"Great King of the Heavens, Jupiter (Zeus), Father of the Gods! Thunder is Your scepter, lightning Your roar. Your might is the thunder that pierces the stars!"
On the low hill, the accompanying Magi chanted the name of the chief god in unison. Together with the priests, they offered up their mana and cast a large-scale ritual spell.
Rumble...
Dark clouds churned across the sky as violent winds howled. Branching streaks of lightning tore through the clouds, hundreds of dazzling blue-white arcs lashing out in all directions.
In the blink of an eye, dozens of Persian spellcasters were pierced by lightning. They did not even have time to scream before they, along with their flying carpets, were reduced to ash.
"Our Lord of Light, Mithra, Father of All Flames! Fire is light. With these flame spirits, drive away darkness and purify all impurity!"
At once, the Persian casters in midair began chanting at high speed, raising their divine lamps. Flames surged from the spouts, forming a golden membrane that blazed as it wrapped around their bodies, blocking the incoming lightning. Arcs of electricity and firelight intertwined and flickered in the sky.
Zeus versus Mithra? A Greek hunk against a blue-eyed Persian cat?
With both fronts locked in a stalemate, Samael found himself with nothing to do, and his thoughts began to drift. The moment those ideas surfaced, his imagination ran off on its own, conjuring increasingly questionable images.
It could not be helped. That old acquaintance of his, both ally and enemy, was the kind of man who would go after anything, regardless of species or gender. Truly a fearless predator with no limits.
Realizing where his thoughts had gone, Samael shuddered and quickly cut off those nauseating images, forcing his attention back to the battlefield.
Before this, Persia and Rome, long-standing rivals, had clashed so often that they knew each other inside out. When their spellcasters fought, neither side could gain a clear advantage.
But after the upheaval during the Festival of Pan, which led to the collapse of the Pantheon, the dispersal of divine authority, and the assassination of dozens of top-tier Magi and priests, combined with fighting across three fronts, the quality of these hastily assembled casters had clearly declined.
As one side weakened and the other gained ground, the second and third waves of Persian casters took to the skies. The Roman Magi were gradually forced back, their situation growing increasingly dire.
Meanwhile, the Roman legions, which Pompey had entrusted with breaking deep into the enemy's core, were intercepted just as they approached the royal court of Darius III by a force of over two thousand soldiers clad in black robes and armor, wielding curved blades and round shields.
Thousands of cold arcs of light slashed down in unison. The air tore apart with a wailing howl, like the cries of ghosts. Wherever that chilling force passed, blood erupted. Roman soldiers charging with raised shields were split apart, shields and bodies alike, by the razor-sharp energy.
As the black-clad force withdrew their blades, droplets of blood slid from the tips of their curved swords and fell to the ground. In a single exchange, the Roman vanguard lost an entire elite centuria, while the Persian side suffered only a handful of casualties.
As for the wounded, even those with severed arms or pierced abdomens showed no hesitation. They simply pressed the remaining stump against the wound, letting flesh regrow and reconnect, or pulled arrows from their bodies and continued fighting.
The faint gleam reflected from the silver masks on their faces, combined with the hollow, emotionless look in their eyes, sent a chill through anyone who faced them.
"Long live Rome! Long live the Empire! Forward!"
With no way back, the centurions roared as they raised their swords, and tens of thousands of troops surged ahead.
Swing, cut...
Swing, cut...
Swing, cut...
The black-clad Persian soldiers moved like unfeeling machines, repeating the same simple, efficient motion with mechanical precision.
Layer upon layer of blade light overlapped like waves, casting a cold blue sheen over that seemingly thin defensive line.
One Roman soldier after another crashed into it, only to have their spears severed, their swords and shields split apart, and their bodies torn to pieces without mercy.
Even though the Roman legions were of far higher quality than ordinary Persian troops, where a single centuria could normally drive off more than a thousand Persian soldiers, here…
But against the black specters before them, the gap between the soldiers and these monsters became an insurmountable gulf. It often took nearly ten elite soldiers just to barely bring down a single black-armored warrior.
Soon, the front lines of both armies turned into a slaughterhouse, the ground strewn with severed limbs and scattered organs as casualties on both sides surged.
Yet despite repeated charges by the Roman legions, these black monsters, riddled with wounds, missing arms, and torn open at the abdomen, still held their positions without yielding, forcibly blocking every attempt to break through and split their lines.
That damned undead army again!
From atop the low hill, Pompey watched these black specters, who had withdrawn from the fortress to reinforce the front, locking his legions in place. His expression darkened as he cursed under his breath.
The chance was gone. They could not afford to delay any longer.
Pompey waved his hand with visible reluctance, signaling the troops to pass along the order to withdraw. His eyes were filled with unwillingness, but there was no other choice.
If it were only these spineless Persian soldiers, even tens of thousands more would be nothing but lambs awaiting slaughter.
But on a land where the Age of Gods had not yet fully faded, the gap between mortals and heroes could not be bridged by numbers alone. A mere two thousand of the returning Undead Army had already held back tens of thousands of Roman soldiers.
And there were still at least seven or eight thousand of those monsters inside the city!
If the remnants of the Tenth Legion were wiped out, or if more than half of the Undead Army completed their withdrawal, then this Roman force, deep within the Persian army's heart, would not be able to escape even if they wanted to.
"Woo—woo!"
A bleak horn call echoed across the battlefield. Upon receiving the order, the Roman legions regrouped, formed shield formations, and began an orderly retreat.
Trying to leave? Not that easy!
As time passed, the Persian flank that had been shattered earlier was already regrouping under the command of the veteran general Memnon.
After stabilizing the royal court, Memnon saw the signs of Roman withdrawal and let out a cold sneer. Coordinating with the main force, he ordered a pincer movement from both sides, intending to surround and devour the intruding Roman legion.
At that moment, Pompey, watching from the low hill, laughed in anger and gave a sharp wave of his hand.
As orders spread, dust rose high into the air. Two forces of Roman cavalry, each numbering in the thousands, burst out from behind the hill like twin curved blades. With lightning speed, they drove into the flanks of the Persian army. The Persian troops, who had just finished regrouping and maneuvering, had no time to react before being thrown into chaos, men and horses tumbling as screams filled the air.
The Roman legions were never just infantry.
Within a standard legion, everything was accounted for: light cavalry for scouting and vanguard duties, legionary cavalry guarding the flanks, and elite cavalry protecting the command.
With the Roman legions tempered over a century, if they could not defeat the Undead Army, could they really fail against these Persian regulars who were only fit to wave banners from the rear?
Pompey let out a cold, sinister laugh, his expression filled with pride.
"Kill!"
At the same time, the centurions, still burning with frustration from being held back by the Undead Army, saw their cavalry smash through the Persian formation. They immediately drew their swords and roared, leading their units in swift, practiced maneuvers, cutting into the scattered enemy.
Like precision killing machines working in perfect coordination, they cut down anyone in their path.
Useless trash. Can't even hold the line!
Watching the recently regrouped Persian regulars scatter in panic like headless flies, Memnon's face twitched violently. He wished he could hang every last one of them on the spot.
A deep sense of helplessness rose within him as he could only watch the Romans carve through his troops and march out of the encirclement as they pleased.