LRAB Page 137
Page 137
The sandstorm continued to rage, completely obscuring the battlefield.
But this devastating force of nature was actually a clash of two wills—the Witch-King Agmar tried to use the storm to protect his army, while the Great Witch-King turned the storm into his weapon, creating a perfect reaping ground.
The outcome was predetermined from the very beginning.
36. A game?
The old roar floated ten thousand feet above the sky. The airflow swept across the wing membrane and was separated into layers. The bulges on the wings along the wing membrane were accelerated into dense vortices by the supernatural power, while the straight flow under the wings was smoothed and directed downwards. It formed a huge circulation with the surrounding air, generating abundant lift and steadily supporting the abnormally developed ancient red dragon with a mass of nearly a thousand tons, allowing it to hover above the storm's disturbance range.
The sandstorm, like a giant, closed, brownish-yellow wall twisted into a donut, stretched from end to end, enveloping the entire battlefield—except for the shamans and temple warriors who dared not move in the eye of the storm.
Amidst the unnatural storm shaped by the elements of wind and earth, lightning flashed and thunder roared. Occasionally, flashes of blue-white lightning illuminated small areas within the storm before being swallowed by the dense dust. With the help of these fleeting flashes and his own keen senses, Old Roar was able to vaguely perceive everything happening on the battlefield.
"A perfect massacre," the ancient red dragon's furnace-like eyes narrowed slightly, a look that was hard to tell whether it was pride or sarcasm, "Agmar has given me more living sacrifices than I imagined."
Upon hearing this, Serendella, who was flying alongside, involuntarily shrank back. The psionic perception "map" constructed around her clearly displayed the overall situation of the battlefield. Countless red dots represented individuals in Agmar's army, while blue dots represented his own familiar legions. These psionic markers were excellent tactical situational indicators. All the half-dragon warriors and other modified familiars present became sensors or information transmission nodes in this network, simultaneously receiving visual information processed by Grommash Hellscream using prophetic spells she couldn't understand.
The red dots are disappearing at a speed that will astound the dragon, while the blue dots roam the battlefield like predators. Whenever a blue dot gets close to a red dot, the latter disappears from the map—meaning that yet another Agmar's soldier has fallen to the claws of Grommash's minions.
The Crystal Dragon witnessed the half-dragon warrior Salamseth hunt down over twenty enemy soldiers and several high-ranking officers in just ten minutes. This half-dragon warrior, who had only recently completed his dragon transformation, had perfectly mastered the evil tactics taught by Grommash Hellscream—using extreme environments to infiltrate and evade the Witch King's slave army, each attack deadly and highly effective.
Further away, a group of mantis-men exhibiting slight dragon-like characteristics traversed the sea of sand at incredible speed. Their flattened bodies and six limbs rippled through the quicksand, their scythe-like forelimbs, covered in a grayish-black keratinous layer resembling dragon claws, frequently dragged out Agmar soldiers trying to hide in the sand, swiftly severing their throats. The mantis-men's chitinous exoskeletons were reinforced with fine red scales, shimmering with a dark, blood-red sheen in the sand, like the scythe of death reaping lives.
Above the storm, hundreds of pterosaurs maintained their balance by riding the wind, hovering and monitoring the battlefield, acting as key nodes in the psionic network.
However, even with such a one-sided massacre, the cruel Northern Dragon showed no sign of letting up. Its fiery eyes constantly scanned the edge of the battlefield, searching for any possible anomalies.
"Interesting," Old Roar tilted his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the eye of the storm. "The shamanic order has finally realized that the sandstorm is out of control. They are trying to regain control of the storm, but unfortunately, the blasphemous magic has devoured too many lives, and it's all too late."
The ancient red dragon performed a barrel roll, plunging vertically a hundred meters from the sky like a dolphin playing in the water, close to the top of the storm, before suddenly pulling back up. The air currents generated by its wings whipped up a column of tornadoes in the storm below, which then collapsed and shattered within seconds, merging into the storm. Through this simple action, it obtained data sufficient to validate its calculations.
The storm's intensity has far exceeded the control of the Agma Shamanic Order, and even the shamans who have temporarily set up camp in the eye of the storm are probably completely trapped by the massive sand wall.
Of course, the storm does not affect the area below the dunes.
The life force of the dead slave soldiers is continuously providing additional energy to the storm, making it stronger and more uncontrollable, gradually evolving into a sandstorm with true natural power—the world of Atas, on the verge of "death," possesses a natural power far more terrifying than that of Faerûn.
