Chapter 668: Feast of Slaughter
"Hell yeah! I'm raking it in this wave!"
High in the sky, Mantou stared at the dense stream of experience notifications on his panel, shouting in excitement.
"I don't think I can count anymore. Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands... Damn, how much experience is this even?" Mantou squinted at the numbers, thinking he was seeing things.
Just from the last few bombing runs, he'd already blown up thousands of orcs. And the ones burned alive in the sea of flames? Countless.
Against the tightly packed orc horde, the Empire's latest bombs unleashed devastating power.
Though most of the orcs were low-challenge grunts, their sheer numbers gave Mantou a massive experience haul—enough to push him past level 10.
Mantou spoke into his comms: "Singo, how much XP did you get?"
"Twenty-three thousand."
"Damn, seriously? How'd you get more than me?" Mantou was in disbelief.
"You've never seen real war. This is Imperial-era combat efficiency. You probably don't know, but the high priests of the Mechanist Church hit XP cap ages ago," Singo replied flatly.
23,000 XP—normally, that's what you get from slaying a level-15+ boss.
Yet they were just riding wyverns, following standard protocol, dropping bombs under unified command, and effortlessly raking in experience.
If there weren't level caps, Mantou suspected he could've farmed all the way to max level off this single orc nest.
Staring down at the tide of orcs flooding the land, Mantou's eyes gleamed—not with fear or hate, but with hunger. These weren't enemies. They were walking XP packets.
"Gotta make the most of this! Rake it in while I can!"
Whoosh——
Wyvern wings sheathed in alloy cut through the air with an ear-splitting shriek. Jets of dazzling flame burst from the wing-mounted thrusters.
"All units ascend rapidly. Prepare for the next bombing run—same payload: napalm bombs."
The voice of the battalion commander came through their earpieces.
"Copy."
Mantou, Singo, and the other wyvern riders quickly replied.
They expertly adjusted their throttles, increased their angles of attack, fine-tuned their elevation rudders, and guided their wyverns into a steep climb.
These guys had all burned a ton of XP to unlock [Modern Riding Techniques] proficiency. Mantou had winced hard when he burned 5,000 XP to reach +6, only doing it under Singo's nagging.
But now, with payback this sweet, that XP felt like pocket change. A single bombing run already earned him back the investment. Mantou's only regret was not maxing the skill outright.
Singo, on the other hand, had powered [Modern Riding Techniques] straight to +18. He pulled off aerial acrobatics like it was second nature.
Screech——
The wyverns soared, relishing the thrill of tearing through the sky and the surge of power behind them. Their roars echoed freely.
Mantou muttered, "Why does this commander's voice sound so familiar..."
Singo said, "You've met him. This op's commander is Curtis, bishop of the [Source Restoration Order]."
"Wait, that guy? Wasn't he..."
"Curtis knows bomb specs like the back of his hand and helped design the Skyfire armor. Naturally, he qualified to lead this op.
But keep your guard up—he's a certified sociopath. Full-blown maniac."
"Hey, tone it down. What if he hears you?"
"This is one-way comms, not the squad channel. Should be fine."
"Heh... Trash-talking your commander is never a good look. Stay focused on your mission."
Curtis's voice suddenly chimed into Mantou's earpiece—calm and steady, but clearly directed.
Mantou flinched hard, blurting, "Yes, sir!"
"That psycho definitely left himself a backdoor!" Mantou broke into a cold sweat, silently cursing.
By now, the wyverns had climbed to optimal altitude. Following their riders' guidance, they banked gracefully at ten thousand meters.
Curtis's emotionless voice came through: "Maintain level flight. Drop napalm bombs."
At the order, the wyvern riders pressed their bomb-release switches. Instantly, the belly bomb bays opened wide, unleashing another payload.
Whoosh——
Bombs rained down like a storm, falling into the orc masses and detonating in blinding bursts of flame, incinerating everything nearby.
The ignited jelly-like fuel scattered like falling stars, spreading wildfires across the battlefield.
Another successful bombing run.
Screams, roars, explosions, blazing winds, and the crackle of fire echoed across the wasteland. Thick smoke veiled the sky, while fiery serpents raged across the ground.
The armored wyverns sweeping through the air were like death's scythes, reaping lives with every pass.
It was a banquet of carnage.
The orcs' density and the bombs' sheer power meant that the riders didn't even need to aim. Blindly dropping bombs still guaranteed massive kills and insane casualty rates.
And so far, the orcs hadn't even met the Empire's frontline troops. They were being butchered without ever seeing their enemy.
"Chieftain, the Ember Empire's magical power is overwhelming. Should we consider retreating to avoid direct confrontation?" On a hilltop, a clan chief bowed his head and cautiously asked.
Gazing at the smoke-filled sky and the firestorm sweeping the land, Chief Soro extended his hand and firmly shook his head. His tone was heavy: "No. We must not retreat."
He lifted his head and looked at the wyverns sweeping across the sky. "Such extravagance... No wonder they conquered Northern Aether and the Highland Kingdom. They've even assigned their proud spellcasters to carry out this slaughter."
"But bombardments of this intensity can't be maintained for long. Even if everyone riding those wyverns is a grand mage, there's no way they can sustain this kind of firepower."
"We can completely wear down their magic by throwing our vanguard at them. It'll reduce the pressure for our follow-up assault," Soro said with confidence.
There was, however, one reason he didn't voice: in the green-skinned orc's vocabulary, there was no such word as "retreat."
Even if he gave the order, the war-frenzied orcs likely wouldn't obey. They'd still charge into the flames shouting "Waaagh!" — besides, he too carried that bloodline. He understood that berserk fury that boiled in their chests.
