Eric cursed a storm as his tuskers raced back from the tiny copse of trees his eyes had flickered past so many times that day, now finally getting a clear line of sight on the once magnificent marble wall that had somehow served as the fulcrum for an unbreakable arcane shield. A final masterwork barrier that had been effortlessly shattered by scores of siege cannons firing in concert. All of which had culminated in this dreadful moment, Eric witnessing the stupefying sight of thousands upon thousands of musket-wielding orcs, many now carrying their bayoneted weapons like the spears they basically were, making their way for the massive breach, eager to flood inside the final sanctuary of their enemies, Eric’s kin, and bring death to all who had opposed them.

As much as Eric despaired at the thought of holding them off in time, at least the massive 24-pounder cannon batteries housed in the distant concrete pill bunkers were silent, their artillery crews silenced forevermore.

The awful weight of anxiety on Eric’s chest eased up the tiniest bit upon catching sight of the instrument of the destruction of his opponent’s artillery, including the complete dismemberment and devouring of their gunners. A now nearly twenty foot tall amalgamation of slithering fleshly tendrils that writhed and pulsated while twisting and knotting with one another, all of it forming a single bloated body possessing far too many eyes, hundreds of cilia-like feet it used to scurry across the ground, and a massive mouth that looked eerily like it had been pulled right from a toothpaste commercial with its perfectly white teeth and lush, full, strangely human-looking lips that just happened to grace an opening wide enough to fit a standing orc, complete with half a dozen braided tongues that frantically whipped across the ground as if desperate for more bodies to stuff in its maw it slowly made its way across the torn up ground of mud and blood-spattered grass, as per Eric’s command.

The final appendage it possessed was a single oddly human shaped and proportioned limb now saluting Eric’s way as he shouted quick commands he knew it sensed from the tactical map and interface he now shared with all his undead soldiers.

Eric could only pray that both he and Slurpy would arrive in time to stem the tide of orcs now breaching the final barrier between themselves and whatever emergency defenses the desperate Sylvan alliance had set up, clearly unable to gain access to the miraculous city of soaring edifices, arching bridges, sparkling minarets and impossible magical alloys that seemed both just a tree lined boulevard distant, and an entire world away.

It was then that he got the interface message that for some idiotic reason he hadn’t even been expecting.

An audio message bypassing System records entirely that he couldn’t refuse to answer.

Not now.

Not when the sister he loved and the mother who had borne and cared for them both were just a single move from being completely wiped off the board.

“Eric?”

He ignored the sting in his eyes, the pounding of his heart, forcing himself to answer.

“Yeah, mom. I’m here.”

He was shaken by the surge of relief. Of joy, he sensed in their connection.

“Eric, my beloved son, can you hold them off? Your sister needs at least ten minutes.”

Eric nodded, before saying the words he would walk through fire to make true.

As he had walked through fire once before, his cheek scars now blazing with fire all their own.

“I’m on it. Those fuckers aren’t touching Elonia.”

“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Fight well, my son.”

“Yeah, just tell your troops… Elonia’s troops… not to freak out if unexpected guests show up. They’re about to get a fuck ton of reinforcements. Very, very soon.”

A strange pause, and Eric almost thought he sensed surprise. But all she said was, “You would do your father proud.”

“What? Really? Now you’re dropping… never mind. Just keep Elonia safe!”

But the connection had already been broken.

And Eric was already racing with his mounts for all he was worth, giving a whoop and a holler as half a mile became a quarter and then at the peripheral edge of musket fire as first dozens then hundreds of roaring orcs noted Eric’s tusker company and commenced firing volley after volley of shot at him, Eric happily answering in turn with the blaster rifle he now held in his hands.

You have critically struck 15 orcs with Mark I Blaster (15% of baseline) experience earned!

But save for venting for a quick few moments, unable to resist answering the pathetic musket balls which he’d happily laugh off at 200 yards, he snapped back to common sense mode when one musket ball actually managed to hit his cheek, stinging about as much as being beamed by a rubber ball would have a year ago.

Hotblooded he might be, but he still wasn’t stupid enough to charge 8000 or so orcs and dare countless hundreds of muskets firing at point blank range.

Because there was a massive difference between savoring the sheer joy of superhuman stats and a certain amount of damage resistance, and just being an idiot.

