Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 539: Ambush (II)

Chapter 539: Ambush (II)

The riders moved with well-honed discipline, swiftly traversing the two mountain ranges that framed the narrow pass. Hooves pounded against the rocky terrain in a relentless rhythm, and the soldiers perched atop their steeds and scanned every crevice and cavern. Nothing escaped their vigilant gaze. Within minutes, they had combed every recess of the mountains. Then, in a practiced maneuver, they regrouped near their leader.

"Lord Zalasar," one of the scouts reported, "we searched the entire mountain range. There is nothing there."

Zalasar narrowed his eyes as he considered their findings. He trusted these men implicitly; they had served under him for many years, proving their loyalty and demonstrating a singular combination of skill and efficiency, so if they say there was nothing, then even if he went himself, there would be no trace of enemies.

Yet the heaviness in his gaze did not dissipate. He glanced at the long caravan behind him—a collection of wagons and armored vehicles carrying precious cargo. Given the incredible value of what he was transporting, he dared not disregard the reaction of his instincts.

A steely resolve gathered in Zalasar’s expression as he reached for his sword. Set into the hilt was a brilliant gem, fiery red in hue, which pulsed faintly with arcane energy.

The soldiers’ eyes widened; they knew exactly what their Lord was about to do. Almost at once, they galloped back several hundreds of meters, giving him a clear radius. Zalasar lifted his blade high, letting out a steady exhale, and then brought the sword down in a decisive arc.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, the jewel in the hilt flared with scorching brilliance, releasing a raging torrent of destructive energy that burrowed into the ground. A heartbeat later, the entire road ahead and both mountain flanks trembled violently, crimson cracks racing across the rocky surface.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!"

An immense eruption tore through the pass. Fire, molten stone, and compressed shockwaves flung boulders the size of houses into the sky.

The caravan behind Zalasar rocked under the force of the blast; even experienced soldiers had to brace themselves as debris rained down. Yet amid the inferno of flame and ash, something else drew every eye: thousands of twisted bodies were catapulted skyward, their limbs flailing in grotesque arcs. They crashed back to the earth, mangled and lifeless.

Soldiers stared in awe at the carnage, then turned to their commander with pure respect. Had the convoy proceeded further into the pass, they would have marched directly into a perfectly staged ambush—and been annihilated.

Their Lord’s precautionary measure had saved countless lives. But the moment of astonishment was short-lived, replaced by tense focus as they realized the danger was far from over.

Those bodies that littered the ground were only the weaker combatants—mere cannon fodder in the service of a larger force. Hundreds of surviving Vorometallicae warriors now emerged from fractured rocks and smoldering crevices. Their auras surged like tidal waves, none weaker than Level 15, and quite a few exuded energy at the Guardian Tier.

At their head stood a towering figure, nearly eight meters tall. His entire form was sheathed in metallic flesh, studded with jagged spikes that jutted from his shoulders. A seething core of molten energy glowed at the center of his chest. His colossal halberd shimmered in the ash-laden air, its blade wreathed in scorching flames.

The Vorometallicae surveyed his decimated ambush force without a flicker of regret. His only reaction was to lift that burning halberd and point it forward.

Instantly, a roar of primal rage erupted from the horde. "ARRRHHHGGGGHHHH!" The ground itself seemed to tremble under the weight of their collective fury. Each Voroe warrior stood as an imposing humanoid figure. Their metal-infused bodies were streaked with glowing veins of volcanic minerals. Some had obsidian steel plating grafted into their flesh; others glimmered with streaks of storm silver or voiding. Their armor bore runic etchings that pulsed ominously with arcane power, channeling physical and magical might.

Many Voroe carried massive, jagged weapons: axes the size of doors, maces studded with crystalline shards, and swords shaped like curved, serrated claws. Others had integrated such weapons directly into their limbs, forging gruesome amalgamations of flesh and metal. Meanwhile, a few larger Voroe behind the lines raised their arms and began weaving chaotic magic, fire and lightning snapping around them like living serpents.

Still mounted upon his colossal warhorse, Zalasar showed not a flicker of fear. He had seen many horrors in the Land of the Three Calamities. Once the battle began, there was no turning back; now he had to lead his forces decisively or risk annihilation.

"Forward!" he shouted, voice booming over the din. "Spread out along the flanks to minimize their spells. Concentrate your own magic on their center. Close any gaps as you advance!"

Decades of training took hold. The riders fanned out in a synchronized pattern, forming a protective arc around the wagons. Mounted archers readied their arrows, each arrowhead etched with magical runes. War mages positioned themselves strategically, chanting under their breath as they summoned swirling energies of fire, ice, and storm. Meanwhile, knights in heavier armor spurred their steeds forward to meet the Voroe in direct melee, trusting in Zalasar’s leadership.

The imposing commander, clad in demonic armor, still at the forefront, tightened his grip on the reins of his warhorse. In an instant, the energies of man and beast intertwined, amplifying each other’s strength.

With a simple nudge of his heels, Zalasar urged the warhorse into a charge. It galloped ahead with explosive momentum, sonic booms echoing in its wake. The massive steed left trails of searing hoofprints on the scorched earth, its ironclad form resembling a living battering ram.

A deafening roar erupted from the Voroe lines as they saw Zalasar closing in. The front ranks raised their weapons high, preparing to skewer man and horse alike. Yet their strategy proved futile. The warhorse’s momentum was unstoppable, and the first wave of Voroe were cast aside like rag dolls. Metallic bones cracked under the punishing impact, and many died before they even hit the ground. Others managed to strike with their oversized weapons, only for their blades to shatter against the steed’s reinforced armor.