121: Duke's Palace Battle 3

"Guard!"

Randall, in front of me, activated a Holy Knight skill. His massive shield slammed into the stone bricks, forming a defensive wall.

The moment he roared, John, George, and five other shield-bearing Inferno Fist Guards followed suit. Seven shields overlapped like silver scales, enveloping me under an iron dome.

The Orc warrior's berserk state ended, but his greatsword, trailing a dark red afterimage, had already carved comet-like scorch marks on the shield faces.

When the last metallic wail dissipated, only the Holy Knight's massive shield still gleamed with cold light. The other shield faces were covered in spiderweb-like indentations, like bones gnawed by a fierce beast.

Seizing the moment of the Orc's pause, I leaped onto a corridor cabinet. The twin swords in my hands flew out with a piercing shriek; one thrust directly at his face, the other locked onto his throat.

The Orc's greatsword swept upwards, and with two "clangs," both short swords flew back.

"Forced Duel!"

Randall slammed his greatsword horizontally against his shield. The golden light bursting from his holy emblem wrapped around the Orc's ankles like chains.

The Holy Knight used a divine skill to force the Orc to fight him.

The leather-armored green-skinned Orc glared furiously at the Holy Knight, spewing a foul-smelling roar through his tusks, yet he had no choice but to follow the light trail of the Holy Knight's sword, unleashing all his destructive cleaves onto this insurmountable wall of flesh and steel.

"Holy Strike!"

Randall continuously activated his divine power, and an dazzling bright light suddenly flowed over his greatsword.

The radiance of the Holy Strike didn't fall like a cleave, but rather pierced straight down like a hammer of divine punishment. The Orc's blocking sword melted with incandescent indentations in the holy flame.

"Whoosh! Whoosh!"

Two fangs of cold light shot towards me from a dark corner.

"Clang! Clang!" With two sounds, the hidden weapons were timely blocked by John and George's shields.

The instant sparks burst, I saw a gray figure shrinking back behind a stone pillar.

These rats! I cursed inwardly.

My gaze swept over the situation in the hall—

The Flame Fist was blocked at every entrance and exit of the hall by dozens of enemies, unable to advance. Behind the first row of enemy soldiers were many idle enemy soldiers, and the one who just ambushed me was among them.

Kedas expressionlessly led the priestly group, waiting on one side for an opportunity.

I couldn't help but inwardly complain, what a great situation, how did it get blocked like this?

Does Kedas, this Allied Forces commander-in-chief, even know how to fight?

I recalled a year ago, when I was still scrolling on my phone in bed on Blue Planet, a news story that remains vivid in my memory.

A man from a certain Eastern great power went to a small country, worked during the day, and at night guided local natives to attack other tribes, winning hundreds of battles without a single defeat.

Although the Eastern great power had enjoyed peace for a long time, everyone could casually quote a few lines from Sun Tzu's Art of War or the Thirty-Six Stratagems.

Things like the Battle of Red Cliffs or borrowing arrows with straw boats, everyone had heard of them.

Right now, Kedas, the commander-in-chief, and Kovenreid, the deputy commander, were staring blankly at the stalemate. So, don't blame me, a deputy commander from a certain Eastern great power, for overstepping my bounds.

After understanding the enemy's formation, I flipped my hands to put away my twin swords and re-gripped my bow and arrows.

"Archers! Everyone onto the corridor cabinets! Guards, protect all archers!"

At my command, those around me quickly moved.

Once everyone was in position, I shouted, "Shoot the enemies behind the front-line enemy soldiers! Free fire!"

Then I took the lead in firing cold arrows.

However, this time, I didn't use a double arrow shot; the firepower of the archer team beside me was sufficient.

A flash of inspiration struck me, and I began to slowly experiment with new self-created magic archery on these living targets.

The moment the first wave of arrows poured into the enemy's rear ranks, my arrowheads quietly glowed with an orange light.

The runes of the zero-level cantrip "Create Bonfire" flowed through my fingertips, and the three-ounce birch arrow shaft became an arcane conduit.

As the bowstring hummed, an arrow carrying a bright flame pierced the throat of a certain enemy mercenary. The blood mist spurting from his wound violently ignited under the influence of magic.

Seven draws of the bow, nineteen micro-adjustments of incantations.

When the ice crystals of "Ray of Frost" exploded into sleet at the fletching, the tremors of "Thunderclap" caused cracks to appear on the arrow shaft, and the lightning of "Thunder Sword" even broke free three inches from the string.

But those uncontrolled magical afterimages—like an arrow embedded diagonally in a stone wall suddenly erupting with ice spikes, or another causing a small sonic boom upon hitting the ground—all spoke of the possibility of me casting magic with a bow.

I vaguely felt that this type of magic arrow was feasible; it just required a reinterpretation and reconstruction of the relevant magic, plus a lot of practice. Success would eventually come.

At this moment, I had even thought of the names: Ray of Frost Arrow, Thunderclap Arrow, and Homing Thunder Arrow.

