Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 685: We must grow stronger

Chapter 685: We must grow stronger

An ominous chill seized the hearts of the Vorometallicae Legends when they noticed the faint smile that curled over General Tiberius’ lips. They didn’t know what it heralded, but every instinct warned them it was nothing good.

Almost immediately, they witnessed the remaining energy within the towers surge into the ground beneath the Korokor Stronghold, before radiating outward in a sprawling array of magical formations.

In the span of a heartbeat, a massive magic circle manifested—spreading across dozens of kilometers, right beneath the Vorometallicae ground forces.

Whatever excitement or bloodlust had been coursing through the Voroe abruptly drained away. The new circle crackled with energy far beyond anything those towers should have unleashed, suggesting that something—or someone—far more powerful had prepared this magical trap. The tower’s energy, it seemed, had only been the final catalyst.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!"

Before the Vorometallicae could react, an apocalyptic burst of fire and destruction erupted from the intricate runes. The Korokor Mountain range was suddenly swallowed by a sea of flames, the roar of the inferno drowning out every other sound.

The Voroe Legends managed to hurl themselves into the sky, desperate to escape the fiery onslaught, but they weren’t unscathed. Burns seared their limbs and torsos, pain lancing through them.

Though such injuries weren’t severe enough to cripple them permanently, it was a brutal shock to their confidence. Worse still, they realized in horror that their remaining ground forces below stood no chance whatsoever.

Safely inside the Korokor Stronghold, the Graecia soldiers could only stare in awe and grim satisfaction at the carnage unfolding. The design of the circle ensured the stronghold’s defenders stood at the calm center of a deadly storm—a "safe zone" meticulously excluded from the blazing formation’s effects.

And so they all bore witness to what became of the Vorometallicae beyond their protective barrier.

The High Champions—those thralls who’d mindlessly hurled themselves at the force field—were obliterated almost instantly, their frail bodies incinerated in seconds without time to scream, while the fate of the Guardian Voroes was similar.

Meanwhile, the Sages and Half-Step Legends, too resilient to die swiftly, suffered the cruelest fate. Their unnatural endurance now became a curse. The fire invaded every orifice—eyes, mouths, noses, ears—consuming them from within in a spectacle of inescapable agony. Their howls of torment filled the air, echoing across the flames.

It was clear to every soldier present that whoever had crafted this magic formation had been not only a being of immense power but also one who bore the Vorometallicae a merciless grudge.

After what felt like an eternity of horror—though in truth it lasted only ten seconds—the magic circle began to flicker. Its reservoir of destructive energy spent, the formation shattered, and the flames receded. Nothing remained of the Vorometallicae who’d been trapped inside—only ashen remains and scorched earth for miles.

General Tiberius stared out at the smoldering aftermath, his eyes cold and pitiless. His gaze lifted to the Voroe Legends still hovering high in the sky, meeting their hate-filled eyes with a calm, unwavering challenge. Among them, the wingless, ice-wreathed draconic Legend regarded Tiberius with a tangible thirst for vengeance, his entire frame shaking from the urge to tear the general limb from limb.

Yet the Voroe Legend didn’t descend. He understood the risk. Perhaps he and his fellow Legends could press the attack and kill Tiberius and his two allied Legends, but hundreds of Sages still waited within the stronghold walls. Though those Sages might be weakened from the drawn-out fighting, a carefully timed combined strike could be lethal to even a Legendary entity. One barrage of one hundred Sage Tier spells was enough to put any Legend’s immortality to the test.

Fury and frustration glowed in his draconic eyes. Eventually, with one final glare of pure malevolence, he turned away and flashed into the distance, leading the other Legends in retreat.

From the ramparts of the stronghold, victorious smiles broke across the faces of the Graecia soldiers. Although forced to take refuge in their fortress—technically, a retreat—they had pulled off a cunning reversal. They had turned what looked like certain defeat into an overwhelming triumph, annihilating the entire Vorometallicae army below the Legendary tier.

However, before they could fully indulge in celebration, General Tiberius’ voice thundered across the stronghold walls.

"Do not let this victory blind you! We were defeated today."

The echoes of his pronouncement rippled through the newly emboldened ranks, the jubilation in many faces dimming. A hush replaced the cheering as eyes turned to their general, all too aware of the injuries that covered his body and the losses they had suffered.

Tiberius surveyed them with a grim expression. His own wounds still bled, but his voice radiated an unyielding determination. "We were forced into our stronghold," he continued. "Their power and numbers overwhelmed us. If not for the High Legendary Magic Circle set in place—if not for the cunning and preparation—this day would have ended very differently. Our enemy has seen us bleed."

His words were harsh, but it was a truth every soldier needed to face. They hadn’t truly outmaneuvered or outmatched the Vorometallicae so much as they had sprung a deadly trap laid by someone with divine-level runic skill. Today’s success hinged on careful planning and perfect timing, but next time?

He let the moment of gravity settle before he spoke again. "They’ll come for us again—we all know it. And next time, they won’t march blindly. Use the time we have to train and grow. Strengthen your bodies and your resolve. Replenish your potions. Repair your gear. We have no second chance if we’re caught unprepared again."

The general paused, scanning the battered faces of his troops. Many bore the scars of half a year’s worth of unrelenting combat. Others had lost friends just hours ago, their expressions a blend of sorrow and rage.

Tiberius drew in a shallow breath, steeling himself. "We can’t rely on one-time stratagems and hidden trump cards to save us every single engagement. The next time they come, we must have grown stronger, more united, more determined."

His voice dropped an octave, deepening the weight of each word. "Otherwise," he said, "we’ll be the ones reduced to charred husks on this ruined mountain."