Chapter 114: The Autumn of Adolf (Part One)
After breakfast, everyone dispersed. As Ji Ma was about to cross the entrance of the vortex-like dream realm, she instinctively said, “Xiao Li, remember to pack your things.”
No one responded to her.
Ji Ma turned back and glanced at the dining table, now in disarray. She was the only one left in the entire dream palace.
Ji Ma spread her fingers, and branches resembling spears flew into her palm. She grasped the spear and stepped toward the entrance of the dream realm, her graceful silhouette disappearing into the mist.
Behind her, the dream palace, now devoid of its owner, grew dim under the sunlight. A gust of wind blew in, swirling a few fallen leaves to the ground. The sunlight extinguished, enveloping the entire dream palace in darkness, followed by a thick silence, as if awakening from a dream. The faces that had been filled with laughter now resembled the fading mist of dreams after waking.
Ji Ma’s heart was always cold and ruthless, yet she couldn’t help feeling a touch of sorrow. The barrier outside her tent had automatically dissipated. A sharp voice rang out from outside, “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
“Alright, I’m here.”
She donned a blood-red cloak made of her feathers over her skin that resembled human flesh. She fastened it casually at her shoulder and pushed open the tent door.
The wind carried the scent of burnt flesh and blood, striking her, hardening the softness of her being into something as tough as bronze.
Outside, many were waiting for Ji Ma.
Ji Ma stepped off her floating platform and walked forward, flanked by two standard bearers. On the left stood a warrior of the Blood Demon Clan, clad in heavy armor with reliefs engraved upon it, wielding a battle flag emblazoned with the copper-colored emblem of the Blood God. The flag seemed to emanate the sounds of battle and roars. On the right was a revealingly clad succubus, her long claws gripping a flag marked with the symbol of depravity, from which faces reflecting various extreme emotions appeared intermittently.
Ji Ma stood on her floating platform and coldly commanded, “Bring my dragon, move forward.”
“Yes!”
She stood on the floating platform and soared into the sky.
Below, the sound of pounding hooves filled the air, as the Steel Bull Knights thundered forward with their clattering hooves, followed by the hoofprints of the Demon Cavalry. The demon giants, reluctantly wielding their wolf-toothed clubs under the sting of fire-red whips, marched ahead. The bloodthirsty warriors sharpened their axes and swords against one another, sending sparks flying.
The Secret Keeper stepped elegantly, swinging her six breasts, advancing alongside the army.
The Death Knights rode on floating platforms spewing blue flames, silently flanking Ji Ma. Thirteen warriors of the Demon Clan rode on mutated saw-tailed lions, excitedly discussing and speculating what the slaughter feast promised by Ji Ma would entail. Would it be the total annihilation of the chosen armies of the world-destroying gods? Or rather, a simpler task to slaughter all the gathered forces in Adolf—be they world-ending armies or order forces—slaughtering their way into the imperial palace, beheading all in the harem to present to the Blood God?
Ji Ma didn’t care for their chatter; after all, it was all a lie. She gazed towards the imperial capital of Adolf.
Now she was not far from Adolf. If she were to travel by carriage and race along the imperial avenue, it would take only two days.
Yet, the vanguard was still far from Adolf.
The Eternal Chosen knew that the reinforcements he sent had already taken too long and were missing. He had pulled a few units from his large army, attempting to intercept the vanguard.
What was this?
The path ahead that Ji Ma traversed had no natural barriers to bypass enemy forces.
However, she wondered how long Adolf could hold out. The situation she knew was far worse than what George had told her.
Even if Adolf fell in the next moment, Ji Ma would not be surprised.
…
Inside Adolf city.
On the streets, there were people everywhere begging for water.
“Water, please, give me water to drink.”
“Water, I need water.”
Please, give me water to drink.
The champion marshal responsible for defending this city, Heilberg, probably never imagined that his tower city of Riku would be running out of water while the granaries were full.
He knew that the entire Riku River had turned into a river covered with a layer of white moss, causing everyone who drank from it to fall ill.
Except for a few wells in the city that were not affected, all other wells had been contaminated. And all of that well water was prioritized for the army.
People can go several days without food, but they cannot go several days without water. They would rather die than drink from a river floating with white moss.
Even this small necessity had not been met.
The ruthless witch hunters, with the army’s assistance, had sealed off the foul-smelling well water in a courtyard.
Not long ago, those who had fallen ill initiated a riot. Under the dual pressures of disease and the will to survive, the sick transformed, merging their two eyes into one and growing horns on their foreheads.
Fortunately, Heilberg decisively suppressed the riot and ordered the national defense army to seal all contaminated wells. Even those in prohibited areas were sealed off, inciting dissatisfaction among many.
