Chapter 1138. A Plan That Was Completed Before Your Key Was Forged

Chapter 1138: 1138. A Plan That Was Completed Before Your Key Was Forged

The verbal assault escalated with the speed of a spreading wildfire. Accusations became projectiles, hurled across the narrow gap between the two armies with venomous intent.

Voices rose in a cacophony of rage: soldiers from Aethelgard shouted about duty and law, while the Underlayer warriors roared back with curses that spoke of centuries of accumulated hatred.

The temperature of the confrontation didn’t just rise; it became molten. On both flanks, the scrape of leather against armor and the creak of tightened sword hilts echoed through the stone passage as men prepared to die.

Apollo Brightsoul watched it all, his golden eyes tracking the movement of every tense muscle and every trembling finger. He let the chaos reign for exactly thirty seconds long enough to gauge the breaking point of both sides.

Then, he acted.

"ENOUGH."

The word wasn’t merely spoken; it was commanded. He channeled the raw resonance of his life affinity into his voice, sending a harmonic shockwave through the corridor that physically seemed to push against the noise.

The effect was instantaneous. The shouting died mid-breath, and the only sound left was the ragged, angry breathing of thousands.

"I did not march four thousand people down here to debate the grievances of dead centuries," Apollo said, his voice steady despite the inferno of emotion swirling around him. "Whatever hatred this realm holds against Aethelgard, and I am not naive enough to think every accusation is fabricated; none of it justifies the atrocities committed against my people."

His face hardened into something resembling granite. "Children in our outer districts were aged backward by magic no scholar could identify, their bodies withered into nothingness before their eyes."

"Families have been forced to bury empty coffins because there was nothing left of their loved ones but ash and memory."

"That ends today... one way or another."

He stepped forward, the light from his own aura casting long, imposing shadows behind him. He fixed his gaze directly on the obsidian visor of Rex’s mask.

"Surrender yourself peacefully, Lord Xerollion."

"Come with us... Answer for these crimes in a court of law, and I will use every ounce of my authority to ensure this ends without another drop of blood being spilled in this tunnel."

"That is my only offer... Take it, and we walk away."

For a heartbeat, there was absolute stillness. Then came the laugh.

It wasn’t a roar. It wasn’t a theatrical cackle.

It was a quiet, dry sound—the sound of someone who had just heard something so profoundly delusional that it bordered on comedy. That quietness made it infinitely worse than any shout.

It carried the genuine amusement of a man who had been offered a pittance when he already owned the mountain.

"You have built something remarkable in your mind, Apostle," Xerollion said, his voice dripping with condescension. "A fantasy where I simply hand you the keys to my kingdom because you asked politely and wrapped your demands in the language of mercy."

Rex took a slow step forward, the movement precise and predatory. "I want you to understand something before the slaughter begins properly, Brightsoul."

"You do not yet comprehend the scale of what you are standing in front of."

"You think you are negotiating with a warlord who can be reasoned down from a position of strength..."

"You think this is a standoff."

His masked head tilted, and for the first time, there was something truly monstrous beneath the words. "You are not negotiating with a man."

"You are negotiating with the inevitable outcome of a plan that was completed before your key was even forged."

"You haven’t walked into a trap... You have walked into an execution."

The tension in the corridor passed the point of no return. It became a physical, crushing weight that made lungs feel tight and hearts hammer against ribs.

Every hand along both front lines was white-knuckled around steel. The air tasted of blood before a single wound had been dealt.

In the Aethelgard formation, a young soldier, his face pale with terror, suffered a momentary lapse in nerve. His sweaty grip slipped on his spear haft, and the weapon clattered against the stone floor with a sharp, echoing crack.

In that moment of silence, the sound was as deafening as a thunderclap. It was the starter’s signal.

Valentina didn’t hesitate. She didn’t wait for an order from Apollo.

Her hand shot up, her fingers splayed in a command that transcended words. Her eyes were fixed on Xerollion with a hunter’s singular focus.

"Negotiation is finished," she commanded, her voice carrying with lethal clarity to the furthest ranks of her army. "All divisions ENGAGE!"

