Changjiang, the former half-orc wanderer. Like most here, he had successfully completed his class quest and become a Shadow Rogue. As an advanced rogue, he retained his ambush prowess, but also excelled at crafting traps and mechanisms, and concocting various poisons—using these underhanded methods to combat foes.

But at this range, traps and poisons were useless. Changjiang resorted to a wholly unexpected tactic: stone-throwing.

For a Shadow Rogue, luring enemies into traps is essential; thus, every rogue learns the “stone throw” skill to attract attention and bait targets into their devices. Tossing pebbles to distract foes, drawing them into prepared mechanisms—of course, this is merely a lure, its damage negligible even in low-level combat.

But it was the only ranged skill Changjiang could use here, and I suspected he wanted to employ it for showmanship, more to attract attention and indulge his vanity than to actually kill enemies. Indeed, when this unusually hefty fellow bellowed, “Clear the way!” and, winding up his pudgy arm with exaggerated eagerness, hurled a pebble barely larger than a date with all his might, it drew laughter and applause from his comrades.

The stone was thrown low and flat, utterly aimless, tumbling off the wall and plummeting downward. Judging by its trajectory, it would at best strike the base of a siege engine, nowhere near hitting an enemy. The feeble throw was met with a chorus of jeers; Longbow Sun mocked loudly, “Changjiang, were you a soccer star? Your shot looks just like Henry’s!”

The crude jibe wounded Changjiang’s pride. Flushed with embarrassment and anger, he retorted lamely, “You’re the soccer star! Your whole family’s soccer stars!” His feeble comeback sparked another round of laughter.

Meanwhile, the pebble, as everyone expected, struck the base of a siege engine, tapping lightly against its thick wood with a soft “tok,” then bounced away.

Crash! The towering siege engine toppled, splinters flying, dust billowing. In that instant, two sickly green characters rose from its crest, like a sudden tide choking everyone’s laughter in their throats—“–1”.

Everyone’s expressions froze in astonishment, mouths agape wide enough to fit a brick—some minotaurs could fit two—eyes bulging so large they nearly filled two-thirds of their faces. I fancied I could hear the sound of eye sockets cracking around me.

Changjiang’s reaction was especially exaggerated; I was certain his jaw hadn’t dislocated only because his helmet’s chin strap was too tight. Yet, when a large, bright soul force wafted into his body, greatly boosting his experience and leveling him up instantly, he was the first to recover:

“I aimed for it, you know…” he lied shamelessly, face unruffled.

“Tch…” Anyone who believed him would have to be mad.

This glorious feat was clearly a coincidence: the unlucky siege engine had already been damaged by a catapult, its durability greatly reduced, and during its approach to the walls, it had suffered further hits from the defenders—magical projectiles and flaming arrows from Cloud Fortress’s troops—its durability plummeting, destruction inevitable. Changjiang’s luck was uncanny; when his pebble struck, the engine had one last durability point remaining, collapsing instantly. And since only the native defenders had attacked it previously, unable to draw soul force for experience, all credit for its destruction went to Changjiang, who thus scored a windfall.

Changjiang’s stroke of luck fired up everyone present. Suddenly, they realized that even melee classes could contribute to the battle at range if they thought creatively. Warriors and rogues rummaged through their packs for ranged weapons: bows, crossbows, arrows, darts, javelins… these loot items, kept for lack of time to sell or in hopes of a better price, had never been intended for actual use.

Though they hadn’t learned the proper skills and their damage was limited, these weapons were still weapons—they could draw blood and injure foes. In the hands of these amateurs, a wild barrage of projectiles flew toward the advancing enemy. Many missed, but plenty found their mark, some even killing outright. The results were modest, but in such desperate times, every bit of damage was a welcome victory.

I hadn’t saved any proper ranged weapons, but my pack was full of low-grade, attribute-less junk—twenty or thirty pieces. Worthless in the market, pitifully priced in shops, I kept them for just such a moment.

I set aside my sword and shield, rummaged out a level-two dagger, took aim at an “Empire Marksman” atop a siege engine, and hurled it with all my strength. In an instant, the battered dagger embedded itself in the enemy’s forehead—“–120” flashed crimson above his head, and he collapsed without a sound.

Remember? This was my self-taught “Full-Force Throw” skill. Sacrificing the weapon, it dealt far more damage than its stats alone, making my ranged attacks much stronger than those of other amateur throwers.

“Hey, Jeff, what skill is that? Can you teach me?” Turning, I saw Bull Million gazing at me with envy. Our noble minotaur paladin was wielding a crude wooden slingshot, firing stone pellets with gusto. For Bull Million, the slingshot was comically tiny; he couldn’t grip it in his palm, instead delicately pinching it between thumb and forefinger, placing the pellet as if threading a needle, and drawing the string with his other hand. Most awkward of all, his middle, ring, and pinky fingers were gently extended, making him look as though he were embroidering—a bizarrely feminine gesture for such a burly, black-marked minotaur cloaked in holy radiance.

Imagine, if you will, a towering minotaur, sacred markings aglow, delicately pinching a slingshot with dainty fingers. I don’t know how you’d react, but I was covered in goosebumps.

I can only say: war drives people to madness.

“Oh, it’s called ‘Full-Force Throw.’ Just toss your weapon and you’re good,” I told him.

Bull Million looked regretfully at his nearby wooden log, shook his head, and gently picked up his slingshot once more…