Like stopping right before an intact section of the marble wall just two hundred yards from the outer periphery of the closest regiment, with multiple squadrons now taking the initiative to charge forward and eliminate their half-elven quarry. Unless, of course, one had a certain ace up their sleeve, as a coldly smiling Eric happily demonstrated, after mentally directing his tuskers behind him once more, before revealing a slightly modified cannon battery, again sealed in reinforced necromantic flesh, bone, and plates of steel.

The same one he had used before. But these 8,000 or so orcs were 8,000 different individuals presently being commandeered by officers who perhaps only had gotten a sliver of the true dynamics of the going’s-on upon this battlefield.

Because if you lacked a Dominion Interface Map feeding you a constant stream of data in the upper right corner of your mind’s eye, then fog of war was a very real thing.

Besides, the thought of one adventurer affecting the overwhelming tides of battle at this point was about as absurd as a category 4 tornado springing up out of nowhere to blow them all away. Possible, but so damned unlikely that there was little point in worrying about it.

Unfortunately for them, he was most definitely the category 4 that would blow them all to hell.

Which was why a smiling Eric decided to give his flat-footed foes a few extra seconds to appreciate just how deadly an ace Eric had slipped up his sister’s metaphoric sleeve before smacking the central barrel of his deadliest weapon, the air now ringing with the sounds of roaring cannons, dying orcs, and distant humanoid commanders screaming panicked orders as Eric reminded his foes once again that in this corner of the world, ever since the civil war, it was artillery, not guns, knives, sabers, or bows, that had claimed the lives of more soldiers than any other tool of war. And with his ideal kill range being a mile over and above a musket’s maximum range… it was a very good day for cannons indeed.

You have critically struck and killed 269 orcs with necromantically enhanced Cannon Battery! Perk boons in effect. You have earned 15% of base experience!

You have critically struck and killed 374 orcs with necromantically enhanced Cannon Battery! Perk boons in effect. You have earned 15% of base experience!

Eric knew his howling laughter was the farthest thing from healthy. But with the blood of righteous retribution singing through his veins, exquisite memory bringing up a countless barrage of all the atrocities he had seen committed by the orcs in their nonstop campaign of slaughter and brutality; the defeated gazes of children in chains, the desperate screams of mothers and fathers forced to watch their offspring bathe in flames for the gustatory pleasure of these abominations… it felt good. Damn good, to see these foul bastards get shredded in the meat grinder that was 80,000 pounds of heavy artillery, and a hell of a lot of shiny new bronze cannons besides.

So lost did Eric get in his haze of righteous vengeance, as the field of battle became as soup of ruptured corpses, entrails, and blood, with disciplined calls for charges or setting up trenches becoming the disorganized shrieks of fleeing musketeers, that Eric was as caught off guard as anyone else, everyone else, when the barrage of deadly shrapnel finally went silent.

Surprised to find his sweet, sweet stockpile of premade essence-infused shells of unholy death… had just come to an end.

His heart lurched in his chest. Staring at the disorganized, fleeing regiment that seemed to be compressing itself against thousands of more clearly still trying to press forward, before finally doing what he should have done quite some time ago.

He sprinted like mad, just a hundred yards closer to the action, his feet now splashing in a literal swamp of bodies and gore that had become the battlefield before the now completely shredded marble wall, screaming the words that might spell his sister’s salvation.

He could only hope that his miscalculation with the cannons wouldn’t end up spelling all their doom.

“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!” Eric roared aloud, in a voice that echoed eerily through the battlefield, as if somehow bouncing off the perilous cliffs of whatever realm lay a single sweet death away from their own.

Eric shuddered with something perilously close to ecstasy as a sweet, icy shudder of midnight power caressed his soul. Power that savored the fiercely blazing Contender that would shape reality itself to its will, taking a vast gulp of mana, and a sip of Soul Reserves as well.

It was all Eric could do to squeeze tight to himself, feeling on the cusp of exploding in sweet blinding joy or crashing to oblivion. He settled instead for trembling on the muddy ground, crimson ichor squishing between his naked feet as the ground itself seemed to shake and boil as the soup of entrails, shattered bone, and blood began to assemble itself into first a handful of quivering grotesque heaps of sentient flesh, before slowly squeezing themselves into humanoid looking fleshy blobs that could in nowise be called orcs, but pounded their fists to chests eventually, gurgling choking cries from malformed throats making a wheezing chorus of sound that sent the fresh orc regiment even now cautiously approaching the horrors were sent stumbling back, even as the near thousand raised troops began shambling toward the fresh regiment.

