Highfort Fortress stood tall atop a mountain of corpses and seas of blood.
Beneath its colossal walls, human and demon corpses piled together, their mingled blood soaking deep into the soil, dark red stains long since dried and hardened.
Among them, the enormous gray-green bodies of dead trolls were particularly eye-catching—fallen like small hills beside shattered siege engines.
In this gruesome war of attrition that devoured lives like a meat grinder, even trolls—known for their powerful regeneration—fell like harvested wheat before the scythe.
The human defensive lines at the foot of the fortress, painstakingly reinforced, had been blasted to tatters by wave after wave of assaults. Several key points had nearly been torn open completely more than once.
Only the relentless bombardment from the rear magic towers had managed to barely stabilize the situation, forcing the demon army to retreat temporarily.
Now, engineers and mages were desperately patching the fortifications, using the brief respite bought with countless lives.
But Alamar knew—this couldn’t last.
Facing the combined assault of three demon legions, even the famously impregnable Highfort Fortress now resembled a lone ship in a storm, struggling against crushing waves of pressure.
And worse still...
Alamar’s left hand pressed hard against his waist. Between his fingers, black shadow energy churned, wrestling against the soft glow of healing light—pain and numbness stabbing deep into his nerves.
This was the price he paid for his carelessness.
He recalled that hateful, fat face of Sigismund.
That sly bastard had gone to great lengths to disguise himself as a pleasure-obsessed glutton, losing battle after battle so convincingly that Alamar had lowered his guard completely.
Until the last pursuit—when the beast finally bared its fangs!
The three demon dukes had attacked together, and among them was an unfamiliar one—Veyralis.
Her fighting style was bizarre beyond comprehension. During the chaos, she had burst forth from his own shadow and literally bit off a chunk of flesh and armor from his waist.
If not for his loyal Ironfir Knights forming a living barricade with their bodies—and for some reason, Sigismund suddenly muttering something about “where’s the honey” and withdrawing mid-battle—Alamar might have died in that ambush.
Now he finally understood why Sigismund had gone to such lengths to seal the border.
But what puzzled him was—
According to all known intelligence, the mad half-demon “Veyralis the Insane” should still have been stationed on the Empire’s eastern front, locked in a standoff with the dwarves of Red Copper Mountain.
So why was she here, joining forces with Sigismund beneath Highfort Fortress?
Had something happened to the dwarves?
The answer came swiftly.
A soldier from the intelligence division rushed up and reported, “Lord Alamar! The dwarves have suffered a massive elemental outbreak! A quarter of their territory is engulfed in war—they can no longer hold the Empire in check!”
Alamar’s expression darkened. “An elemental outbreak? When did it start?”
“About half a month ago!”
“Half a month?!” His voice rose in fury. “Why is this vital intelligence only reaching us today?!”
The soldier’s face was full of helplessness. “My lord, you know the Dwarven Kingdom lies beyond the Strawman Abyss—that place blocks all magic communication! And the dwarves initially tried to hide the truth. When our scouts finally uncovered it and attempted to return, the elves suddenly activated a massive interference array over the entire border! In the end... in the end, it was thanks to the pujis and their ‘fall-resistant’ trait that we managed to send word through the Abyss at all! The message only arrived late last night!”
“Dwarves! Elves! Of all times to start trouble—!” Alamar slammed his fist against the table, making the map scrolls tremble.
But anger soon gave way to dread.
Wait... if the dwarves had collapsed and the eastern front of the Empire was now clear, then the Empire’s pressure there should’ve been lifted. In theory, they should’ve had ample troops to redeploy westward.
So why had only Veyralis’s legion arrived?
Unless...
Alamar’s face turned ashen. He spun around and sprinted toward the communication chamber.
He had to warn Duke Brennus on the northwest front—immediately!
But just as he flung open the door, he collided head-on with a messenger stumbling in from the corridor. The man’s face was bloodless, his entire body shaking uncontrollably as if he had seen the world end.
“Duke Alamar! Terrible news! The northwest— the northwest front has fallen!” the messenger cried, voice cracking. “A demonic war beast appeared on the western line! Sword Saint Elvien did slay it, but the vampire prince Visarius was hiding within its corpse and ambushed him! The Sword Saint is gravely wounded! The army broke ranks—Duke Brennus is retreating with the remnants... they’ve fallen back to Three Mountains City!”
“Three Mountains City?!” Blood surged in Alamar’s chest, making the wound at his waist throb with fresh agony.
Three Mountains City was only a few days’ march from Highfort Fortress—essentially their last real line of defense.
If that fell, Highfort would be surrounded from both sides, doomed no matter what.
And once Highfort—the northern gate—collapsed, the Imperial Army would sweep in unhindered. The fall of the United Kingdom would be only a matter of time.
Even now, the entire southwest was technically still unoccupied only because the demon legions were too busy crushing Brennus’s broken forces to spread out.
In truth, those lands were already lost.
But it wasn’t over yet.
Alamar drew a deep, pained breath, forcing calm into his trembling body.
His gaze shifted between the two terrified officers. His voice was hoarse from restraint, yet steady as steel:
“Then... what about Oath City? Any word from there?”
“Yes—yes, my lord!” The messenger handed him a copied report.
Alamar unfolded it and scanned quickly.
Aside from the news of Brennus’s defeat, it detailed how the remaining forces were being reorganized.
In short—the situation had become one of life and death. The United Kingdom was throwing in everything it had left.
Grand Duke Lorenzo of Oath City had personally mobilized his legions and mage corps, marching day and night to reinforce Highfort Fortress.
Brennus’s remnants were being supported by the Church in turn.
It wasn’t clear how a single knightly order and a priest corps could possibly stand against the demon army—but at this point, Alamar could only hope they could hold for a while.
At the end of the message was a handwritten plea from Lorenzo himself:
“Before our reinforcements arrive—Highfort Fortress must stand!”
“...You think I need you to tell me that?”
BOOM——
A deep tremor shook the fortress.
The demons were attacking again.
Returning to the walls, Alamar’s eyes immediately locked onto Sigismund—
That bastard stood casually between the armies, smugly scooping honey from a jar and eating spoonful after spoonful, as though victory were already his.
Alamar clenched his fists.
He wasn’t about to lose that easily!
He drew his sword and raised it high, blade glinting under the blood-red sky.
“ALL TROOPS—TO ARMS!”