Whoosh—
A massive teleportation portal slowly parted, and several players marched out with steady, rhythmic strides.
They wore rugged camouflage fatigues and steel helmets, trailing a pungent odor of gunpowder and cordite. Pinned to their chests was the sacred gear insignia of the Machine God.
Evidently, they were all members of the Machine Cult.
Leading the group was a fair-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian player whose overhead handle read "Curtis."
"Hahaha, gentlemen! I've been waiting for you!" The hobgoblin general strode forward with a hearty laugh to welcome them.
The military and the Machine Cult shared a remarkably deep partnership. Their interests aligned, their objectives were identical, and Dror had long treated these Starfallen—capable of forging weapons of terrifying power—entirely as "one of their own."
Curtis gripped the hobgoblin's hand firmly, offering a polite smile. "Greetings, General Dror. I've heard much about you. I am Curtis, Senior Imperial Military Engineer."
Sporting spectacles, he looked scholarly and refined, yet the smile on his face held an unsettling edge.
Among the player base in his past life, Curtis had been equally infamous. He was a devout believer in the creed that "explosions and ruin are pure art," to the point where even fellow players considered him a madman.
Although he had only joined the empire during the Version 2.0 Northland Winds update, he had rocketed up the ranks on the back of quintessential American munitions-manufacturing ingenuity, securing the rank of Archmagos within the Machine Cult's Reduction Synod.
By now, the Machine Cult had branched into several sub-sects: the Skitarii Legions, the Cybernetica Legions, the Reduction Synod, the Biologis Legions, and so forth...
Curtis's Reduction Synod specialized primarily in researching weapons of mass destruction and catastrophic ruin, affectionately dubbed by players as the "Mad Bombers' Den."
Curtis's crowning achievement was designing the so-called "magic fusion bomb," which had reduced a remote demiplane into a wasteland smothered in toxic smoke and searing flame, very nearly drawing the gaze of the gods themselves.
"So you are Curtis..."
Hearing that familiar name, Dror beamed with even greater delight. "I've heard of you. You're that genius destroyer!
"Splendid! Our mission this time requires talents precisely like yours! Follow me!"
The players followed the hobgoblin into Evindeldan—or rather, the City of Wyverns—and entered the operational command center housed within the former dwarven royal palace.
A three-dimensional magical illusion materialized over the long conference table. Dror pointed to the ferocious greenskin beasts and said in a grave tone, "These are our enemies: the greenskin orcs.
"They possess immense strength and an utter disregard for death, coupled with an appalling reproductive capacity. According to our intelligence estimates, the orc population on the Ugo Steppe has reached over three million.
"Bear in mind... just one month ago, their population was barely over four hundred thousand. In just a single month, their numbers have increased tenfold!" Reaching this point, Dror's expression grew solemn.
Gazing at that ocean of green, even a battle-hardened hobgoblin could not help feeling a chill down his spine.
Too many. There were simply far too many of them!
If those orcs were allowed to run wild, they would breed a catastrophe far more horrifying than a demon horde.
The players, on the other hand, pulled documents from their coats and skimmed through them attentively, jotting down notes with their pens in a steady flurry of scratching sounds.
After a moment, Curtis looked up, his expression thoroughly unperturbed. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and inquired, "What is His Majesty's objective?
"Merely exterminating those orcs? Or... utterly annihilating the Ugo Steppe, reducing it to scorched earth where no living organism can survive, so the orcs are permanently deprived of soil to spawn from?
"If it's the former, we already have several ready-made plans that can be deployed at any moment.
"The latter, however, poses a bit of a challenge. It could serve as a fascinating new research topic for the Reduction Synod..." His tone was remarkably flat, as if discussing an inconsequential trifle, yet cold sweat beaded upon Dror's forehead.
"I think we could start by destabilizing the local spatial structure, though that might spill over into North Aethel and cause widespread spatial collapse..."
"Archmagos, your magic fusion bomb hasn't been tested on the Material Plane yet. If we throttle the yield, it would be the perfect..."
In just a handful of breaths, these demolition maniacs of the Machine Cult had already plunged into an earnest technical debate over methods to "destroy the Ugo Steppe."
"No, no, no! There is absolutely no need to go that far!"
Dror's mouth twitched uncontrollably. Cold sweat trickled down his cheeks, and the scales along his arms practically bristled.