Even Lao Hou himself didn't dare to fly into the storm.
Those familiars who have undergone dragon transformation generally possess special abilities to resist sandstorms. Enhanced dragon scales and transparent eyelids protect their bodies and eyesight, while an improved respiratory system filters sand particles from the air. Meanwhile, those "slaves" who have not yet shown signs of dragon transformation have already strategically migrated along the tunnels created during the production of obsidian.
The vast majority of Agmar's slave soldiers were completely disorganized; they either lost their way in the sandstorm or were buried alive under the rapidly piling dunes. Even the physically strong members of the Templar Order were suffering losses due to asymmetrical perception and individual physical disadvantages.
"But that's not the most interesting part," Old Roar squinted, "look at those black dots; they're trying to hide their tracks."
On the expanded psionic map created by Grommash Hellscream and Serendella, there are indeed some black markers that are neither red nor blue dots and are not perceived by the Familiar Legions. They do not belong to any known army, but are mysterious entities lurking on the edge of the battlefield.
"Spies of other Witch-kings," the old roar's hoarse voice seemed to come from the abyss, "ready to take advantage of the chaos and betray Agmar."
The jeweled cloak lady's dragon body, resembling a transparent crystal, was almost completely transparent under the slanting rays of the setting sun high in the sky. Only the occasional distorted rainbow light could reveal her location. This was not invisibility, but merely the spontaneous distortion of reality by psionic energy. She didn't know exactly what was going on, but with the "torture" of Grommash Hellscream, her psionic energy was growing rapidly, and had long since surpassed the general limits of crystal dragons, entering a completely new realm.
She is already a legendary mesmer, an adult crystal dragon, and also holds the profession of Exemplary Mage. Her rapid progress in arcane skills is not hard to understand. With a legendary arcane caster who has read arcane scrolls tirelessly "teaching" you arcane knowledge day and night, and constantly forcing you to "train" by casting spells, any dragon that has awakened arcane power should have such rapid progress.
If she were still on the continent of Faerûn, Serendella would already be considered one of the most powerful dragons.
Even so, the Lady in the Gem Cloak dared not disobey any of Old Roar's orders—or perhaps not dared, but rather unwilling. Serendella herself couldn't even face her own true feelings; who could know what she was really thinking…
The crystal dragon's consciousness swept across the psionic map displayed in its mind, its voice tinged with a hint of sorrow for the many lives about to perish: "They have begun to contact their respective masters."
"Let them do it," the old roaring dragon spread its wings, creating a small vortex of air. "The more they cooperate, the more perfect my trap will be."
Serendella didn't respond, but continued to maintain the stability of the psionic map, allowing Grommash's familiars—who were also her familiars, though their crystal dragon bloodline characteristics were completely obscured by their red dragon bloodline, only revealed by the psionic energy—but Grommash didn't care at all—familiars could pinpoint enemies more precisely. Her transparent wing membrane trembled slightly, an outward manifestation of her inner struggle. A benevolent crystal dragon, yet "forced" to participate in, and even lead, such a large-scale massacre.
Perhaps, in this world that is already heading towards death, cruelty is also a necessary form of kindness?
"There's something amiss," Serendella suddenly said, pointing to the eye of the psionic map. "The Templars are gathering; they seem to have abandoned their investigation into the cause of the sandstorm's loss of control."
There, large clusters of red dots are forming an organized formation, stretching into long lines.
"As expected," a wisp of sulfurous smoke billowed from the Ancient Red Dragon's nostrils, "to ignore the unexpected and forcibly execute the original tactics is like a moth drawn to a flame."
Visibility was extremely limited under the sandstorm, but this was no problem for the old howl, who possessed powerful prophetic abilities. It made a few gestures with its four claws, which had little impact on its flight, and then a ball of light formed in the distance, revealing the detailed scene inside the sand eye.
Giant sand worms emerged from the sea of sand, their mouths wide open, and the elite troops of the Templar Knights lined up in orderly rows, entering the sand worms' enormous mouths.
These are probably giant insects modified by Agmar. Their bodies have cavities on both sides that are almost as long as their bodies, like the cheek pouches of a hamster, but with hardened keratin for stable support, turning these big guys into desert "subways" capable of transporting large numbers of the Witch King's army.
"Where are you going, knights?" Old Roar asked himself curiously, then, as if suddenly realizing something, added, "Oh, you're trying to approach my oasis from underground?"