“Ave Imperator Abedimus!” the shambling blobs gurgled to the sound of desperate shots and gunfire, Eric somehow not surprised to see the lead shot splashing effortlessly through the blobby revenants, harming them no more than throwing a stone in a lake. A tiny splash and that was all.

The risen dreamers continued to shamble forward, all of their steps in eerie unison.

Eric flashed a fiercely pleased smile. He didn’t care in the least that his latest creations didn’t seem to be doing much damage, moving so slowly while the fresh orc troops retreated in surprisingly disciplined formation.

All he cared about was that the orc commanders were cautious enough, prudent enough, to give Eric’s latest creations a wide berth. Perhaps seeking to flank them, or harry them in better terrain.

All of which meant that, for a few precious moments the area around the breached wall was free of anything save churned earth and broken bodies, though Eric still flinched to hear the desperate hollers of elves and the disciplined gunfire of the countless hundreds of orcs that had already broken through the breach.

Eric clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus and think before he acted, already knowing what his next move had to be as he glared at the soup of broken bodies. Depleted, but far from drained, so many poor fools had he butchered before running completely out of shells.

So he took a deep breath and endured the sweet ecstacy that sent his soul shuddering he feared it try to rip free of its vessel once more, this time crashing to his knees and spitting blood as he whispered the words that sent the pool of the dead swirling to unholy life with even more vigor than before.

Rituals of Summoning and Binding skill check: Critical Success!

Congratulations! Your eternal conscripts have embraced the Call to Battle twice over at a combined cost of 1000 mana and the hidden temporary cost of 1 Medium Long Term Wound, and 40% of your Temporary Soul Reserves! (Hidden cost for bodies reduced to paste being forced to answer your Call!) Note! Your 1600 additionally raised revenants suffer the bane of reduced movement and damage! Your shambling revenants enjoy the additional boon of being immune to all thrusting attacks and most gunfire! Low level enemies will also have to save versus FEAR to effectively combat Shambling Revenants!

Congratulations! You have leveled up! You are now a Level 21 Master Necromancer!

Spirit Mastery is now Rank 28!

Rituals of Summoning and Binding is now Rank 29!

You may now bring back even the most severely damaged corpses, as long as 55% of the remains are on the battlefield in one form or another! Revenants hearing your Call to Battle will now reform 95% faster than normal!

Eric furrowed his brow as he sensed enemy commanders trying to reposition their regiments, thinking it time to throw another card upon the battlefield.

He glared coldly at the tiny figures raising flags and banners, swearing that at least a couple were staring his way, so made sure to give them all the finger as 2350 perfectly preserved orc revenants, all of the with armor and former bayonetted muskets that were now most definitely short spears in pristine condition as Eric roared his orders, Mixed Unit Tactics more than enough for them to understand his intentions perfectly.

Within seconds his ring-stored revenants split in a pincer formation, now flanking the increasingly mob-like cluster of still living orcs presently preoccupied trying to take down just the tiniest fraction of his half-liquid legion.

Confused cries and the panicked, increasingly frantic thrusts of countless orcs did little to stop the shambling walkers. Instead they allowed bayonet and musket to pass harmlessly through their bodies with a soupy splash, before undead arms eagerly wrapped around any orc that got to close. The screams this would earn from their terrified captives was absolutely perfect for the revenants to shoot their half-liquid heads through the mouth of their enemies, drowning them in necrotic soup as they thrashed and clawed at their throats.

This, not surprisingly, had a very bad effect on front-rank moral, yet those in back barely had an idea about what was happening in front, save for the screamed commands of flag-wielding officers whose heads, for some strange reason, kept exploding like melons hit by high caliber projectiles all over the battlefield.

Congratulations! You have successfully struck Orc Liutenant (level 20 Tactician) for Critical damage! Skull integrity has been lost! Your foe has perished!

“What a shame,” Eric tisked, as the tenth flag-wielder he struck from the elevated height of his Tusker’s back collapsed in a bloody spray, the increasingly disorganized enemy troops now truly a mob as Eric’s reserves flanked their prey on two sides.

Eric was no betting man, and his foe still had his revenants outnumbered by more than 3 to 1. Still, he knew the significant advantages that their state of existence and Eric’s class, level, and perks had brought them. Add to that the tactics he silently instilled in them, and he actually dared to hope that the battle wouldn’t be as one sided as some might think.