What horrified him even more was that, as soon as he spoke those words, he clearly caught the unmistakable gleam of disappointment and dejection in the eyes of these Starfallen.
"What a shame..."
"Yeah, for a petty daily quest like this, there was no need to call us at all."
"Tsk, looks like I won't get to use my spatial warhead again."
Dror forced a strained smile and said, "You are all pillars of the empire. It is simply that this operation does not require the full extent of your talents. Aside from eliminating the orc threat, the empire requires the Ugo Steppe to serve as grazing pastures."
Madmen. Every single one of these Starfallen was stark raving mad!
Even hobgoblins, a race born for warfare, only ever schemed to conquer the world, never to annihilate all creation like these players.
In the presence of these deranged players, hobgoblins looked practically like Lawful Good sheep.
Curtis chuckled and replied, "Very well, General. In that case, we'll run a few field tests with some novel 'little toys.' After all, we can't let a live target pool of several million go to waste.
"White phosphorus shells, incendiaries, thermobarics, fuel-air explosives, napalm... we'll line them all up. I'm going to treat these orcs to a proper barbecue."
"Uh... very well. Feel free to deploy them as you see fit." Though Dror did not fully grasp what those names entailed, just hearing them was enough to tell him that these things were anything but "little toys."
"Archmagos, why not employ biochemical agents?" another player asked.
Curtis shook his head. "I observed the Biologis Magos's experiments. These orcs possess a peculiar physiology—they can even metabolize toxins as an energy source.
"From my observations, fire remains the most effective countermeasure. I rather enjoy the sound of their wails as they thrash within the flames. Their corpses also seem to give off a scent reminiscent of burning brush..."
Listening to the players' discourse, Dror was left increasingly flabbergasted, inwardly lamenting that he had been far too soft-hearted all along...
***
North Aethel, within Dragonhead City.
Wyverns circled at low altitude while half-red dragons and tiefling guards patrolled back and forth along the battlements. In the city center, towering edifices of reinforced concrete were under active construction, with plumes of dark smoke drifting up from the outskirts...
After more than a month of reconstruction, the city exuded a distinct "imperial style," a sharp departure from its former days as a satellite city to Corinth.
Following the conquest of North Aethel, an ever-increasing influx of players poured into Dragonhead City, providing new momentum for its rapid expansion while the original residents were turned into cogs within this colossal machine.
"Noodles!"
"Roaaar—"
With a resounding draconic roar, a wyvern flapped its wings and touched down upon the rooftop landing pad.
The knight upon its back was armed to the teeth, draped in crimson-and-black armor and bearing the Dragonblood Count insignia of the Cinder Empire. A silver longsword etched with wyvern motifs hung from his belt, lending him an imposing, majestic air.
Novice players looked on with unvarnished envy, crowding around the wyvern and letting out gasps of admiration, thoroughly dazzled by the knight's dashing style.
"So damn cool!"
"Look, a dragon rider!"
"Is that one of the empire's Redscale Conquerors? That looks so badass! Too bad I started playing late and missed out on the slots."
"He really is handsome! My dream lover is a legendary hero who will one day come to marry me clad in crimson armor, riding upon a wyvern..."
"That wyvern can carry more than one person, right? Big bro, can I ride on your back...?"
One female player even rubbed her hands together in worshipful excitement, itching to leap onto the beast's back and soar alongside the wyvern knight.
Surrounded by the crowd of newbies, Mantou waved magnanimously to the onlookers, boasting with utter smugness, "Haha! It seems my handsomeness radiates from within—not even full armor can conceal it!
"Well then, since I'm in a good mood today, I'll grant you all a bonus treat! Behold my true face!"
Mantou slowly raised his heavy visor, the corners of his mouth curling into a roguish grin that he believed put movie heartthrobs to shame.
In an instant, the entire rooftop fell dead silent.
A bizarre expression settled over the faces of every novice present. The female player who had spoken earlier stood frozen on the spot, her fragile dreams audibly shattering.
"Holy crap... could you please keep the helmet on?!"
"A man's charm really does live entirely in a woman's imagination. Can I take back what I just said?"
Looking at the crestfallen expressions of the newcomers, Mantou's grin froze awkwardly on his face.
—The scene of cheers and swooning maidens he had envisioned failed to materialize.