The ancient red dragon had long since taken control of the entire war; it was simply enjoying the process of the Witch King stepping into the trap step by step, according to everything it had designed…
"What a brilliant plan," Old Roar recited the script with dramatic intonation, like a narrator in a stage play: "Let the sandstorm and the slave army distract me, then send out elite troops, riding sandworms, to bypass my barriers and walls underground and directly storm the oasis fortress."
The red dragon's wings danced, its body tracing a mocking trajectory across the sky. The "ingenious" plan was child's play, for it had anticipated this entire event and prepared accordingly. (The last two lines appear to be random characters and are left untranslated.)
"Perhaps I should let them enter the oasis without incident," Old Roar suddenly stopped flying and said in a deep voice, "to see the amusing expressions on their faces when they find the fortress empty?"
The area of the psionic distortion surrounding Serendella suddenly expanded: "Are you really going to do this?"
"Of course," Old Roar opened his dragon mouth, his barbed tongue licking his spear-like fangs, "this is a game, and as a participant, I should abide by the rules to ensure the fun, right?"
"A game? It's just a game..."
37. A deadly threat descends from the sky.
The red dot representing the Templar Order surged into the giant red spot of the sandworm, and then submerged beneath the sea of sand.
Those who lingered on the edge of the battlefield, or were merely shadows within the shamanic order, quickly detached themselves from the eye of the storm and merged into its vortex. On the battlefield, the connection between the world of Atas and the elemental realms began to become unusually active.
"It seems the other players are getting impatient too," Old Roar said, pointing his dragon head towards the anomalous areas. "They're preparing the Elemental Path, planning to launch a surprise attack after Agmar's forces enter the oasis."
Serendella, with her closer ties to the elemental realm, confirmed the Ancient Red Dragon's half-guessing, half-deductive conclusion: "Two elemental paths have begun to unfold, one from the direction of Jonisk, and the other from the region of Zorak. Based on the charging rate, they will be fully open in about an hour."
"That gives the Templars just enough time to get into the oasis," Old Roar said with satisfaction. "Everything is going as planned."
The ancient red dragon stretched its body, its powerful muscles contracting and expanding beneath its scales, like a living machine forged from steel. It had no doubt that the situation on the battlefield was completely under its control.
"Then, it's time to prepare for the final blow," it said, its eyes burning with lava hotter than the crimson setting sun. "We can't let those shamanic priests ruin this spectacle; we must take care of them before they detect the elemental portal."
Serendella understood what this meant; the crystal dragon's body trembled along with the psychic energy that twisted the light: "You want me to join your slaughter?"
"What, you intend to defy me?" The red dragon's gaze burned fiercely, as if searing the crystal dragon's soul, but quickly cooled: "Don't worry, you've satisfied me these past few days. I won't make things difficult for you. Prepare your psionic amplification; it's time to let Agmar witness true dragon breath..."
Balatochi, the vice-leader of the shamanic priesthood of the Aghmar Witch King, is experiencing a fear he has never felt before in his life.
The sandstorm was supposed to be their most powerful weapon, a natural barrier sufficient to cover the army's movements. The shamanic priesthood sacrificed a third of their lives and consumed tens of thousands of obsidian goblets, all to fully channel the Witch King's power in this battle and create a perfect sandstorm.
However, things took an unexpected turn.
"Master, the storm is intensifying, we are losing control!" a young shaman cried out in terror, his voice almost drowned out by the howling sandstorm.
The shamanic leader, Rosfarsadin, raised his head, his eyes gleaming with the residual light of elemental power. As a confidant of the Witch-King Agmar, he knew the price of defeat.
"Keep trying!" he commanded, his voice wavering, the dust and swirling air emanating from him betraying his inner fear. "Let everyone give their lives... We must regain control of the storm!"
One hundred and thirty-six shamans stood within a ring of special elemental crystals, their arms raised high, chanting esoteric incantations. The elemental crystals emitted a pale yellow light, attempting to establish a connection with the surrounding raging storm.
Normally, these crystals, formed from the life force of countless slaves, would be enough to control a medium-sized sandstorm. But now, their power seems so insignificant.
"This isn't right," Baratocchi whispered to the commander beside him. "Klaus must have done something. The energy flow in the storm is abnormal, like someone is continuously injecting extra power into it."
Rosfarsardin narrowed his eyes: "That self-proclaimed Great Witch King is more dangerous than the Witch King Agmar imagined. Instead of trying to resist the sandstorm, he's strengthening it. I don't know what he's up to."
