Chapter 1369: The Fish Are Biting

After a brief delay, three signal flares shot up into the sky. Inside each flare, a charged crystal violently erupted once its inertial lock released, activating the intricate rune arrays etched into the shells. For several seconds, a massive glowing orb illuminated the thick, ink-black clouds overhead—an intense red radiance spreading through the dense mist. Almost at the exact moment the light blossomed, the moisture gathering above the narrow plain reached its peak.

On the ground, the final heavy artillery shell fired from the Winter’s Wrath had just completed its long arc and slammed down. The earth shook violently as a towering mushroom cloud billowed upward. Yet, surprisingly few twisted mutant limbs or fragments were blasted into the air by the shockwave. Most of the aberrations and bio-synthetic beasts on the battlefield had already been wiped out by the earlier relentless bombardments. After leaving behind countless corpses and debris, the remaining monsters had rapidly abandoned the positions they had just “claimed,” retreating toward the borderlands of Gondor’s wastelands.

They huddled among the corrupted soil and jagged boulders, howling amid the swirling dust storms. Though the fiery streaks that had fallen like meteors from the black clouds had ceased, the searing pain and shock inflicted by that “heavenly fire” seemed etched deep into their twisted, mutated nervous systems. The dust stirred by the last round of firepower had yet to settle, and the lingering tremors beneath the earth still rumbled ominously. This terrifying scene was transmitted through the monsters’ neural networks and their psychic links, eventually converging at the command node of the Wasteland Legion—their “brain”—located at the northwestern border of the wasteland, deep within the ruins of an ancient fortress near the Greta stronghold, where the dark priests dwelled.

This fortress was an ancient border outpost. In the distant days of humanity’s glory, it had served as a frontier watchtower of the Gondor Empire, guarding the mightiest human realm of its time for centuries. After the cataclysmic Deep Blue Well explosion, the fortress fell into ruin and had been forgotten by civilized worlds for hundreds of years. Thanks to advanced construction techniques and its distance from the blast’s epicenter, the fortress’s main structure remained relatively intact. Between its towering walls and intricate architectural framework, one could faintly glimpse the grandeur of centuries past—though that glory no longer symbolized civilization’s frontier, but had become a refuge for dark corruption.

Banor stood atop the fortress’s upper platform. The twisted, brain-like canopy of his crown creaked dryly in the wind. His root-like legs swayed slowly on the ancient, mottled stone, betraying the dark archpriest’s foul mood. His gaze fixed on the southeastern battlefield, watching the aberrations retreating steadily and the smoke still lingering on the horizon. A hoarse, guttural murmur echoed indistinctly within him, while a dark red sap oozed slowly from the cracks in his bark-like skin.

A vast number of aberrations and bio-synthetic beasts had been annihilated in a short time. Numerous nodes in the command network suddenly went silent. The violent shockwaves felt simultaneously by subordinate nodes created a tsunami-like mental impact when the network collapsed. This shock wounded many of the dark priests commanding the legions—Banor included.

He was the successor to Marcellus. After the Wasteland Legion’s failed assault on the Augure tribe and the terrifying aerial fortress caused Marcellus, the original commander of the western legion, to vanish without a trace, Archpriest Borken handed the remnants of the western legion to Banor, who had been held in reserve. Banor refused to let the halved western legion continue facing the dreadful aerial fortress head-on. Instead, he ordered the entire force southward to join the southern legion in a fierce assault on the elven and human positions. He knew the cult’s goal was not to “conquer the world” but to deploy enough Deep Blue control nodes. Under this objective, sacrificing the entire western front was acceptable, as the southern front’s gains would suffice to fulfill their grand design.

At least, that was how things were supposed to go—until today.