Soro knew clearly: his prestige wasn't enough to change the very nature of millions of green-skinned orcs.
Most orcs only admired and feared his strength, recognizing him as a nominal "boss."
But if they saw a chance to rise, these muscle-brained green-skins wouldn't hesitate to swarm and tear him apart.
Hearing Soro's explanation, the nearby clan chief had a flash of realization and clapped his hands with delight. "Right, Chieftain! We can use the lives of the low-grade orcs to drain the enemy's magical reserves!"
Another clan chief grinned wickedly and chuckled: those low-grade orcs were spawned from the dirt, their lives cheaper than weeds.
Soro continued watching the battlefield, then raised his spear and pointed toward the smoke-shrouded Avenderdan. "Brothers — that place will become orc territory.
The Empire's spellcasters are indeed mighty, but can they slaughter millions of low-grade orcs? The moment they burn out, that's when the Redblood Tribe begins its true assault!"
Then, Soro stepped onto the hilltop, waving his spear and bellowing at the green-skinned orcs: "My kin! Keep charging! They won't hold out much longer!
Once the fire from the heavens fades, you'll storm the fortress and loot every last human and dwarf inside!"
"Waaaagh!"
Hearing Soro's words, the green-skins were emboldened. They raised their crude bone clubs and stone spears, charging straight into the flame-covered battlefield.
Orcs have never feared death. What they fear is a lack of things to smash! Nothing to steal! No one to kill!
In today's Redblood Tribe, green-skin orcs spawned from the soil were known as "low-grade orcs." Due to their vast numbers and weaker strength, they were scorned by the blood orcs.
Some pure-blood orcs, disgusted by the low-grade orcs' defiance of tradition, even went out of their way to torment, beat, or kill them.
In the previous timeline, Bigfang led the green-skins in a "Bloody Uprising," slaughtering all pure-blood orcs, establishing green-skins as the true lineage of Feianso, and triggering the infamous northern disaster known as the "Orc Calamity."
But now, the rise of the Ember Empire had completely changed everything.
Boom!
Another earth-shaking explosion echoed. Bombs rained like a storm, detonating mid-air. The sky and ground trembled as orcs wailed within the inferno.
The fourth bombing run from the aerial corps had begun. And once again, the green-skins roared their battle cries and launched a new wave of charges.
Anzeta Wasteland, Dragonblood Mountain.
The Red Dragon lay sprawled across the mountaintop, stretching its broad wings, exhaling a puff of sulfurous white smoke. The dragon crystal in its chest shone with radiant light, like a miniature sun.
Cassius was still absorbing the divine power of the sun god Ammanata.
Within the golden radiance was a dense, earthy yellow glow — the divine power left behind by Dumasson upon descending into his avatar, linked to the domains of earth and minerals.
Cassius had already dispatched engineering teams to excavate all the nearby stone, tearing up the ground and extracting every drop of divine power within it.
Meanwhile, the Red Dragon's eyes flickered with light — it was using [Cataclysmic Dragon Eye] to observe the battle on the Ugo Great Prairie — or rather, the massacre.
From Cassius's aerial vantage, the land had become a sweeping firestorm, devouring orc lives by the thousands. Yet the orcs continued charging like mindless beasts.
Still, he noticed something unsettling — the orcs were evolving!
In their fiery death throes, some orcs developed spore-born membranes that formed a tough layer of protection against the heat. But even then, they still burned to death.
Seeing this, even Cassius couldn't help but murmur, "Tch. That's some terrifying adaptability. They can mutate like that in just a few seconds?
Things this unreasonable need to be crushed in the cradle." The Red Dragon clenched its claws, bone joints grinding together with a sharp creak.
In his memory, green-skin orcs modified by abyssal power were pure war machines. Their terror didn't come from brute strength — it came from their madness, their explosive reproduction, and their monstrous adaptability.
Newly born green-skins were incredibly frail, almost plantlike. But their spores quickly proliferated, evolving traits suited for survival.
They were the bastard spawn of evil gods and the Abyss, born to kill and sow chaos — biological weapons in the truest sense.
These orcs should've kept evolving through battle, becoming nightmare incarnates.
Too bad they ran into Cassius — and into the Ember Empire, ruled by a Red Dragon.
Gazing at the battlefield cloaked in flame and smoke, Cassius's pupils shimmered. A power born of his bloodline reached across time and space, delivering an imperial edict to the faraway general of the Hobgoblin—
"Drol, make it clean. Exterminate the green-skins completely. If necessary... destroy the very land they live on."
Atop the Wyvern City, Drol heard that vast and majestic voice. He dropped to his knees, heart pounding with boiling blood, face flushed with fanatical excitement.
No wonder Drol was so fired up—this was a direct order from the Emperor of Ember, a transmission of the Red Dragon's own will!
Across the Empire's vast, plane-spanning territory, few ever received such an honor.
Even his direct superior — the Empire's Marshal of the Army, Minister of War, and First Duke of Dragonblood, Dolo — rarely got orders like this. That showed just how much importance His Majesty Cassius placed on this operation!
This was Drol's golden opportunity to prove himself to the Emperor, to win his favor, to rise as one of the chosen few.
Kneeling low, Drol answered with conviction: "Yes, Your Majesty. I will complete the mission. I will wipe out those orcs — not a single one shall remain!"
As the earth goblin raised his gaze to the horde of orcs flooding the horizon like a tide, his golden eyes burned with nearly tangible killing intent—and a deep, hidden greed.
For the glory of the Empire. For the Red Dragon's grand vision. For my own glorious future... You must all die, Drol thought coldly.