"We can't go on like this," Baratoch's voice trembled noticeably; the Witch King's punishment of the defeated pierced his soul like a dagger. "If the storm continues to intensify, we ourselves will be devoured. The cannon fodder legion has completely lost its organization; they are like meat on a chopping block in the storm, at the mercy of others. Without cannon fodder..."
"What about the Templar Order?" Rosfarsadin asked.
"Proceeding according to plan," Baratocchi replied. "They have summoned the sandworm swarms and are preparing to enter the cheek pouches. The first group of knights should have already begun their underground advance."
Rosfarsadin breathed a sigh of relief, nodded calmly, and a cold smile appeared on his face: "That's enough. The Witch-King Agmar only cares about completing the mission; as for losses... they're just numbers to him."
Just then, a guard outside the shamanic circle suddenly collapsed, a deep wound appearing on his throat. Immediately afterwards, two more guards fell, without even being able to issue a warning.
"At this moment!" Baratocchi shouted, swiftly drawing his obsidian magic dagger from his waist. (The rest of the text appears to be gibberish and unrelated to the previous sentence.)
A blurry figure flashed past in the dust, and another guard fell to the ground.
"Protect the priesthood!" Baratoch commanded, summoning an earth elemental barrier to separate the shamanic circle from the outside world.
The shamans immediately abandoned their attempt to control the storm and instead cast defensive spells. Various elemental shields and trigger spells lit up around the shaman circle, forming a temporary defensive line.
"It's those half-dragon monsters," Rosfarsardin's voice was calm and clear, "Klaus sent his minions to stop us."
The presence of half-dragon warriors is not surprising. Agmar's army has encountered these fearsome modified warriors in past encounters. However, they usually do not directly attack shamanic orders, as the shamans possess powerful elemental abilities.
"No, it's not just the half-dragon warriors," Baratoch's elemental sensitivity was suddenly jolted by a terrifying fluctuation, "something far more dangerous is approaching!"
The elemental crystal in the center of the shamanic circle suddenly flickered violently, then exploded into powder. Elemental energy surged wildly within the shamanic circle like a runaway horse, and several priests were hit by the sudden impact, thrown into the air and collapsing to the ground.
The attacking half-dragon also retreated into the storm at the same time.
"What is this!" Rosfarsardin cried out in terror.
"He's here!" Barattoci involuntarily looked up at the sky. Although he couldn't see anything in the sandstorm, the oppressive feeling that crossed the distance and affected his mind was clearly audible.
An unprecedented aura of destruction swept through the entire shamanic priesthood. They were unaware that it was the might of a dragon, more terrifying, more primal, and more pure than the pressure gradually generated by the variant of the Agmar Witch King's demonic dragon.
"Maintain formation!" Rosfarsardin commanded, his voice trembling with fear, "Concentrate all elemental power, prepare—"
His words stopped abruptly.
Above the sandstorm, a dazzling crimson light tore through the sky, like a volcanic eruption or the surging of hell being ripped apart, crashing straight towards the eye of the storm.
"Flame Protection Barrier!" Rosfarsadin cried out in despair, and all the shamans who could still move immediately raised their arms, trying to form an elemental barrier above the circle.
This was a futile attempt.
The dragon's breath instantly covered the tiny elemental barrier, like a toppled mountain pressing down on a crystal dome, crushing the thin barrier in an instant. Before the flames even arrived, they had already melted the sand and gravel. Scorching hot air poured into every crevice. Under the intense heat, the shaman priests didn't even have time to scream before their bodies began to burn from their chests and lungs, and then, upon contact with the rolling dragon's breath, they were instantly reduced to ashes.
As the most powerful shamans under Agmar, Rosfarsadin and Baratoch's consciousnesses were ultimately consumed by dragon breath. In their final moments, they finally understood one thing. Perhaps what they faced wasn't some self-proclaimed "Great Witch King" at all, but rather the primordial warlocks who had killed this world—a being far more ancient and powerful than the Witch King Agmar. In a sense, this wasn't an incorrect guess, as warlocks generally derive their blood from dragons…
As the dragon's breath swept through, the entire shaman's encampment, the entire sand valley where the eye of the storm was located, and everything within it were utterly destroyed, leaving only a molten lake. The dragon's breath came and went quickly; the swirling storm acted like a giant air pump, rapidly sucking away the heat accumulated within the eye of the storm. The surface of the lava lake quickly cooled into crystal-clear obsidian, revealing the still partially melted humanoid skeletal remains embedded within, resembling a horrifying painting.
