Who Are You, Really?

With the stray yochlol slain, this putrid grassland posed essentially no further threat. Ange Watson methodically set up defensive lines according to plan. More bizarre undead unit types marched out of the portal, swiftly setting to work reshaping the grassland into a fortified war zone. Among them were long, train-like undead worms that extruded white walls wherever they crawled. This was a new novelty Anbaixiu had developed using the City of Alchemy's osteogenic virus. The white substance they excreted was not mere waste, but freely pliable bone matter; wherever the worms crawled, they could construct walls of whatever shape was required. This material carried an overwhelmingly foul stench. The undead did not mind in the least since they lacked a sense of smell, but if demons attempted to tear down the walls by force, the far more pungent fluids trapped inside would splatter outward, a noxious reek potent enough to knock even demons unconscious. Dozens of these train-length undead worms crawled rapidly across the terrain, raising rudimentary fortresses one after another. An expert eye would recognize at once that the placement of these bastions was meticulously planned, corresponding precisely to key nodes in a massive magic circle. Then, hordes of wraiths floated out of the portal, settling into designated positions to serve as fuel for the spell formation. Across a radius of dozens of kilometers, gray dust began to drift continuously from the air. This was the Undead Scourge. Living creatures who inhaled this dust would suffer constant erosion from dark magic—at best experiencing severe degradation of bodily functions, at worst collapsing dead on the spot to rise again as undead. Furthermore, wherever the gray dust fell, the undead gained sustained self-regeneration, amplified strength, enhanced resistances, and bolstered magical effects. It also branded every undead within its reach with a soul imprint that triggered an effect akin to a Soul Shriek upon death. Though a weakened version lacking the instant-death lethality for those who failed to endure it, it still struck a blow against the souls of all living beings, causing dizziness, headaches, or various other debilitating afflictions. This was no conventional necromancy, but a newly engineered Undead Scourge that Anbaixiu had developed after consulting countless opinions and references. It could not be deployed in the Prime Material Plane, or the other gods would hunt Anbaixiu down with murderous fury. Against demons, however, anything went. Fearing the spectacle might not be grand enough, Anbaixiu had even gone out of his way to enhance it with alchemy and biotechnology native to Hell. To achieve this, he had been forced to invest yet another fortune to accelerate time and speed up his research and development. Such were the perks of having the God of Alchemy at his back. For other gods, accelerating time by ten thousand years would make little difference; their power stemmed from their divine portfolios, faith, and racial traits—things that changed negligibly over time. Alchemy was different. Even without the slightest growth in divine power, one's repository of alchemical knowledge would expand incessantly, and the creations birthed from it would grow ever more terrifying. Perhaps that was why the Lord of Knowledge was so wary of the God of Alchemy, going so far as to intervene even when mortal alchemists stirred up trouble—behavior that was decidedly uncharacteristic of Oghma. Knowledge run amok was more terrifying than any divine spell. It was only because Anbaixiu was now a devil archduke, on equal footing with Oghma, and because he could personally guarantee control, that Oghma had not stepped in to stop him from running wild. Under the influence of time, knowledge had fermented into monstrous results—namely, the bizarrely specialized undead before Watson's eyes. Ange Watson had never fought a battle with such an embarrassment of riches, yet he also sweated inwardly on behalf of his homeland. Had this devil archduke unleashed these horrors back when he was still a lich, could the Ryan Empire have survived? The Holy Light countered the undead, true enough, but how could these creatures even be considered conventional undead? The ultra-long-range bombardment weapons alone would have slaughtered more than half the Ryan forces before they even caught sight of the enemy. Yet now, with these undead serving as troops under his own command, Ange Watson felt only pure exhilaration. Going to Hell wasn't so terrible after all; he certainly could never have experienced this kind of command while alive. The thundering roar of artillery sounded. The first wave of demons to realize something was amiss had reached the battlefield. Having never witnessed concentrated long-range fire, the demons had no notion of scattering their formation; they merely bunched into a tight mob and charged forward with