Or so Eric hoped, before his attention was immediately pulled away from the battle by the desperate cries of panicked, overwhelmed elves.

“Tusker company, move out!” he said as he continued to give silent commands to his troops in his DI Map while racing for the shattered wall so fast that his Tusker’s leap was as fleet as any gazelles as he soared over a massive mound of rubble to behold a scene that sent his stomach plummeting.

Hundreds of orcs in disciplined formation, row upon row aiming and firing in alternating volleys at a dwindling number of fleeing elves that were desperately racing past a handful of trees for a half-constructed keep of granite and wood where several score archers waited upon only partially constructed battlements, with nothing more than longbows, arcane wands, and eyes filled with fear to counter their foes as the orcs pressed their advantage, marching and firing with practiced ease as near two score fallen elves quickly became three.

With the last of the fleeing archers shot down despite their desperate zigzagging retreat, the deadly advantage of musket shot versus arrow volleys was painfully obvious for all to see, as it was nearly impossible to dodge a wave of deadly projectiles fired in unison with what amounted to 10 gauge shotguns at relatively short range.

It didn’t even matter that tactical doctrine demanded Eric spend a quick moment eyeing his surroundings for ambush, sniper, or traps before he immediately roared his tuskers to charge the five hundred or so orcs marching in careful formation. He knew he was taking a risk of unseen predators drawing a bead on him from a treeline that was now far too close for comfort when first one, then a second, and finally a third orc officer wearing black and read soldier insignias that Eric’s exquisite pPrception immediately picked out from the crowd collapsed in death as a snarling Eric lit the afternoon sky with the white hot blaze of plasma beams.

He knew his exquisite memory would forever be seared by the sight of a too young Elven girl racing for her life, looking back for one terrified moment, catching his gaze, daring to flash him a relieved smile… before he eyes widened in surprise, crashing to the ground as a musket ball ripped out her throat.

Just a heartbeat before she made it behind the tree.

A girl who looked so much like Elonia.

Could so easily have been Elonia…

killed in the blink of an eye.

And the scream echoing through the air from one of the soldiers on the battlements, high pitched and despairing, froze Eric where he sat, a storm of pain, despair, and fury, howling through his soul.

The screams of a mother who had dared to dream big and grand, her daughter joining her in dreams of founding a pristine Sylvan sanctuary… only to be forced to watch her only child die just feat away from salvation.

And somehow, the mother’s scream became Eric’s own as his two score tuskers tore through the evenly spaced ranks of musketeers, sending howling bodies flying in the air like ocean spray as endless pounding waves crashing against the shore.

Crimson waves as a howling Eric leaped from his mount in the blink of an eye, and it was a fist blazing with fire rocking into the closest orc skull that exploded in shrapnel and fire.

Then all was panicked confusion and the flash of white-hot mithril streaking through the air as a howling Eric tore through flatfooted ranks, spraying the air with a mist of blood and fire that became the final moments of so many orcs blinking in surprise when a cultivator’s wrath tore through their abdomens, blazed through their necks, and cleaved free their skulls.

A savage bloodthirsty monster who’s glittering eyes promised only death a mere instant before his foes bodies’ crashed to the ground in screams and flame.

“Windfire!” Eric screamed as he darted past a final Berserker’s axe to plunge his own mithril blade deep into the surprised orc’s suddenly bloating body, Qi flooded blade assuring the flash boiling of all its organs before the orc exploded in a brilliant eruption of fiery gore.

Just in time to catch the faces of four berserkers charging him in unison before abruptly flinching and stumbling back, only to find themselves collapsing to the ground moments later, clawing at charred faces, seared open throats, or blinking in death’s embrace as their heads tumbled free of their spurting necks, lifeless remains collapsing to the ground.

And then it was Eric crashing to his knees a second later as his own spiritual reserves plunged to zero, his tuskers immediately shifting from berserking chargers that had torn right through hundreds of orc conscripts to a whirlwind of racing sentinels warding their exhausted master from all angles as Eric wheezed deep breaths of blood-tinged air, trying not to vomit as the red haze of a Berserker’s fury left him, his eyes now gazing between the blurry legs of fast moving mounts, taking in the scope of the devastation all around him.

Congratulations! You have slain 67 Orc Conscripts in Melee combat!