Beneath the sea of sand, the elite forces of the Templar Order are rapidly advancing towards the oasis.
"Eternal Agmar the Witch-King!" the knights whispered, their voices echoing and overlapping within the sandworm's cheek pouches, creating a buzzing tremor.
Two thousand Templar Knights, clad in armor made of a mixture of bone and chitin and wielding obsidian weapons, were each "riding" inside one of five hundred sandworms. Each knight was securely fastened to his own safe "seat," preventing him from being thrown off by the violent wriggling of the sandworms and getting stuck in the gaps between the chitinous skeletons, thus being pressed into the two-dimensional world. Their armor was engraved with the mark of the Witch King Agmar, symbolizing their glorious identity as the Witch King's spearhead.
Commander Cordria is a super psionic warrior who has undergone multiple enhancements. His body has been almost entirely modified: his skin is covered with a hard chitinous layer, and large compound eye structures protrude from both sides of his forehead, enabling him to see not only in the dark but also to have all-around vigilance; a pair of hardened elytra have grown on his back, which cannot fly but enhance his balance and protect his back; even his internal organs have been fused together with reality-distorting psionic and elemental energy, making him almost invincible to conventional injuries.
"How's the storm going?" Koldryak asked the psychic messenger beside him.
"It's still raging, sir," the messenger replied. "Our communication with the main army has been completely severed, but according to plan, they should still be drawing the enemy's attention."
Koldriak sneered, "Very well, let those lowly slaves go to their deaths. As long as they can distract Klaus's retinue, we can complete the task the Witch King gave us."
The messenger nodded, closed his eyes, and continued to sense his surroundings until he passed the pre-laid coordinates: "We have reached the designated location, sir."
38. Victory?
In the world of sand, time loses its meaning, and space becomes distorted. Sandworms are gathering in the center of the oasis from different directions, like a giant steel fork piercing Klaus's heart from the ground.
"Are you ready, warriors?" Koldria's voice echoed in his cheek pouch, eliciting a low murmur of response.
"Eternal Agmar the Witch-King!" the Templars shouted in unison, their voices amplifying in the narrow space to create a heart-stirring roar.
Koldria sensed the subtle changes emanating from the sandworms' bodies. These enormous creatures, modified by Agmar, possessed unimaginable sensory abilities; they could accurately detect underground water sources, the distribution of rocks and sand, and even subtle psionic fluctuations. When the sandworms began to slow down, it meant their target was close at hand.
A violent tremor followed, and the sandworms began to tilt upwards. Koldria gripped the chitinous skeleton tightly, feeling the immense pressure of the forward tilt—a sign of slowing down the "rising" process; the sandworms were about to break through the sand.
"Everyone, check your equipment!" Koldria ordered. The Templars quickly inspected their obsidian weapons and armor. The runes engraved on the weapons shimmered with a dim light, foreshadowing the blasphemous power they contained. A faint grinding sound came from the joints of the armor, the sound of chitin and bone materials grinding together.
"Psionic buffs ready!" Koldria continued issuing commands, "Countdown, 10, 9, 8..."
The sandworms rose faster and faster, the surrounding sand beginning to flow with a sound like a waterfall. Koldria could sense subtle changes in temperature, a sign of approaching the surface. The previously uniform pressure surrounding the sandworms began to become irregular, indicating they were about to breach their final defenses.
"1!"
Suddenly, everything fell silent.
The momentary silence made every Templar hold their breath. Then, a deafening roar, like an earthquake, erupted as the sandworms simultaneously burst through the ground.
"0!"
Five hundred enormous sand worms simultaneously burst forth from different locations in the center of the oasis—in plazas, streets, woodlands, and even inside buildings. Their massive bodies traced graceful arcs through the air, their gaping maws like entrances to abysses, from which sand cascaded like waterfalls. Under the purple canopy of Atas, the sight of these five hundred giant fish leaping from the sea of sand was both spectacular and terrifying.
"Charge!" Koldria was the first to leap from the sandworm's mouth, his well-equipped body tumbling through the air before landing steadily on the oasis's stone pavement. Immediately following, thousands of Templar warriors swarmed from the gaping maws of various sandworms, their shouts echoing through the air:
"Eternal Agmar the Witch-King!"
"For the Eternal City!"