bloodthirsty howls. The moment they entered range, they were blanketed by saturation artillery fire, blown sky-high in pieces. A single barrage lasting barely a dozen seconds obliterated at least twenty thousand demons. Under Watson's command, the main force operated with clockwork efficiency, leaving Melina and Paluriel—two anomalous powerhouses—with nothing to do. With the fortifications established, the battle turned into a war of attrition between standard units. Exceptional combatants like Melina and Paluriel were kept in reserve, not to be deployed until a critical moment arrived. This left Paluriel with idle time on her hands. Her eyes darted about, sizing Melina up as if scrutinizing a curiosity. Melina, still clad in full heavy armor, sat quietly to one side, meticulously polishing her lance. She wiped away every trace of demon flesh and blood, so focused that she completely ignored Paluriel's gaze. Paluriel finally could not resist speaking up: "You're not Melina. Who on earth are you?" Melina paused her polishing and asked with a puzzled tone, "What do you mean by that?" Paluriel asserted with absolute certainty, "Drop the act. Your disguise is remarkable—even I can't see through your illusion—but you're definitely not Melina. That girl could never be this focused, nor this quiet..." Before Paluriel could finish her sentence, the tip of the lance was already resting against her throat. The speed was inconceivable, as though the spear tip had been aimed at her throat from the very beginning. Paluriel ignored the threat at her throat, murmuring thoughtfully, "I knew it. Melina doesn't have this kind of skill... Who are you? Velsharoon, the God of Liches? No, he doesn't have your presence, and I didn't sense any divine power when you moved... Wait, that's impossible. You're still a mortal! How could a mortal possess such power?!" Yet Melina merely drew back the lance slowly, saying in a calm tone, "You underestimate the power of mortals far too much." With that, Melina resumed wiping down her lance, as though nothing had happened. Paluriel refused to let it drop. "Was this Arthas's doing—getting someone to pose as his daughter to serve as bait? Who is he trying to fool? Cyric, or the demons? Come on, tell me! I swear I won't tell a soul!" Yet Melina remained unmoved, utterly ignoring Paluriel's blabbering. Paluriel could not help gripping her dagger. But the instant a sliver of hostility surfaced within her, she felt an aura of sharpness, tangible as solid steel, bear down upon her. She swore on her divine senses that this was no hallucination; the other party's enmity had truly coalesced into physical substance. "A mortal... Are you really just a mortal? This makes no sense!" Paluriel said in disbelief. The disparity between deities and mortals was more exaggerated than that between men and ants, for deities possessed countless immunities; mortal spells and martial arts were laughable in their eyes. Only legendary figures out of ancient epics had ever managed to slay gods as mortals, and even then, only under strict conditions—they had to strike when the god was in an intensely weakened state. Yet Paluriel now had a chilling sensation: if she truly swung this dagger, the lance would pierce her throat before she could even land a blow. It was absurd. It defied all logic. A mortal this powerful simply could not be mortal; he should have ascended to godhood long ago. But the more mysterious the figure was, the more excited Paluriel became. She had never feared death. So long as it satisfied her curiosity, Paluriel would do anything and pay any price. Just as Paluriel was about to make a move, a projection of Anbaixiu suddenly materialized between them, shattering the tense atmosphere. Anbaixiu glared at Paluriel. "You lunatic, now is not the time to fool around." Paluriel burst into laughter. "I knew it! I was right—that's not your daughter!" Anbaixiu didn't answer. He merely offered a grave warning: "Ruining my plans means you will never wield the power of fate in this lifetime. I always keep my word, as you know full well." Paluriel narrowed her eyes. She never doubted Anbaixiu's words; like herself, he was someone capable of pulling off the most outrageous feats. Back then, she had refused to believe it, which was precisely how she had ended up slain by him and sent to Hell. Had Anbaixiu threatened her with death, Paluriel would have attacked without a second thought. But becoming a divination wizard was a dream she had harbored for centuries; now, feeling herself on the very threshold of success, giving up was out of the question. After weighing her options for a long while, Paluriel said reluctantly, "Fine. You're a devil archduke now; you call the shots." With that, Paluriel turned back to Melina. "Sweet little thing, Big Sister really wants to rip off that helmet of yours right now to see what you truly look like. But don't worry, I'll make you take it off