Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 668: Korokor Mountains’ first battle

Chapter 668: Korokor Mountains’ first battle

Marshal Maximo caught Spartacus mid-air as the wounded Legend crashed back from the battlefield. His expression tightened into a sharp frown as his eyes scanned the man’s injuries.

The armor across Spartacus’s chest had been shattered, revealing fractured bones and a sickly black mist spreading from within the wounds.

Kutun’s punches had done more than break flesh and bone—they had imbued Spartacus with the chaotic, insidious energy of The Darkness, a cursed force that was now seeking to worm its way into his internal organs.

If it succeeded, the damage might force the Space Master to be placed in the Marshal Castle’s stasis chamber.

Without hesitation, Marshal Maximo reached into his space ring and pulled out a shimmering silver parchment laced with intricate runic etchings. He pressed it against Spartacus’s chest.

The parchment pulsed with light and instantly fused with his skin, forming a seal over the wound. A moment later, it began to draw the chaotic energy out of the muscle and tissue, absorbing the taint before it could spread deeper.

Had the chaotic energy reached the organs, even this Runic Formation might not have been enough. But thanks to Maximo’s swift response, the corruption was still shallow. In seconds, the last of the black mist was drawn away.

A small smile flickered across the Marshal’s face as he saw the pain ease in Spartacus’s eyes as he withdrew the parchment. Even if it had only lasted a few moments, the energy left behind by Kutun had been dense and incredibly painful—like burning poison, eating its way inward.

With the immediate danger gone, Spartacus gave Maximo a nod of gratitude before flashing away to the rear of the battlefield to tend to his remaining injuries.

He had already severed two of Kutun’s arms and delivered a crippling blow to the enemy’s pride. Even if he returned now to the Golden Sky Fortress for recovery, none would dare question his contribution.

With his friend safe, Maximo’s expression hardened once again. His eyes glowed with divine wrath and thunder crackled around his towering form as he raised his sword high into the sky. Storm clouds churned overhead, answering his unspoken command.

"Their leader is gone! Kill every last one of them. For Graecia! For The Light!"

The heavens seemed to tremble as Maximo brought his blade down, sending arcs of blinding lightning into the enemy ranks. Dozens of Vorometallicae warriors were annihilated in an instant, while hundreds more were sent flying like ragdolls.

Seeing their Marshal unleash such divine fury filled the Graecian forces with renewed vigor. A thunderous war cry swept across the battlefield.

"FOR GRAECIA! FOR THE LIGHT!"

Empowered by the charge of their commander and the knowledge that the enemy’s leader had retreated, the Graecian warriors surged forward with unstoppable momentum. Every sword, spear, and spell pushed through the chaos like an unstoppable tide.

The Vorometallicae, mighty as they were, found themselves overwhelmed. Their defensive formations cracked and collapsed. Their numbers began to dwindle. One by one, their positions fell, until finally, they had no choice but to retreat—abandoning even the fortified stronghold they had built into the Eclipse Battlefield.

For the first time in over a century, the Golden Sky Fortress had claimed full dominance over the Eclipse Battlefield.

And the march into the Void Heart Fortress had begun.

...

The Void Heart Fortress stood like a cursed colossus—its blackened walls rising into the sky like the jagged teeth of some sleeping god. Chaotic magic radiated from every inch of its surface, and its fortifications pulsed with sickly, flickering light. Unlike the clean, well-ordered tiers of the Golden Sky Fortress, this stronghold was pure brutality and survival.

There were no segregated districts within the Void Heart. The Vorometallicae didn’t believe in aristocracy. There was no hierarchy based on birth—only strength.

If someone wished to live in the deeper, more fortified levels of the fortress, they could do so—but only if they were strong enough to survive. Otherwise, they’d be killed and robbed within hours. Bloodshed was a way of life here.

Hundreds of Voroe perished daily inside the fortress walls. No one cared. The strong survived. The weak became resources.

Yet, despite their brutal culture and normally chaotic structure, the fortress was now undergoing something rarely seen: order.

The walls were lined with ranks of warriors. Magical formations were charging with terrifying amounts of energy. Spells, artifacts, and siege weapons were brought forth. Chaotic priests summoned wards, while mages reinforced the seals laced throughout the fortress. All attention was focused outward—toward the invaders that would soon arrive.

Scouting parties had already been dispatched. Maneuver units were flanking through distant valleys and unguarded routes, seeking to slip around Marshal Maximo’s main army. Their goal was simple: cripple the supply lines. Strike from behind. Bleed the human forces from within.

One such battalion marched toward Korokor Mountain, led by three Voroe Legends and composed of thousands of troops—three hundred Sages and nearly two thousand Guardians.

The Guardians, monstrous humanoid beasts of stone, fire, and metal, moved in perfect lockstep. Their red eyes burned with unthinking bloodlust, the result of powerful enchantments that stripped them of reason and left only killing instinct behind. They were weapons, not soldiers—meant to die, to overwhelm, to exhaust.

Above them, the three Voroe Legends flew forward like ancient war gods. The one leading them resembled a six-winged humanoid eagle, his body composed of molten fire ore. He raised a blazing hand and gave the only command that mattered:

"Kill them all. Leave nothing standing."

The battalion surged forward like an avalanche of death, closing in on the human stronghold built at the mountain’s mouth—the last barrier before they could strike at Maximo’s back.

As soon as they came within five thousand meters of the walls, the fortress stirred.

Runes lit up. Wards flared. Magic circles activated.

BOOOOOOM!

Blazing fireballs erupted from the stronghold’s defensive structures. These were not casual spells—they were anti-army enchantments fueled by entire arrays of Sage-level mages and legendary runes. The blasts raced across the battlefield, detonating with the force of volcanic eruptions.