Chapter 683: Defeat
The Korokor Mountains had become a grotesque theater of war, the once-verdant terrain now reduced to a churned morass of mud and blood. Scarlet rivers ran so thick they practically melted into the soil, distorting the mountains into a horror-scape of smeared crimson.
Tens of thousands of Vorometallicae corpses littered the ravines and ridges—most of them High Champions sacrificed as cannon fodder. More than fifty thousand Voroe had perished here, yet the higher-ups of the Void Heart Fortress would not care. To them, losing wave after wave of High Champions mattered little if it meant eventually sapping the Graecia’s defenders’ stamina and morale.
Indeed, among the Voroe Sages and Half-Step Legends, faint smirks now replaced initial grimness. They sensed the toll the endless slaughter was taking on the Graecian forces.
Every time another wave of High Champions died, the Sages behind them found fresh opportunities to exploit. Even for formidable warriors, the mental weight of killing tens of thousands of foes chipped away at their focus and reserves—precisely what the Voroe masters hoped to achieve.
Things would have been even worse for the Graecia’s soldiers were it not for the blitzkrieg units operating at their limits to eliminate Voroe Sages before they could overrun the battlefield.
Jormungandr, Fafnir, and Ouroboros in particular fought with lungs burning, raw from oxygen depletion and exhaustion, but they never faltered. Gulping down potions to stave off fatigue, they pressed on, charging into the densest pockets of Voroe elites. Meanwhile, Janus, Agamemnon, and their teams matched them stride for stride, unleashing bursts of martial prowess to keep the swarm of Sages occupied.
All of them understood the precariousness of the situation. If they faltered for even a moment, the Voroe Sages would break through, slaughtering Graecia’s battered lines. Driven by desperation, every soldier poured what little they had left into holding the line.
Amidst this chaos, Vlad found himself locked in one of the fiercest battles of his life. He sensed the dire straits of the Graecia’s army but could do little to help them. Shitaru, the towering Voroe half-step Legend who wielded the Law of Space, refused to grant him any respite.
Shitaru’s body was riddled with wounds—every cut bleeding profusely—but he seemed oblivious to the agony. His colossal spiked club crashed down again and again, demanding Vlad’s undivided attention.