Chapter 24: Destruction and Rebirth

The sky was filled with the screams and roars of warriors, the echoes of destructive spells, and the sound of hooves trampling the earth. Many soldiers were still struggling to maintain their sanity, raising shields and ducking on their horses to dodge spells as taught in training, but many more—ignoring the shouts of their commanders—began to flee. Setting up defense should have been the responsibility of accompanying mages, but the high priests of the Temple of Shadow in front were simply too extraordinary—the mage could barely protect himself—these priests' attacks on the troops were akin to heavily armored cavalry dismounting to beat up roadside beggars.

Deadly spells swept across the horizon like an endless storm with the priests' gaze, raising rolling clouds of dust like torrential rain, with those in the front falling in rows and flying up in rows, like insects falling into a storm's eye. The shouts of "Glory to Gerdan!" gradually drowned in painful screams and wails. The deputy commander's right leg and arm were grazed by a spell from the Shadow Warren, instantly withering and cracking. He fell off his horse and was then trampled into mince by the cavalry behind him. The commander himself was thrown into the air by his horse, whose four legs withered simultaneously in the shadows, and then met a falling spell head-on, his flesh and blood splattering all over the ground in an instant.

Just as their desperate charge was about to reach the priests of the temple, the air let out a loud tearing sound. Darkness swirled and descended, and three three-headed dogs, each at least as tall as a house, appeared on the roadside—if you count the one that crushed the demon, there were four—ominous mists filled their eyes, and black chains coiled around their bodies. These muscular monsters aimed their gazes in the same direction—they faced the cavalry and let out low, thunderous roars.

The first to clearly feel his own death was the accompanying mage.

He was the only one who realized how terrifying the magic of these monsters was—they were ancient, older than anything the mage had ever seen. These hounds were cold-blooded killers raised by gods, and their magic was like a lake compared to the mage's well.

Too fast, far too fast—they covered the distance of over a hundred meters in an instant.

The hounds smashed through rows of cavalry like four moving walls. The dust that enveloped them rose to the sky like roaring waves. To them—the cavalry's charge was just a joke.

Crossbow bolts and bullets shattered on the hounds' bodies, enchanted lances snapped directly, swords and daggers slashed against their magical protection, shattering all over the ground. The steel warriors were forced back step by step. Terrified warhorses ran amok in the charging lines. Rows of warriors and horses were bitten into pieces and crushed to a pulp by the hounds. The shadows that filled the air exploded under their feet, roaring towards the sky with thunderous sound like a local earthquake, hammering piles of despairing soldiers like a sledgehammer on an anvil... 

Starting with the accompanying mage being bitten in half along with his protective shield, everyone collapsed...

Sacolas leisurely took out a small knife from his waist pouch.

He began trimming his nails.

...

Crows circled over the silent village, their mournful cries were like a pale elegy, moonlight washing over the blood-soaked ground, making the puddles of blood shine.

These pitch-black birds landed on the ground, tearing flesh from the mutilated corpses, pecking out eyes, biting off broken tongues, licking the fat oozing from the skin, digging out shattered livers. In the leftovers enjoyed by the hounds of the Shadow Throne, they fought for this sweet reap-without-sowing feast. They greedily flapped their wings, fighting for food, throwing pieces of flesh everywhere, regardless of their owners' previous identities—whether noble knights, beautiful maidens, respected elders, or honest militiamen—it didn't matter, now they were just part of the feast.

Armor and weapons were scattered on the road paved with broken bones and flesh, soaked in puddles of shining blood, like an abstract red carpet. On this sticky red carpet lay corpses in various twisted inhuman poses. Some soldiers had turned into withered mummies, some were torn to pieces by the hounds' jaws that could crush even demons. Armor was deformed and dented by ferocious claw marks, shields shattered, weapons broken, flintlocks and crossbows soaked in sticky, foul-smelling blood, tightly gripped in arms bitten off from bodies.

The dim moonlight filtered through the leaves like a spider web, casting a gray haze over the ground. The night was calm, and the three-headed hounds of the Shadow Throne disappeared into the pitch-black cracks with the sound of tearing air, leaving only the smallest one. It slowly walked, trying to find any survivors among the piles of dead, and as it passed, it startled flocks of screaming crows.

A gentle breeze carried the pungent stench, the low-hanging clouds seemed to be directly hanging from the rustling treetops, even a bit desolate.

Everything would be buried under the silence enveloping the foothills.

...

"The materials... are barely enough."

Salser muttered to himself. He sat on the carpet next to the fireplace in the room, with Viola, acting as an apprentice for observation, sitting beside him, while Jeanne sat in the bedroom on the other side, flipping through the witch's diary, occasionally glancing over.

Salser did not remind her that the diary was upside down.—Of course, Jeanne's illiteracy was not so severe that she couldn't tell the direction of her own country's alphabet, but the diary was written in the dialect of a remote town on the Genabackis continent. 

The Dark wizard had changed into casual clothes from the house, supporting his chin with one hand, intently observing a retort. The retort floated in his palm with blue flames burning below it—flames that rose directly from his hand. The bottle did not contain water, but clusters of black dead spirit, mixed with strands of deep purple liquid, the spirits soaked inside, emitting faint, mournful screams as the temperature slowly rose. The liquid was Thales oil, looking like amethyst, translucent—made from the body materials of some less dangerous lesser races, combined with processed souls through magic—to create a potion.

Although it looked beautiful and sounded beautiful, the potion itself was pretty common, just used as a primer.

The firelight from the fireplace shone through the retort, turning into dappled purple light, casting on the girl's face. Although countless tiny black skeleton figures crowded inside, madly rolling and rising, then gradually dissolving in the potion, she did not feel much fear. The girl just silently stared, occasionally puzzled, twirling her hair around her fingertips, but did not dare to ask the Dark wizard.

"I still need sourceless flame..."

Salser looked around the bedroom, and finally, his gaze settled on the seemingly eternal flame in the fireplace.

"This thing... should work, right?"

The Dark wizard muttered to himself, gesturing to Viola, who was acting as an apprentice and free assistant, to take the retort from his hand first.

Before handing it over, he cast a simple heat insulation spell—not capable of isolating too violent or high-temperature flames, but the temperature under the retort was manageable, so it was just an auxiliary spell used during experiments.

The girl took the extremely bizarre bottle, carefully holding it in her hands.

Viola was wearing a simple white dress with a cinched waist, her braided hair hanging on both sides of her collarbone. Her tender arms under the short sleeves, compared to the retort, were as thin as reeds. In the glow of the fire, she squinted to observe the countless tiny figures inside the bottle—if the frenzied black skeletons could be called figures—her shiny eyelashes blinked, her gaze following the evil spirits slowly moving.

Suddenly, a dead-like face—pale and gloomy, with only a pair of white eyes without pupils—took shape, pressing against the inner wall of the bottle, staring at her intently.

The little girl blinked again, silently returning the gaze.

Jeanne watched Viola's actions with a sidelong glance, her mouth twitching. She didn't know what to make of it.

"Viola, give me the bottle—"

"Ouch!"

She was startled, almost dropping the retort, fumbling to hold the thing in her arms, losing her balance and bumping her head against Salser's ribs.

"Do you mean I'm scarier than the vengeful spirits in the bottle?" Salser said expressionlessly, glancing at the little girl.

"This... this..." Viola shrank her neck, like a fragile flower on a grass stem. She carefully held on the Dark wizard's back to straighten up, rubbed her aching forehead, then lowered her gaze and whispered, "It might be... a little bit true."

It seemed she didn't know how to lie.

Salser noticed Jeanne almost laughed out loud.

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