In the desolate wilderness, the wind howled as dry grass was swept into the air. Beneath the dim, dust-choked sky, the marching column looked like a crimson tide rolling across the sea. Under the faint glow of Magecraft, they advanced in silence and speed. Grains of sand, large and small, struck shields and armor with dull, rhythmic thuds, like the steady beat of war drums.
This was the Roman army that had just come through the ambush in the wasteland.
Within the protected center of the legion, among the units transporting the wounded, Samael had given up his carriage and was marching on foot alongside the soldiers. He moved through the stretchers and wagons, checking on the lightly and severely injured.
The fall of the Divine Ancestor Romulus had dealt a heavy blow to the morale of the border troops, who had not experienced the chaos of the battle at the Seven Hills.
Since Samael had taken on this responsibility, he intended to carry it through properly.
So he lowered himself, offering words of comfort, or even personally tending to the wounded, displaying what could be seen as divine grace.
The act carried a hint of performance, perhaps even calculation.
But the more conventional something was, the more effective it tended to be.
With his experience in reading and guiding human hearts, Samael played his role to perfection, steadily steering their spirits back on track.
Pompey, who commanded the army, watched all this and could not help but feel a measure of respect for this divine regent.
Suddenly, as the Ancient Serpent examined the inflamed stump of a wounded soldier, he sensed something. His slit pupils narrowed slightly as he summoned the ornate longbow taken from the Pantheon. Bending down, he casually picked up a pebble and set it against the bowstring.
Whistle!
A sharp sound cut through the wind, almost swallowed by the gale. Invisible mana rippled outward as an iron-feathered falcon in the sky suddenly burst with a spray of blood, dropping from above and flapping helplessly onto the sand.
Samael stepped forward in two quick strides, grabbed the falcon by the back of its neck, and walked over to Pompey, who had halted. With a casual motion, he set up a barrier, his expression turning cold.
"How long have they been on our trail?"
"Your Highness, nearly a full day and night."
"Tch. We've looped around several times and still haven't shaken them. The Persians are persistent."
"Your Highness, our supplies are running low, and the wounded need rest…"
Pompey glanced back at the column. The soldiers and wounded still held onto their morale, but their physical exhaustion and weakness were plain to see. His brow tightened with concern.
The terrain here was complicated, a mix of open wilderness, dunes, grassland, and ravines, making movement difficult.
And relying purely on foot, their stamina was being drained faster than the pursuers behind them.
The Persians had Arabian horses suited for long marches, camel caravans, and elephant troops. Compared to that, the Roman legions' two legs were at a clear disadvantage.
"Judging by how often these beasts appear, the Persians are right on our heels. We can't just lead them straight to the Ninth Legion's camp. That would be a serious problem."
"Agreed. Then what do you propose?"
"The quality of Persian soldiers is uneven. Not all of them can keep up with our pace. The ones sticking to us are likely their vanguard. The narrow ravine ahead isn't suitable for deploying large formations. Have the men rest for a bit, and while we're at it, draw them in and teach them a lesson."
Samael's eyes turned cold as a faint, dangerous smile formed.
Using infantry to counter cavalry was one of the Roman legions' specialties. After being hounded for so long without shaking them off, it was time to make them pay.
Pompey nodded, adjusted the marching pace and formation, and began making preparations.
Samael watched him disappear into the ranks, then casually tossed the half-dead falcon behind him.
"Here, take it back and give the wounded something extra to eat."
The guard at the rear hurriedly caught the prey, his face twitching.
That made forty-three, didn't it? These iron-feathered falcons, painstakingly trained by Persian falconers, were all being tossed into a pot like this. What a waste.
And to make matters worse, the meat was dry and tough, stringy as hell...
Amid the swirling sand and wind, Samael remained unaware of the guard's silent complaints. His fingers lightly tapped the bowstring as he turned to gaze southward, an unreadable glint flickering in his eyes.
After a brief forced march of about an hour and a half, the Roman legion, bolstered by Magecraft and divine protection, pushed through the sandstorm and wilderness, entering a narrow valley where they began to rest. Scouts were sent out on both sides, and the formation was adjusted along the way.
During the break, Samael sampled the falcon meat he had personally hunted. Without hesitation, he handed the rest to the guard behind him, patting his shoulder with a warm, encouraging look as a gesture of favor.
Looking down at the bowl, filled with frothy blood, scraps of meat, and bones still covered in patches of feathers, the young soldier nearly teared up.
While the troops rested, Samael made another round, climbed up a slope, and surveyed the surroundings. Using centuriae as units, he quietly counted the soldiers.
After checking several times, he frowned slightly. The small satisfaction from his earlier act of kindness faded quickly.
In the previous battle, the Roman Imperial Guard legion, drawn from the provinces near the City of Seven Hills, had taken heavy losses. From a full strength of fifty thousand, they were now reduced to just over forty thousand, a loss of seven to eight thousand men.
The Persian army had fared even worse, leaving behind at least thirty to forty thousand corpses and losing nearly half of their spellcasters.
The casualty ratio between the Roman legions and the Persian army was close to one to four or even one to five, far better than the usual one to three.
But looking at the bigger picture, the results of this blocking battle were only barely acceptable.
The fortresses guarding the eastern and western passes had fallen, and of the nearly twenty thousand soldiers of the Tenth Legion, only about two thousand had made it out. The losses were catastrophic.
Taking into account the casualties the Persians suffered during the siege, once everything was added up, the overall exchange rate returned to average. In fact, the Roman legions had performed worse than before, which made Samael uneasy.
The Persian army had already assembled nearly three hundred thousand troops, with a steady stream of slave soldiers and supplies still being sent to the front.
In contrast, Rome, fighting on three fronts, was already stretched thin. Even after linking up with the Ninth Legion, Pompey would only have sixty to seventy thousand men at his disposal.
Even at a four-to-one or five-to-one exchange rate, if things continued like this, the Roman legions would be worn down long before the Persian army was exhausted.
And even if they withdrew to the Ninth Legion's camp, the so-called fortified walls of the Age of Gods offered limited protection against the relentless bombardment of Magi and those with divine blood.
If anything, clustering together might only lead to greater losses.
The stark difference in individual combat power had already been made painfully clear in the earlier battle.
The well-trained Roman legions could tear through over a hundred thousand Persian regular troops with ease. Yet against a mere few thousand of the Undead Army, they were smashed head-on.
In some areas, the casualty ratio reached a shocking one to ten.
Of the seven to eight thousand casualties suffered by the Imperial Guard, nearly half had died in frontal clashes against the Undead Army.
And even after losing a thousand or two, the enemy still had over ten thousand of their core Undead forces remaining.
Samael suspected that those ten thousand Undead alone could press down and crush the forty to fifty thousand Roman soldiers before him.
Damn it, which lunatic came up with something this inhuman?
Frustration surged, and the Ancient Serpent could not help but curse inwardly.
But in the next instant, Samael thought of the immortal herb in the Persian Gulf, the black-armored soldiers from the battle of Uruk, and the people of Kutha, blessed by Ere's underworld, immune to blades and spears, with monstrous vitality.
His lips twitched.
Alright, alright... I'll take the blame, fine...
Just as the Ancient Serpent brooded in irritation, a violent tremor rolled in from beyond the valley entrance. A vast tide of black figures surged forward in unison.