The march of General Yvoda was less of a military maneuver and more of a geological disaster.

This was the third day of their march across the Desert’s landscape.

Three thousand strong, the ironclad vanguard moved across the Hudeii Desert in a long, crushing column.

At the front marched the B-class Orc ironclads—towering, muscle-bound warriors whose skin was hardened like weathered granite, their eyes burning with the sadistic joy of coming conquest.

Stone-Skinned Orcs.

Behind them, a lumbering mass of Ogres—C-class brutes wielding massive, tree-trunk clubs—shook the earth with every step, their heavy, guttural roars echoing against the canyon walls.

One-Eyed Orcs.

The remaining D-class foot-soldiers, a swarm of savage, spear-wielding Orcs, trailed in a disorderly, bloodthirsty wake, eager to burn the "rebel" city to the ground.

General Yvoda, a B-class monster of a man with jagged, tusker-like teeth and armor forged from the melted scrap of his victims, rode atop a massive, armored lizard Beast-stage F-class abominations

He didn’t bother with scouts.

He knew the geography; he had marched this route a dozen times to collect the tithe of slaves.

But as the army neared the forest perimeter that bordered the newly transformed Tempest City, the ground beneath their feet suddenly stopped feeling like dry, burning sand.

"Halt!" Yvoda roared, his voice a gravelly boom.

The army ground to a chaotic, shouting stop. The General’s eyes bulged.

The barren, salt-crusted desert had vanished. In its place was a lush, thick, and vibrant forest—a canopy of emerald and gold that shouldn’t exist in this climate.

Massive trees with bioluminescent, gold-veined bark towered over them, and the ground was covered in soft, sweet-smelling moss.

"What is this sorcery?" an Ogre captain snarled, raising his club. "Did we take a wrong turn?"

"This should be the Hudeii wasteland!"

Yvoda didn’t answer.

He stared at the horizon, where the sleek, geometric monoliths of Tempest City rose into the sky, shimmering like jade.

Before he could order the charge, the air grew incredibly heavy.

A terrifying, sub-audible vibration hummed through the leaves, vibrating the very marrow of their bones.

From the dark, shadowed canopy above, a voice like grinding obsidian plates cut through the air.

"The soil of the Feral Domain is not for your filth to tread."

Out of the shifting shadows stepped Elder Croak.

He had shed the look of a frail advisor.

Clad in the terrifying, insectar-etched armor of a High Priest, Croak stood nearly seven feet tall.

His four massive, obsidian-black chitinous arms unfurled, each ending in a blade-like claw that shimmered with divine, white-gold mana.

His compound eyes glowed with a cold, predatory intelligence that made the B-class Orc warriors feel like trapped insects.

"Kill the freak!" Yvoda screamed, panic warring with his ego.

Five hundred Orcs surged forward, their heavy axes swinging in a wave of iron.

Croak didn’t dodge.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply stamped his heavy, insectar-clawed foot into the mossy earth.

Crack-BOOM!

A shockwave of golden, divine mana exploded from the priest’s core—the power of a middle-stage Martial Lord.

The earth beneath the charging Orcs shattered, throwing a spray of jagged stone and holy light into the air.

Before they could regain their footing, Croak vanished.

He moved with the impossible, blurred speed of a predator. He was a streak of obsidian shadow.

A clawed arm swung out, and a line of ten Orcs was cleaved in half, their armor tearing like wet parchment.

He spun, his secondary arms catching the heavy clubs of two charging Ogres, his chitinous plating absorbing the kinetic force of the blow without a single scratch.

"This is not a battle," Croak’s voice echoed, cold and devoid of mercy. "This is an offering."

The Orcs panicked.

They swung their weapons wildly, but the Priest moved through their ranks like a ghost, his claws singing through the air.

Yvoda tried to leap from his lizard-beast, his own granite-hard skin glowing with martial energy, but Croak was already above him.

With a sound like a thunderclap, Croak descended, his claws driving Yvoda into the dirt with such force that the ground sank three feet.

The General’s stone-hard skin cracked, despite being armed with his defensive skill, it shattered.

Croak pinned the Orc commander to the earth, his four blades glowing with the blinding light of Varanus’s favor.

General Yvoda roared, he tried to break free.

It was impossible!

"For the Father," Croak whispered.

In one fluid motion, the priest brought his blades down.

The explosion of mana leveled the forest clearing, vaporizing the lead vanguard instantly.

The remaining thousands of Orcs and Ogres watched in absolute horror as their champion, a B-class powerhouse, was reduced to nothing but shredded armor and dust in less than a heartbeat.

The dominance of a blessed Martial Lord was absolute.

The forest fell silent, save for the hum of the divine mana radiating from the High Priest’s armor.

Croak stood alone amidst the ruins of the vanguard, his compound eyes fixed on the distant northern horizon, waiting for whatever the Troll King dared to send next.

It was an Hour of Terror!

The High Priest of the Church of Varanus showed no mercy.

No matter where they ran to, no matter how fast they ran.

He slaughtered them all.

The spectators who had kept themselves hidden watched in awe, Roy had leaked the news across Tempest City.

This was to bait the spies of the Raksha City and Yeren City.

He needed to make them know how powerful the Church is.

That the High Priest of the Church could decimate an army of three thousand.

Roy was spotted on a tree branch, his legs dangling in the air as he watched, his eyes filled with amusement.

He was accumulating Faith Points in the thousands.

"That Orc’s divine blessing was not a relic but a skill huh?" Roy didn’t try to hide his disappointment, he wanted to devour any divine relic.

Despite the Orc’s defense skill, he was no match for a Martial Lord.

"Well I’m done watching..." Roy dived down from the tree, he landed on his feet with a smile on his lips, "This Faith Points should be enough to purchase divine relics for my people"

He was about to leave when he sensed something. "This is...." Roy turned his gaze, his eyes narrowed to pin-size.

He felt it, the sudden distortion of space, the crawling presence of divinity that suddenly vanished into nothingness.

"This is a divine presence" his eyes flickered, "How could a blessed of a True God produce such strong divine presence?"

"If it isn’t a blessed follower....."

"Has a True God descended?" Roy’s heart skipped a beat.