Apollo gave a single, grim nod, the silent acknowledgment between commanders before the slaughter began. He retreated half a step, sliding into a low combat stance that radiated authority.

The golden glow along his forearms and shoulders didn’t just brighten; it intensified, pulsing like the heartbeat of a sun, as his Life affinity spiraled upward in preparation for the cataclysm.

Across the narrow gap, Rex didn’t move with urgency. He raised a single hand slowly, palm open, in a gesture of casual dismissal.

The effect was terrifying. As if connected by some invisible nerve, the entire Underlayer formation shifted in perfect unison.

Thousands of soldiers dropped into deadly, practiced stances in a single coordinated motion that rippled backward through the corridor like a tsunami moving through deep water.

For one more heartbeat, there was a vacuum of sound, a terrible, expectant silence where the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, reality shattered.

The first collision wasn’t just a sound; it was an assault on the senses. It was the wet crunch of steel meeting bone, the thunderous detonation of magical barriers, and a collective shriek of thousands that reverberated off the stone walls, amplifying until it felt like the corridor itself was screaming.

The gap between the two armies didn’t close; it evaporated. In less than three seconds, the two masses of humanity and monstrosity slammed together with such force that the shockwave knocked nearby soldiers off their feet.

The engagement immediately devolved into a claustrophobic hellscape. In the crush, there was no room for elegant swordplay or tactical maneuvering.

It became a meat grinder. Bodies were pressed so tightly together that men could taste the copper tang of each other’s blood. Weapons became useless in the press, forcing soldiers to rely on daggers, teeth, and broken gauntlets.

Elemental flashes of sickly greens, searing whites, and arterial reds strobed through the passage, casting grotesque, flickering shadows that burned into the retinas of everyone present.

Apollo drove into the Underlayer’s front rank like a living projectile. His entire body was wreathed in a corona of golden light, but it was no longer the gentle radiance of healing.

It was a corrupted, pressurized force. Where his aura touched the enemy, the effect was nightmarish: demons would stagger as if decades of age had been forced into their marrow in a single heartbeat.

Their joints seized with audible cracks, their flesh withered, and their vitality was forcibly drained away in a twisted reversal of his affinity’s purpose.

One demon, lunging with a rusted blade, suddenly shriveled into a husk of desiccated skin and bone before Apollo’s fist connected with its skull, shattering the weakened bone like dry porcelain.

’Focus,’ Apollo commanded himself, his inner voice a cold anchor in the storm of violence. ’Four minutes.’

’I have four minutes of full activation before the backlash tears me apart.’

’Don’t waste a second on the weak.’

At his right shoulder, Elliot Von Starlight moved like a streak of lightning. The white blaze of his Heroic Strike pulsed in perfect synchronization with Apollo’s rhythm.

Their coordination was terrifyingly efficient. Apollo would soften a section of the demonic line, his golden pressure slowing their reflexes to a crawl, and then Elliot would strike.

The Heroic Strike landed in the weakened gaps with concussive force so devastating it didn’t just kill; it obliterated. A demon sergeant was caught mid-swing, his chest cavity collapsing inward with a wet, sucking sound as he was hurled backward into his own comrades, his ribs splintering through his armor.

"That’s three lines!" Elliot shouted, his voice raw as he ducked under a clawed swing and drove his blade through a throat.

He flashed a grin at Apollo, though it was stained with fresh blood spattered across his cheek. "Three lines in under two minutes!"

"We’re tearing through them faster than the projections said we would!"

"Don’t get fucking greedy, Elliot!" Apollo roared back, his voice cracking like thunder.

He pivoted on his heel, catching an enraged axeman mid-lunge. Instead of a blade, Apollo met the demon’s chest with an open palm charged with concentrated life force. The impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting wet clay.

The demon’s sternum imploded, spraying crimson across the stones as he crumpled into a broken heap. "Faster than projected means we’re deeper into their territory than planned."

"The further we push, the more dangerous the meat grinder becomes!"

"Watch your flanks or you’ll die screaming!"