They were waiting for the final battle.
Even now, the battle on the battlefield was extremely fierce. There were withered flowers of life everywhere. Fresh blood dyed the earth red, and the rich smell of blood turned this place into a living hell.
But in reality, the real climax of the battle had yet to arrive. Both sides were waiting.
Gibran watched coldly from the side.
He watched as the half-devil worshippers that he had painstakingly nurtured were slowly wiped out.
These fanatics, who could have easily defeated the East County's elite troops of nearly 10,000 people, were slowly grinded to death by Kant's troops like the millstones. Kant's troop crushing them head-on with large numbers.
Those half-devil knights were almost completely wiped out.
There was nothing they could do.
There were too many Sarrandian Horsemen surrounding this group of knights.
Mamlukes, Sarrandian Horsemen, and the desert bandits who rushed up from behind surrounded these knights. Even if they were risking their lives, the number of knights and knight attendants of these knights was greatly reduced.
Not to mention, there were also fanatic footmen who were being suppressed.
They did not have good defense to begin with.
Under that black robe, most of the defense was only leather armor. They did not even wear armor.
They were a group of fanatic believers gathered together. They held longsword and short-handled axe in their hands. Relying on the power given by the demons, they transformed into a terrifying half-demon status and fought with brute force and madness.
Under the frontal counterattack of the elite Rhodok Sergeants and Rhodok Veteran Spearmen, the fanatics suffered heavy casualties!
They were covered by a few rounds of rain of arrows.
They were also bombarded by two rounds of spells.
With the help of the defense and counterattack of the Rhodok soldiers, they were like porcupines.
The number of these fanatics decreased even faster, and the number of fanatics who died in battle also increased. In the end, they turned into corpses on the ground, and all of them died in the encirclement of layers upon layers.
These fanatics were not qualified army footmen, but they could be considered as excellent warriors.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64ce79d606107d003c23ea27", id: "pf-5140-1"})All of them died in battle, but none of them fled.
They were extremely brave.
But Kant had a mocking smile on his face.
Of course, he understood that this was not true bravery, but an action that came from the madness and bloodlust in their hearts, they had completely lost their minds.
It was all because of that lonely figure who was still standing on the battlefield in the end.
Viscount Gibran.
It was all caused by him!
The blood mist was already extremely dense, because the ground outside Mountain of Death was already soaked in blood like a bottomless pit.
There were corpses everywhere, and the fresh blood that flowed out from the corpses was like a small river, like a small stream, like a puddle, like a swamp, and more like a hell that would sink forever!
The battle had temporarily ended with the Mountain of Death, where all the enemy troops had died.
Gibran was the only one left in the Crimson Sect.
He stood alone.
But no one dared to move forward because the thick blood mist seemed to be corporeal as it wrapped around his body. More and more of it piled up, as if it was a terrifying demon from hell.
Baheshtur retreated to Kant's side.
There were still more than a thousand desert bandits remained. They spread out and slowly swam around the battlefield.
Mamlukes and Sarrandian Horsemen, who had lost more than half of their men, also formed a charging formation. They aimed at Gibran from the side and waited for Kant's order to charge again.
This included the Rhodok people as well.
Broad shields and long spears formed a formation.
A low wall was formed.
Each of them was expressionless. They stepped on the corpses of their companions or fanatics under their feet and slowly moved toward Gibran. They formed a dense formation that they were most proud of.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64cc9e79c7059f003e4ad4b0", id: "pf-5109-1"})Around them were the Rhodok Veteran Crossbowmen and the Ravenstern Rangers.
These crossbowmen spread out.
They formed a skirmish line tactics.
The heavy crossbows and battle bow in their hands were ready.
They could aim at Gibran, who was less than 300 meters away, at any time and cover him with rain of arrows.
If they wanted to, they could shoot directly now. After all, to these most elite crossbowmen, it was not a problem for them to shoot at a fixed target with a 300-meter distance away.
However, Kant did not give the order to attack.
He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.
The Sword of King released a faint golden light.
A strong positive energy filled his heart and soul, and it faintly spread out to protect the surrounding troops, forming a seemingly solid force that seemed to want to crush Gibran.
However, a faint power from the underground made Gibran to preserve.
No.
To be more precise, it was a power that came from the towering and steep Mountain of Death behind him!
It was a power that came from the ground that had already turned into a muddy battlefield like a slaughterhouse. The countless corpses of the dead, the remaining resentful souls, the power that came from the media and was forced on Gibran!
Lord of Hell, Lord of sin, Master of Flames, Flensas!
Kant still remembered this title.
He would never forget it.
Because when Gibran mentioned this title, Kant understood that his real enemy was the demon lord of the Abyss who had been sealed underground in ancient times!
"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, Whoosh..."
A gale blew.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "663633fa8ebf7442f0652b33", id: "pf-8817-1"})It was a gale from Mountain of Death that appeared in the void.
However, this violent wind carried an extremely deep negative energy. It whistled towards the direction of Gibran, who was already entangled by the blood mist and was almost eight meters tall. Then, with a faintly discernible sinister smile, a figure appeared in the blood mist.
It was pitch-black in appearance, with a faint flame light and a ferocious goat horn.
"Abyssal demon." Kant spoke softly.
He was not unfamiliar with the figure that was rapidly taking shape in the blood mist.
Once in the ancient passage, he had led a still weak army to fight against the demon lord of the Abyss who had been sealed for ten thousand years and had just escaped not long ago. He had not received much replenishment.
And it was that battle that made Kant realize that this world was not that simple.
Now, he had encountered it again.
But it was not much different from before.
This demon might be powerful, but Kant's army was also much more powerful!
Fifty mages from the Enfath Empire.
Thirty Lion Knights from the Kingdom of Sarleon.
Twenty Royal Knights from the Kingdom of Swadia.
These top-tier extraordinary forces were the true elites who had completely exceeded the regular army. They were that Kant had brought over to
"Hahahaha --"
The terrifying figure broke free from the blood mist.
Or rather, the blood mist was evaporated. Waves of blazing blood-colored flames burned on the gigantic demon body. From the ferocious head of the goat horn to the thick legs, as well as the even longer tail that was still whipping the ground behind him.
And in his hand was holding a long whip that was formed from scarlet blood-colored flames.
The demon lord from Mountain of Death.
Flensas!