When the last few blood-stained arrows were nailed into the stone pillars, the enemy's rear ranks had fallen like worm-eaten wheat stalks.

The enemy shield formation cracked open, revealing the scattered corpses behind—those lightly armored soldiers who had attempted to sneak attack with hidden weapons now served as the most brutal death omens to the remaining forces.

"Surrender or die! Gray Scale Baron has been judged, found guilty of treason against the city! Found guilty of murder!

Proclaim to the eighteen cities of the North: Noble title revoked, all property confiscated! Gray Scale Duke sentenced to death! His relatives expelled from the city!"

Seeing that the enemy's morale had collapsed, I shouted loudly, "Any rewards he promised you before cannot be fulfilled! Put down your weapons! Surrender or die!

Those willing to pledge allegiance to me, Lord Lion Black, I will pay your military salaries!

Those unwilling, just surrender and be released outside the city!"

Regarding inducing the enemy army to surrender and breaking their morale, we had already discussed it beforehand.

When I shouted it out now, Lord Kedas and Commander Kovenreid were not surprised.

The quick-witted George, his roar spread like wildfire: "Lord Lion grants you a path to life! Put down your weapons! Surrender or die!"

Commander Kovenreid kicked aside a broken spear at his feet, his black beard trembling with the sound wave: "Those who disarm shall live!"

The crisp clang of the first iron sword hitting the ground was like a signal. A young mercenary with a freckled face in the enemy army suddenly knelt, sobbing, his loosened longsword rolling on the flagstones with a lament.

The sound of metal falling progressively escalated. The Flame Fists lightly tapped the shoulders of the surrendering soldiers with the edges of their shields, the clanging forming an iron requiem.

Randall and the Orc's battle had also reached its conclusion.

The Holy Knight's greatsword was still pressed between the Orc's third ribs.

The green-skinned giant suddenly let out a laugh like sandpaper rubbing, and threw half a broken blade at his feet, "Holy Knight!" He spat blood foam, "My war song only bows to he who defeats me."

After controlling the situation on the first floor, the Allied Forces began to enter the second floor.

The moment the oak door on the second floor was rammed open by the Flame Fists, three robed figures stood like puppets at the end of the corridor.

Their withered fingers maintained their casting gestures, as if they hadn't moved an inch since the battle on the balcony—like tomb-guarding statues solidified by dark magic.

The leading mage plunged his staff into a crack in the floor, and a yellowish-green cloud of mist spewed from the staff head like festering internal organs.

The moment the poisonous mist touched the stone wall, it etched out honeycomb-like holes, and the chainmail of the two vanguard Flame Fists even showed rust-red tear stains in the mist.

As the soldiers choked and tumbled down the stairs, their fingernails had torn ghastly blood grooves into their necks.

Forest Dryad Sally's detoxification spell swept over the stairs like a jade tide.

Translucent glowing vines emerged from the mouths and noses of the poisoned, drawing the toxic blood into dark green bead strings suspended in the air.

The Halfling priest in my team continuously cast healing spells, restoring the damaged bodies of these soldiers to their original state.

Druid Vivofen's bearskin cloak billowed without wind, his pupils now vertical like a feline's. "Poison mist is nothing but decaying leaves." His hoarse voice, mixed with a faint leopard growl, plunged his hands into the floor at the edge of the poisonous mist. "Give me twenty breaths, and let the north wind complete their cycle."

I nodded, simultaneously communicating with the Dragon King, telling it to go upstairs invisibly later to execute the killing blow.

These days, I had taught the Dragon King the technique of using the Qiankun Ring's energy for invisibility. Its invisibility was flawless, far more perfect than mine, the inventor.

When Vivofen's porous stone approached his lips, the stone holes emitted the wail of the north wind sweeping through a pine forest.

As the second gust of air surged in, the seven holes of the stone successively lit up with a green glow, and the surging gale enveloped the poisonous mist, rolling it back up to the second floor.

I heard the sharp scrape of hard boot soles frantically rubbing against the flagstones—those mages were stumbling backward, like a flock of sheep driven back by boiling water.

At this moment, the Dragon King suddenly vanished from my shoulder, yet it didn't attract anyone's attention.

I sensed it flying along the stone wall, pockmarked by the corrosive poison mist, all the way up to the second floor, where it found the three mages behind a door.

The Dragon King silently flew to their feet.

"Plop!"

A small pile of soil was spat by the Dragon King onto the ground between the few people. In their panic, none of the mages noticed this detail.

"Puff! Plop! Hiss..."

Then, the Dragon King again spat a Magic Bean and a handful of soil onto the previous small pile of soil.

Finally, it spat a mouthful of fresh water to irrigate the soil pile.

"What was that sound?" One mage began to look around.

"Don't tell me one of you peed your pants?" Another mage spoke.

As the invisible Dragon King rapidly flew downstairs, a vibrant green seedling rapidly grew and flourished on the floor between the three mages.