Conflicts were constant, as people erected makeshift stalls to protect their contaminated water sources.
The witch hunters led the charge, while the imperial army ruthlessly slaughtered those who obstructed them. Along the riverside city wall, the guards shot crossbow bolts at anyone daring to drink water.
Despite this, diseases spread throughout Adolf, tormenting everyone.
The assault on the fire-front city wall finally slowed, giving everyone a chance to breathe. But the soaring cries of angry demons in the sky never ceased.
A sturdy man with a black beard and a scarf removed his sweat-drenched helmet and licked his dry lips.
The water rationed to the soldiers barely filled the bottom of a shallow cup, which was no bigger than his fist.
A drop of sweat clinging to the edge of his helmet looked enticing; he couldn’t resist extending his tongue to lick it, the salty wetness spreading across his palate.
“Hey.” An imperial swordsman nearby lowered his shield, which was marred with numerous slashing marks. “You’re from Kislif.”
“Kislir.” The black-bearded Kislif replied, “Where are you from? Your accent is different.”
“I’m from the Ostama refugee group,” he said. “They say my hometown has fallen, and the entire capital has been reduced to ashes. I barely escaped to Adolf. By the way, what were you shouting just now?”
“Prague stands strong.”
“Prague, huh?”
The closest city to the north had monsters coming down every day, and we need to protect you southern folks from them.
The imperial swordsman grinned with wrinkles forming on his face, unable to contain a chuckle: “Your homeland has fallen.”
“But my motherland hasn’t died.” The black-bearded Kislif’s voice grew tense, hoarse: “The motherland shelters everyone, as long as there is someone alive, then the motherland hasn’t perished. Prague will be rebuilt eventually.”
The imperial swordsman shook his head and laughed: “Maybe it is the end of days. Everyone will die, souls will find no peace, unless the capricious gods bestow their blessings.”
Prague stands strong.
The black-bearded Kislif scoffed, “I know southern folks are weak. If everyone were as weak as you, Adolf would have fallen.”
A giant swordsman carrying a blunted massive sword approached, pointing at Prague, which stood with rows of wooden spikes ready. “Do you know what this is?”
Spikes.
When a large horde of undead attacked Adolf, these spikes had once slain a powerful vampire, extinguishing the ashes.
The giant swordsman set down his giant sword: “Adolf stands strong.”
Before he finished speaking.
The feeble sound of a horn echoed once more.
They all knew this couldn’t be blamed on the horn player; he was ill, and very few people around him were healthy.
“Get up! Get up! The enemy is attacking the city again!”
A sharp wailing voice descended from the sky, and a fireball traced an arc in the air, crashing into the city wall. Many such fire-red arcs followed.
The black-bearded Kislif hurriedly fastened his helmet and crouched before the city wall.
“Boom!”
The fireball exploded about five meters away from him, the heat wave causing the sweat on his golden hair to ignite, and a near cry escaped.
The black-bearded Kislif had grown numb. He looked to the side, only to see the giant swordsman on fire, crying not for help but shouting, “Water! Water!”
He screamed and collapsed, falling to the ground, his body turning black. In his last moments, his charred lips still moved as if sucking water from a pipe.
“Boom!”
“Boom!”
The explosions continued for several minutes, interspersed with flashes of lightning, as the imperial light mages opened fire.
No one knew how fierce the artillery duel was.
The black-bearded Kislif licked his tongue again, slightly soothing his parched throat.
As the frequency of explosions and cries gradually diminished, the black-bearded Kislif raised his head. He looked around and was relieved to see some familiar faces.
The ancient walls of justice in Adolf once again protected their lives.
The walls felt somewhat hot to the touch, but the black-bearded Kislif brought his hand to where the fireballs were being launched.
In the distance, there was a row of catapults seemingly forged from black iron.
Dressed in black armor, the fire-wielders busily prepared ammunition, the raw materials comprised of captured imperial civilians.
The black-bearded Kislif witnessed firsthand those burning people throwing barely alive imperial civilians into boiling oil, some of whom were still alive, desperately reaching for the edge of the pot with scorched hands.
Nearby, a mutated dwarf overseeing the pot hammered them in.
Underneath the oil pot was an extended outlet for oil.
The mutated dwarf used buckets to collect the dripping oil, while those assembling souls crafted explosive incendiaries to be placed on the catapults, aimed at the ancient and heavy walls of Adolf.
Though the black-bearded Kislif had grown numb, he still felt nauseated. He couldn’t help but secretly thank his misfortunes on the battlefield, for they paled in comparison to the fate of those captured imperial civilians.