The female player even took several disappointed steps backward to put some distance between them, muttering under her breath, "Uh, well, according to the empire's new transit regulations, carrying passengers on wyverns is restricted anyway, so I'll pass on the ride."
"Uh... his gear looks nice, at least."
"True. As expected of a veteran player, that full set must cost well over a hundred gold pieces."
"Yeah, it's just that his face is... well, hard to look at."
*Why did the mood die the second I showed my face? Am I really that hideous?*
*Even if I'm no peerless beauty, I'm at least clean-cut and presentable! Average at worst!*
At that moment, Mantou wanted to cry but had no tears. The whispered critiques from the players felt like sharp daggers plunging mercilessly into his heart.
After a long while, he thickened his skin and blurted, "Attractive faces are everywhere, but fascinating souls are one in ten thousand! Can't you feel the inner beauty radiating from my soul?"
The surrounding air froze once more. Under Mantou's mournful gaze, that same female player shook her head with unwavering resolve.
Suddenly, someone in the distance pointed at him and shouted, "Holy shit, isn't that Old Thief Mantou?! He hasn't updated his video channel in over half a year!"
"It really is him!"
"Look at that punchable mug—that's Mantou alright!"
"Damn, I almost forgot what he looked like! Who knows how long this bastard's been on hiatus!"
"Beat this old pigeon to death!"
Instantly, veterans and newcomers alike surged forward in excitement, some even brandishing warhammers and battleaxes, eager to vent the pent-up frustration of being abandoned for over six months.
"You're Mantou? The content creator who made those Elezerg gameplay videos?"
"I remember now! I started playing this game because of his guides! He just has an utterly unmemorable face."
Several novices finally recognized him as well and chimed in.
"Oh, I get it now! You were just doing that for content!"
"Are we going to be in the video?"
Mantou wept inwardly, but he still forced a strained smile and played along. "Ah, right! Of course I did that on purpose—just gathering some entertaining footage!"
"No wonder you sounded so full of yourself!"
"Hahahaha, and here I thought you genuinely believed you were handsome!"
"Yeah, you made it so awkward I didn't even know what to say! Turns out it was just a bit!"
Amid the cheerful laughter of the newcomers, Mantou quietly turned his back on the crowd and gazed into the far distance. In the biting wind, an expression weathered by life's trials settled upon his face.
*Lies cannot wound a man; the truth is the sharpest blade.*
Meanwhile, his veteran viewers crowded in, hemming him in on all sides and crying out in righteous indignation, "Mantou, where's the new video?! Where did you post it?!"
"Mantou, you flaked again!"
"You dead eunuch!"
"It's in the works, it's in the works, stop yelling!" Mantou ducked an egg flying toward his head.
His face flushed red, veins bulging along his forehead as he argued defensively, "Can gathering research material really be called flaking?! ...It's called research!"
Then followed a string of incomprehensible excuses about "crafting better content for the audience" and "sharpening a sword for ten years," which sent the entire crowd into roars of laughter.
"Roaaar—"
A resounding dragon roar tore through the heavens as another massive shadow swept over the ground. High above, another wyvern circled downward.
This wyvern was draped entirely in lustrous silver barding trimmed with crimson ribbons, looking far more majestic than Mantou's mount.
"Who's that? He looks way cooler than Mantou!"
"Why is his mount geared up too, and in Rare-grade equipment at that?! Where did this tycoon come from?!"
Boom!
Amid swirling dust, the heavily armored knight steered his mount smoothly onto the landing pad, his movements far more effortless and graceful than Mantou's.
The knight flipped up his visor and called out to Mantou nearby, "New war mission. You in?"
"Whoa, he looks familiar!"
"Wait, that looks like Master S! A top-tier legend!"
"Holy crap, Singo?! That's the runner-up from the last World Championship! The god who took on massive guilds as a solo player!"
"Now that wyvern knight is truly handsome! To think he looks like that under the helmet! It's Big S! I've been a fan of his forever! I'd love to ride behind him..."
In the blink of an eye, the players abandoned Mantou entirely. Even the female player found a new target to swoon over, instantly declaring herself a ten-year veteran fan.
Watching this desolate scene unfold, Mantou averted his gaze and snapped irritably, "Let's go! Off to the quest! These shallow, vulgar mortals are only ever drawn to pretty window dressing..."
"Roaaar—"
The two wyverns beat their wings in succession, launching into the skies and streaking toward the northeast, one after the other.
Chapter 659