yourself for me." Anbaixiu breathed a sigh of relief. He had genuinely feared the madwoman might start a fight right then and there, which would have thrown everything into complete chaos. Once Anbaixiu's projection faded, Paluriel kept her promise and made no further moves, though she had no intention of dropping her inquiries. "Hey, little one, I bet you're younger than me, aren't you?" "Heh, giving me the silent treatment? Completely immune to my charms, are you? That stings my pride a bit—after all, Big Sister here is an erinyes." "Where did little Melina actually go? Arthas is a cautious man. Since you're an impostor, the real Melina must be hidden away somewhere very safe. Tucked inside that personal demiplane of his, I bet?" "Don't give me the cold shoulder! Who knows if we'll make it out alive once we take the field? If you don't speak now, you might never get the chance." ... Paluriel chattered on incessantly until Melina finally spoke a single sentence: "Do not worry. If danger strikes, hide behind me." Paluriel froze, then burst into laughter. "You? Protect me? With just your—wait, no, you might actually have what it takes. But why would you protect me? You aren't charmed by me, and you don't even know me..." As Paluriel rambled, she was cut short by a simple reply: "Since you and I stand on the same line, we are comrades-in-arms. That reason is enough." Paluriel stared blankly, then scolded with a scoff, "Naive. Clearly a brat who never grew up." This time, however, Melina offered no reply, simply stowing the clean lance and sitting down quietly to rest. Paluriel wanted to provoke further, but she realized this person hadn't merely been uttering suave pleasantries. Paluriel trusted her instincts. This person meant every word. Despite how obnoxious she had just been, this warrior was genuinely prepared to protect her when danger struck. Just who was this person? Paluriel grew increasingly curious, but she did not press the issue, merely observing the figure in silence. No matter how deafening the sounds of battle raged outside, the mysterious figure inside the armor remained utterly motionless. It was as though this warrior was born for the battlefield—experiencing neither excitement nor nervousness, let alone fear. Going to war was like coming home. Such a distinct bearing was truly extraordinary. That fellow Arthas always managed to find such exceptional talents to risk their lives for him. He truly was a child favored by fate. As she was musing, the sudden blast of a war horn rang out. It was a special tactical signal indicating that a formidable enemy had appeared on the field, requiring Paluriel and Melina to intervene. Both rose together and exited the staging tent. Stepping outside, neither needed any guidance to gaze up into the sky simultaneously. A vast swathe of black specks had appeared on the distant horizon—an aerial legion comprised of thousands of beholders. Among them, one beholder loomed as massive as a hill, hurtling toward the undead positions at blistering speed. Paluriel gasped in surprise, "Another quasi-deity! That was way too fast!" Melina spoke up: "Something is wrong. Demons aren't idiots. Why would they employ such piecemeal tactics?" They had just slain a deity-level yochlol; why would a beholder appear all by itself? Even if the enemy intended a full-scale offensive, a group of deity-grade powerhouses should have struck together. Feeding in one by one was nothing short of suicide. Paluriel chuckled. "Little one, that's where you're naive. Demonkind is far more vicious than we imagine. Even powerhouses under the same lord act independently, because none of them can be sure they won't be stabbed in the back mid-assault. "Not even a demon lord can guarantee their minions won't butcher one another. Chaos is the essence of demons—an unpredictable, immutable nature. If not for that, how could Hell have held out for so many years? Rest assured, the demons will only come one by one; they'd never dare rush in all at once." Melina nodded. "Thank you for the insight." With that, Melina summoned a mount—a seemingly ordinary skeletal steed that nonetheless kicked off empty air, galloping straight up into the sky. Watching the Death Knight charge skyward, Paluriel couldn't help thinking that this warrior had been suppressing their true strength all along. Facing so many beholders, if he charged alone, would it force him to unleash his full might? Had this been several centuries ago, Paluriel would indeed have stood by and watched him face the horde alone just to satisfy her curiosity. Yet after spending so long amidst the deceit and treachery of Hell, that phrase—"If danger strikes, hide behind me"—was the first sincere word of care she had heard in hundreds of years. "Seeing as what you said sounded rather cool just now..." Paluriel murmured. Her form gradually faded into translucence, dissolving into an invisible phantom that followed close behind.