You have successfully slain 12 Orc classers between levels 22-28 in Melee combat!

Experience Earned!

Windfire Strike is now Rank 6!

Fire Fist is now Rank 4!

Swordsmanship is now Rank 24!

Advanced Arcane Weapons is now Rank 9!

You have suffered 4 light wounds from critical musket ball hits!

You have healed 82% of your injuries.

You are temporarily depleted of Spiritual Energy reserves!

Yet Eric hardly registered the hollers and cheers of countless scores of elves popping up out of everywhere, so many more than he had first thought, as if hidden behind every bush and tree and so many more around the battlements than he could have guessed.

Yet it wasn’t their grateful teary-eyed smiles as they called him hero, savior, Elonia’s champion that forced him back to his shaky feet. Nor was it the sight of a full dozen terrified-looking orcs stumbling to their knees, begging for mercy, that Eric promptly shot dead with twelve lightning fast shots of his Mark 1 blaster carbine, delivered so quickly that the orcs didn’t even have time to plead for his mercy before their heads exploded. An act that earned more than a few startled curses before the surviving grateful elves just shook their heads and chuckled with anxious smiles and whispers of the Winter Queen’s get all being the same.

No. What rang endlessly in Eric’s heart was the sound of an elven warrior who had dropped her bow to race to the fallen girl with such beautiful silken curls, the shrieking mother now rocking and cradling the lifeless body of her child. Who, just by chance, was still gazing Eric’s way with wide golden eyes filled with surprise.

Her savior.

Her hero.

Just a handful of seconds to late.

Eric began to shake, a flood of something he could no longer fathom flooding eyes used to embracing the world with a killer’s gaze. His body trembled with something transcending wrath. Heart beating with a white hot fury as he shook and howled and said the words that must be said, would be said.

For he would finish this.

He would finish his foes, once and for all.

All who had betrayed the dream of sanctuary, safety, salvation, that Eric could feel pinging against his soul from the countless shell-shocked elves, more than a few now sobbing over the remains of their loved ones. Loved ones who hadn’t been warriors, but civilians forced to fight to the last man, woman, and child to defend their homes.

Eric couldn’t bring back the countless scores of elves who had lost their lives defending their homes here, or the hundreds, perhaps thousands, who had fallen before the orc incursion over however many months it had been.

But he could force the monsters who had committed such atrocities in life to redeem themselves in death.

To march under Eric’s banner.

Until the end of time.

“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!”

Eric crashed to his knees once more, his exhausted form flooded with the pristine power of death’s blessing he channeled into the fallen orcs, and the fallen orcs alone, with a sublime grace as natural to him as breathing.

Bitter as the taste of this battle was to his soul, at least the mana cost was now zero. For the battle on this side of the wall, at least, had come to end end, with all his enemies either dead or fled.

Your centurai have heard your call!

You have brought 440 Orc Conscripts into your Eternal Service.

You have successfully brought 55 Orc Berserkers into your Eternal Service!

You have successfully brought 5 Orc Lieutenants into your Eternal Service!

Your allies fail to save versus terror!

And Eric said absolutely nothing when joyous cries and hollers of gratitude became gasps of dismay and glares of disgust. No matter that it was tempered with more than a few nods of regret-laden understanding, even respect.

None of that changed the desperate sobs of so many elves now morning over their dead.

He ignored them all as he mounted his tusker once more, raising his shimmering silver ring that caused so many elves to shudder with disgust as silver halos began to shimmer over his freshest troops before they were all sucked into his coiling serpentine artifact, in the blink of an eye.

He glared at his trembling hands, desperate to still his furiously racing mind and embrace even the most basic of a cultivator’s arts, and failing miserably. Too much fury flooded his soul for him to find any serenity, rejuvenation, or inspiration, save the crimson hot epiphanies that battle alone could bring him. At least his mana pool rose at an exorbitant clip. It was as if the field of battle and death now enriched both his Mana Pool and Soul Reserves even faster than the boon of a high mana aura could.

He turned back only long enough to gaze upon the mother sobbing over the still beautiful girl that could so easily have been his sister, before roaring fresh commands to his tuskers, now racing for the grand melee at the heart of the blood-churned battlefield, where the living and the dead struggled for dominance as they all tripped upon countless fallen bodies absolutely littering the blood-soaked swamp that the grassy field had become.