The elves and humans fought with stubborn resolve. Even after the “Sanctuary of the Stars” crashed, they managed to stabilize the border and even mount a counterattack. But their tenacity couldn’t hold every line. The Wasteland Legion kept breaking through with superior numbers, successfully suppressing the northwest border of the Highland Kingdom and pressing to the gates of Greta Fortress. In Banor’s view, given enough time, the humans—far weaker than the aberrations in manpower and endurance—would inevitably be worn down. Once the Highland Kingdom’s defenses cracked, no matter how fierce the elves fought, they would be caught between two massive armies.

Then today, Banor encountered the Cecilians—those persistent, inexplicable pests who seemed to appear everywhere!

“Archpriest, artillery fire has been confirmed coming from the Ordo River. The Cecilians arrived by boat… massive warships, over a dozen of them,” a dark priest approached the platform, bowing respectfully before Banor. “Their ‘magitek cannons’ differ from the ones we’ve seen on the battlefield. Both their power and range surpass our ‘Behemoths’…”

“The Ordo River… all the way from there?!” Banor’s crown rustled sharply, his irritation palpable. “Those damned lowly creatures… so dull and primitive in evolution, yet all they know is how to build those noisy, blasphemous machines… No, we cannot allow those warships to remain anchored there.”

A gust of wind blew in from afar, heavy with moisture. The scent of an impending storm soaked Banor’s withered leaves and bark, but it brought no relief—only deeper agitation and unease. “Not just the Cecilians… but this cursed weather. There’s no such annoying clouds or rain in the wasteland.”

As if to answer his complaint, the moment Banor’s words fell, an unprecedented thunderclap exploded overhead. The roaring thunder echoed like a great bell between earth and sky, shaking even the dark priests within the fortress, who nearly mistook it for a shell from the Cecilian warships landing atop them—

Then, the rain came down in torrents.

After brewing for a long time within the dense clouds, the storm finally unleashed itself like an inverted ocean hidden in the sky. Sheets of rain hammered the earth from north of Greta Fortress, stretching to the ancient border fortress of the wasteland, and eastward to the old forest defense line. The narrow plain was instantly transformed into a swamp. Countless bright lightning bolts danced and flickered through the clouds, while howling winds and eerie, bone-chilling wails swept across the entire plain.

Banor, stunned by the thunder, stared dumbfounded at the sudden deluge before him. The dense water flow exceeded any concept of “rain” he had. It was more like an entire body of water crashing down from the heavens. This dark priest, who had lived for centuries, searched his memories. Even in his human days, living in the “normal world,” he had never seen or heard of such a rain.

“This rain…” a low-ranking dark priest murmured nearby, “It’s really heavy…”

“No, this isn’t right…” Banor cut him off, a sharp alarm ringing in his heart. “This isn’t rain! It’s an attack! Everyone, prepare for battle!”

“An attack?” The subordinate hesitated, eyes wide as he looked at Banor. “What are we being attacked by—”

Before he could finish, a sudden buzzing sound descended from the sky, followed by a sharp “sizzle” as wood was sliced through by intense heat energy. From the downpour, a ghostly figure materialized—half woman, half serpent. She wielded a trident-like blade, its three prongs formed from high-energy plasma constrained by a force field. With a casual swing, she cleaved a low-ranking priest in two before he could react.

The severed wooden torso fell into the rain. Banor finally felt a long-lost fear. The alien creature holding the strange weapon had turned her gaze toward him. Around her, more figures rapidly emerged—from the rain, the moisture-laden air, and the rising floodwaters—one after another, armed with tridents or particle rifles.

On the fortress, outside its walls, and across the plain, more and more sea witches completed their descent, swiftly harvesting every living thing in their sights—be it towering aberrations, grotesque bio-synthetic beasts, or the dark priests hastily trying to rebuild their defenses. To the sea witches, these land creatures were no different. Those close enough were shredded by plasma blades; those farther away were swept by particle rifle fire. High-energy particle clusters and beam blades, wrapped in force fields, surged like waves through the storm, each surge turning vast numbers of monsters and priests into mere “debris” in the tide.

