The serpentfolk army didn’t charge recklessly all at once.
Roughly seven or eight hundred serpent warriors formed a loose skirmish line and slid forward toward the city walls.
These warriors from the northern tribes were tall and muscular, most of them standing over two meters when upright. Though their growth potential was roughly on par with humans, their physical strength at the same level far surpassed it.
Moreover, this expeditionary force was the elite of the serpent race, recently blooded by war—their average level was significantly higher than that of the city’s defenders.
High above, a winged warrior from the birdfolk tribe cautiously clutched a puji in his talons as he flew forward.
He didn’t dare rush too far ahead; if he misjudged his distance, he might end up like the other birdfolk earlier—shot down by a serpent mage’s water bolt and hacked apart after a crash landing.
Judging the timing right, he flung the puji hard toward the serpent ranks.
The little mushroom spun in midair, its stubby legs flailing as it plummeted.
Boom—
A small section of the serpent line erupted, two serpent soldiers thrown aside by the blast.
Yet their scaled armor absorbed most of the impact—they were only lightly injured.
Meanwhile, atop the walls—
“Are you an idiot?! Why did you detonate early?!”
“I—I thought it was close enough! Any later and it would’ve hit the ground!”
Angela silenced the squabbling Puji Masters. “Stop arguing! Send them all out—all of them!”
As the temporary acting commander, she wasn’t a puji specialist by training. All she wanted was for these cheap magical familiars to drain as much of the enemy’s strength as possible before real contact—physical exhaustion would be enough.
Over four hundred Puji Masters remained, and nearly eight thousand pujis surged forth from the open gate in one tide.
Naturally, a stampede broke out.
Most of these new handlers had already forgotten their tactical drills—they just shouted “Charge!” again and again, their pujis obeying blindly.
Fortunately, the little round creatures were light, and casualties from trampling were minimal.
At first, seeing that rolling white wave pour out of the gate, the serpent ranks slowed instinctively.
The sight of a tide of mushrooms flooding the field was visually overwhelming.
But once they realized what they were looking at, mocking hisses rippled through the serpent formation, and the charge resumed, faster this time.
The first serpent soldier to reach the pujis swung his spear—and five mushrooms instantly burst into pieces.
That sight made the others sneer even harder.
Then, the black-and-white tides crashed together.
“Archers! Fire! Fire now!” another officer bellowed from the walls.
“But the pujis are still—”
“Are you brain-dead?! Who cares about the pujis? Shoot!”
Arrows rained sporadically down, mixed with bombardments from the Artillery Pujis atop the walls—an indiscriminate rain of death upon both sides below.
To be fair, these eight hundred serpent warriors had good reason for confidence.
Arrows glanced off their scales or barely pierced without dealing lethal damage. In contrast, a single stray shot at a puji was always fatal.
With both racial and level advantages, once they reached the walls, the defenders’ morale would surely collapse.
But the serpent vanguard commander already sensed something wrong.
His thick tail snapped instinctively, narrowly avoiding a steel fork thrust from the side.
The wielder—a serpent soldier from his own ranks—froze and forced a nervous grin, pointing at a passing puji as if to explain that he’d only meant to strike that tiny creature...
As he fumbled for words, the commander watched in disbelief as another puji darted from behind and latched onto the soldier’s tail.
The serpent spasmed violently, body twisting uncontrollably before crashing to the ground.
He wasn’t dead, but on this chaotic battlefield, paralysis was no different from death.
The commander stabbed two more lunging pujis with his spear, scanning the chaos around him.
Similar scenes were happening everywhere.
When the lines had first met, the issue wasn’t apparent. But now that the armies were fully entangled, he felt as though he were trampling through a field of cockroaches—small, fast, and everywhere.
The little mushrooms darted nimbly through the legs of the towering serpentfolk, slipping through every gap.
Every swing risked striking an ally. To avoid friendly fire, the serpent soldiers had to pull their blows, hesitate—attack rhythm faltering drastically.
Yet they couldn’t ignore the pujis either!
Electric shocks, explosions, poison blasts—there was no end to the tricks these little pests used, and the serpentfolk were miserable trying to counter them.
They were fierce tribal warriors, not specialized anti-mage units. Against these endless, unorthodox tactics, they were at a complete loss.
Even more unbelievable was how lethal the pujis actually were.
A gash oozing blood along the commander’s tail reminded him—when he’d whipped one of those spinning pujis apart earlier, the razor-like edge of its spinning cap had sliced straight through his scales.
How could these humans—so weak themselves—create pets more deadly than their arrows?
Retreat?
Just because of these walking mushrooms?
“Cough—cough—”
He doubled over suddenly, body wracked by convulsions.
A wave of weakness spread from his chest to his limbs—his grip on his weapon slackened noticeably.
He looked up and finally realized the cause: too many pujis had died. The air was thick with drifting white spores, like fog blanketing the battlefield.
Who knew how many kinds of toxins were mixed in those motes?
He raised a hand to signal retreat—
but from behind came the sharp, piercing hiss of a horn: the main camp had already given the order.
Though battered and bleeding, the serpent warriors withdrew in good order, even dragging their wounded comrades back with them.
On the walls, Viscount Knight nearly shouted for a pursuit, but Angela and another officer held him back firmly.
The human soldiers erupted in cheers of relief. They could hardly believe it—they had actually repelled a demonic assault!
A quick count followed: over three thousand pujis dead, a little more than a hundred serpentfolk slain.
Angela, however, felt little joy. There were still many more serpent warriors left—one or two more waves like that, and they wouldn’t hold.
...
On the other side, the serpent chieftain glared at the ragged vanguard that had limped back, his face dark as night.
He had thought this little city would be easy pickings—yet they had lost over a hundred warriors and hadn’t even reached the wall!
“Chieftain, the antidote supply’s running low!”
Most of the survivors showed varying degrees of poisoning. They weren’t regular imperial troops—their logistics were far from complete.
“Give it to those worst off! The rest will endure!”
The vanguard commander, poisoned but uncomplaining, dragged himself to his leader.
“Boss... do we keep fighting?”
The chieftain didn’t answer immediately. His gaze turned to the nearby priest, who sat cross-legged with eyes closed, feeling the flow of magic through the floating Eye of Scrying high above.
After a moment, the priest’s eyes opened.
“There’s still a large concentration of white creatures inside the city—likely the same familiars.”
Hearing that, the chieftain made his decision.
“Order the army—turn west. I recall there’s another town that way.”
Though furious at the losses, he wasn’t about to keep bleeding his tribe dry on a fortress of mushrooms.
Their detached operation had been a “reward” for assisting the demon army—losing more troops would defeat that purpose.
As the unit departed, the chieftain gave a final warning to the priest:
“Next time we meet those damned walking mushrooms, warn me in advance. The blood of our people shouldn’t be spilled for something like that!”