Chapter 129: Chapter 129: The Purist’s Pride

Chapter 129: The Purist’s Pride

The frontline was an absolute nightmare of sound and fire.

Lord Sylas Vane stood inside his heavily fortified command pavilion. The ground beneath his polished silver boots trembled violently.

The deafening roar of the Forge’s artillery echoed across the plains. The air was thick with the unnatural and disgusting scent of burning coal and sulfur.

A battered Elven scout rushed through the tent flaps. His elegant armor was coated in black soot. He collapsed to his knees while gasping for air.

"My Lord!" the scout cried out.

"We just received magical transmission from the rear! The primary supply camp has been completely obliterated! A catastrophic explosion wiped out the entire valley!"

Lord Vane froze. His piercing green eyes narrowed.

"And Commander Ovaris?" Vane demanded coldly.

"Dead, my Lord," the scout whispered in absolute terror.

"His neck was snapped before the explosion even occurred. The enemy stole every single crate of our pure mana crystals. Our fuel lines are completely gone."

Vane’s pristine face contorted into a mask of pure fury. He slammed his fist down onto the heavy wooden strategy table.

The solid oak completely shattered under his immense magical pressure. The map of the continent tore into pieces.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to execute the scout for bringing such humiliating news. But Vane took a deep and highly controlled breath.

He was the Patriarch of House Vane. He carried the absolute weight of his entire clan on his shoulders. He was a proud and ancient High Elf, but he was not stupid. He understood exactly what the Goblin King had just done.

"They blinded us," Vane muttered to himself. His sharp mind analyzed the brutal tactical reality.

"They are hitting our frontline with heavy artillery to draw our attention, and they severed our magical arteries from the shadows."

He stepped over the broken table and drew his elegant longsword.

"Tell the Vanguard Commanders to hold the line!" Vane ordered the scout.

"Deploy the Aegis formations immediately. We have finite mana now. Do not waste a single drop on offensive strikes. We dig in and we weather this mechanical storm!"

Vane marched out of the pavilion and stepped directly onto the battlefield.

The night sky was illuminated by blinding flashes of yellow and orange light. Silas and the Forge’s decoy army were absolutely relentless.

Dozens of heavy steam tanks fired their main cannons in synchronized barrages. Thousands of infantry soldiers unleashed a continuous and deafening hail of lead from their Arcane Assault Rifles.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The High Elven mages scrambled to respond. They were elite and deeply disciplined. They stood in perfect rows and chanted ancient incantations to counter the industrial slaughter.

"Raise the earth!" an Elven captain roared over the gunfire.

Dozens of Earth mages slammed their palms into the dirt. Massive trenches and thick walls of solid granite erupted from the ground. They formed a jagged and heavy barricade across the entire frontline.

"Call the forest!" another commander shouted.

Wood mages channeled their glowing green mana. Giant roots and thick vines burst from the soil, weaving tightly over the stone trenches.

They created a massive, living canopy to absorb the impact of the falling artillery shells.

At the very front, specialized Wind mages stepped forward. They spun their staffs rapidly, generating massive and roaring vortexes of highly compressed air.

The tornadoes acted as absolute physical shields. The endless swarm of bullets from the Forge’s rifles hit the swirling wind and deflected harmlessly into the mud.

For a brief moment, the beautiful and ancient magic of House Vane completely halted the brutal machinery of the Forge.

But industrial warfare did not rely on stamina. It relied on logistics.

Silas stood atop his command tank in the distance and simply smiled. He ordered his men to keep firing. The ammo was practically infinite.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

The Elven mages began to sweat. The continuous casting required massive amounts of magical energy.

The heavy tank shells constantly shattered the earth walls, forcing the Earth mages to instantly rebuild them.

The Wind mages had to maintain maximum output just to deflect the sheer volume of incoming lead.

"Mana potions!" a Wind mage screamed frantically. His nose was bleeding from absolute overexertion.

"Bring the crystals! I am running dry!"

But the supply wagons never arrived. Commander Ovaris was dead, and the fuel was completely gone.

The horrific reality of mana starvation set in.

An Earth mage collapsed onto his knees. He gasped for air as his internal core completely emptied.

The moment he stopped channeling, the thick stone wall in front of him crumbled.

A high-explosive tank shell slammed directly into the gap.

The resulting explosion vaporized the exhausted mage and blew a massive hole in the Elven defensive line.

The living canopy of vines caught fire. The perfect ranks of the Purist army descended into absolute chaos.

The Wind mages began to falter. Their massive vortexes flickered and slowed down.

They pushed their bodies beyond their absolute limits, drawing on their own life force to keep the shields up. It was completely useless.

The wind barriers finally died.

The absolute wall of lead tore through the smoke.

The normal Elven soldiers, who relied on internal mana to project personal shields over their bodies, found themselves entirely defenseless. Their magical barriers flickered and vanished.

The Arcane Assault Rifles did not discriminate. The heavy magical bullets punched directly through their elegant silver armor.

Blood sprayed across the mud. Proud Elven warriors jerked violently as dozens of holes were punched through their chests and limbs.

They fell into the dirty trenches alongside their dying mages. The elegant and beautiful Purist army was being slowly and methodically ground into absolute meat.

There was absolutely nothing they could do to stop the relentless hail of gunfire.

Lord Vane stood in the command trench. His pristine silver armor was splattered with the blood of his own kin.

He watched his proud clan dying in the mud. He looked out at the distant steam tanks. His sharp tactical mind realized the final, terrifying truth.

The tanks were not advancing. They were just sitting back and firing.

"They are not trying to push," Vane whispered in absolute horror.

"They are just pinning us down."

Suddenly, a loud and terrifying roar echoed from the deep woods directly behind the Elven encampment.

It was not the sound of a steam engine. It was a feral, blood-curdling howl of a massive silver wolf.

Vane slowly turned around.

The thick trees at the rear of his camp began to burn with a blinding, catastrophic crimson fire.

A suffocating aura of pure rage and venomous lust washed over the entire battlefield.

The true King had arrived.