The water rose. Though the plain was open on all sides, the rain’s “precipitation” showed no sign of dispersing. An astonishing volume of water was trapped on the battlefield, visibly flooding every ravine on the narrow plain. It was a terrifying sight—but Banor had no strength left to focus on what was happening in the distance.

A swirling mass of high-energy particles, wrapped in a force field, skimmed past the treetops and shot off into the distance. The magical shield protecting Banor rippled with layered waves as he continuously summoned thick vines and withered treants to block the relentless assault of the “Rainborn Aliens.” At the same time, he fired arrows of corrosive energy—each crackling with devastating power—at any enemy that strayed within range. This was his first encounter with this species. As a dark priest with vast knowledge, Banor quickly deduced that these creatures were the infamous “Sea Wraiths,” the very beings who had held the Stormborn down for seven centuries. Without hesitation, he sent word through the root network to the High Priest deep in the wastelands. Beyond that, all he could do now…

…was fight for his life and find a way to survive this sudden onslaught.

The dark green corrosive arrow sliced through the air with a sharp hiss. A Sea Wraith warrior, caught off guard at close range, was pierced through the chest. Before a scream could escape, her body exploded into a spray of water droplets scattering in all directions.

Nearby, another Sea Wraith witnessed this and let out a startled cry—then burst into loud, mocking laughter. “That was the weakest one!”

The others around her echoed in unison, shouting defiantly, “We’ll see you again after death!”

A chill crept up Banor’s spine. If he still had hair, every strand would have stood on end.

These Sea Wraiths were not invincible. Though they appeared several times stronger than ordinary mortals and wielded astonishingly advanced weapons, Banor—an elite supernatural—was still able to hold his own against multiple Sea Wraith soldiers, having already slain several. Yet, this brought him no comfort.

Instead, he felt a surreal terror—these creatures simply did not fear death.

They fought with reckless abandon, utterly indifferent to fatal wounds. If they could overpower you, they lunged forward to tear you apart. If they couldn’t, they still charged in. Severely injured, they would rush forward to self-destruct. They cared nothing for their own lives, nor for their comrades’. When a companion died before their eyes, they only shouted excitedly—praising or mocking the death with a bone-chilling enthusiasm that made Banor’s skin crawl—before turning back to hack down every target in sight, until they themselves fell.

Banor’s scalp tingled—though he had lost his scalp seven centuries ago, the sensation remained.

He knew mutants didn’t fear death either, but that was a different matter. Mutants’ recklessness stemmed from their incomplete minds; if they could think, they would know to flee and fear. But these so-called “Sea Wraiths” were highly intelligent deep-sea aberrations. They embraced death with full awareness, running toward it, exalting and mocking it…

And somehow, enjoying the hell out of it.

The dark priest who had once vowed to destroy an entire civilization to reshape this planet now trembled before these unfathomable deep-sea creatures. In his eyes, they were the true lunatics.

Then, suddenly, the Sea Wraiths surrounding him all stopped their attack at once.

As if obeying a command, they sheathed their weapons and retreated. The torrential rain around them twisted into an inverted vortex in the sky, its center eerily calm. Banor stared in stunned silence, unsure what was happening—but one thing was certain: these mad deep-sea creatures had no intention of letting him live out of kindness.

The next moment confirmed his fears.

A tremendous roar of water surged from the rain and floodwaters outside the fortress. Countless thick tentacles, reminiscent of octopus arms, crawled up the fortress’s rough outer walls and onto the platform. Banor’s eyes widened as a colossal figure emerged from the rising waters—a towering female form, or rather, some fusion of a woman and a deep-sea monstrosity. She lowered her head to gaze down at Banor. Her massive tentacles coiled around the platform, forming a concave arena-like structure. A thunderous voice shook Banor’s nerves like a crashing wave:

“I heard there’s a tough one here. Is that you?

“Good. I am Vanessa, the Deep Sea Warlord. I’ll be fighting you.”

(End of chapter)