Blacksmith of the Apocalypse

Dumm Ting was still on the main barge of the Silk River Sect, when the shield suddenly appeared again above them, throwing the cultivators in slight confusion. What was happening? Didn't they destroy the barrier? He gritted his teeth, had the Silk River's plan been foiled?

No, even if they managed to reinstate the barrier, they were already inside. Although Yoma Ma was probably locked out, it wasn't like they needed him to break through this barrier. The fight may be tougher when Minas Mar intervened, but they would still manage.

He was still rationalizing their current situation when one of the greater shuttles close by was suddenly hit by a beam of light. The roaring power almost turned him deaf, as it pounded against the shuttle's formation shield.

An armada of flying vessels had appeared from the direction of the giant tree. This had to be the fleet from Urth he heard about. Had they hid themselves in the crown of the tree? When had they entered the air space of the Pythian Village?

Ha! Dumm Ting had seen the fleet from Epsilon before. There was barely half of the fleet present, but even if the full fleet was here, they would have been helplessly outnumbered. What did they think they could do with these few ships?

These Urthans weren't the only ones with shields. They wouldn't be able to harm them any time soon. In the meantime, their other ships would rip them apart, was what he thought to himself, smugly raising a flag. Now that they were here, they wouldn't just raze the village but also destroy their precious toys.

It soothed him slightly, thinking of their faces, once all their hidden cards were gone! A fraction of a second after he thought so, the continuous beam of energy had burned a hole in the shield and pierced the magic shuttle, exploding into a cloud of fire and smoke. Its pieces rained down on the city. His jaw dropped. The next moment several more shuttles were hit by similar energy beams. A quarter of the urthan shuttles started firing this kind of energy weapon.

“Welcome to the shooting gallery, gentlemen. You are the targets.”

The voice came from the stadium. It was the same voice that had berated the Sect Alliance not too long ago. The Tower Master had spoken and with his words, a barrage of attacks rose from the village. The sky darkened with arrows and was illuminated again by bright magic. The airspace above the stadium became chaos.

Filling the roofs of buildings close to the stadium were rows upon rows of faceless, armored enemies, firing arrows and magic in the sky. Most of the magic and arrows weren't able to deal much harm to the shuttle or sect elites, but many of the weaker disciples and cannon fodder were taken out of the air.

However, the bigger problem was the energy beams shot by the fleet of Epsilon. While the leader still struggled to make a decision and change course to face them, the beams took out one flying barge after another. They had jumped right into a trap.

Right before his eyes, Dumm Ting saw an elder in the early Spirit Severing realm step forward in an attempt to block one of the beams with his palm technique. Covered in his inherent barrier, empowered by his spiritual power he blocked the terrifying attack for almost 30 seconds. More than double than some of the formation barriers managed.

Despite holding out, the martial artist had to watch in horrified fascination, as the man's palms started disintegrating to coal, beginning from his fingertips, once the 10th second passed. At first, the elder stayed silent in dogged concentration, but as his hand blackened and crumbled, the concentration broke. His last, shameful squeal when his shield broke was cut short as he was swallowed by the beam, and turned to ashes. Horrible, but stupid.

“Concentrate on the stadium barrier, we will take care of this!”

Three other elders volunteered. They evaded the attacks, ignoring the plight of the shuttle owners and crew. They had to get rid of the origin of the beam, the flying vessels of Epsilon. Dumm Ting's heart hardly moved, when the two elders that got close to the armada didn't get much further.

The two of them were only in the first stage of the spirit severing and couldn't even get past the curtain fire of the other ships protecting the beam shooters. The third elder in the middle stages of Spirit Severing found an anticlimactic end when he suddenly fell from the sky with an arrow in his head.

Dumm Ting took a sharp breath. They even had archers powerful enough to one-shot a Spirit Severing stage elder. Unless the sect leader came back...the martial artist started to worry, that they might actually lose at this rate.

Just where was Yoma Ma?

...

“Forget the arena! We have to take care of that fleet or else we will be picked off one by one!” the elders of the sect alliance began reorganizing their approach, facing the attack of the Epsilon Fleet. The fate of the ships attacked and the elders that had attacked previously was a grim reminder not to underestimate their opponents.

She could hear their call and plans. Had nobody taught them to be a little more covert when talking about their plans? Well, it helped her, so she wouldn't complain! She drew back the string of her bow and cast <Silent Death>.

Letting go, an arrow imbued with death aura was sent flying. Without a sound or a hint of its presence, it was lodged in the back of the head of the man who had just spoken the loudest. The man who had stood on the bow of his own flying barge lost all tension.

All the discussion and calls between the cultivators fell silent as their eyes focused on him in shock.

Slowly, he fell over the railing of his ship and started his almost comical journey downward. All eyes followed his ungentle tumbling in the air. They flinched when his body unceremoniously hit the ground. In a fraction of a second, one of their elder had lost their life, just like that. When the appearance of the fleet was the signal, then this was the starting shot for what happened next.

With the fleet drawing attention and engaging in aerial battles with the enemy vessels, it was time for them to take care of the big fish. The only individual cultivators that would pose a threat to the ships of Epsilon were those who reached the Spirit Severing stage or above.

Drawing the Bow of Wepwawet again, Lydia cast <Opener of Ways>, shooting into the sky filled with enemies. Surrounding the arrow were dark veils of wind, the winds of the underworld. Hit by the sudden pillar of death rising to the sky many cultivators died.

Some died directly to the damage of the skill, others from the impact on the ground, after being blown off their flying swords with heavy injury. On the ground, this attack would have blown an 18-meter-wide path into enemy ranks, directed at the sky made it even more impressive.

“What are you waiting for? Get them!” Lydia cried out, commanding everyone to engage in combat. Rushing past her were the Oathguards, the mercenaries they had recruited during the tournament, like Lyca, Polter, Bercy, April Vine, and Hannibal Cho, Bart, and the members of Minas Mar that had not left Urth before.

Most of them were riding Aerial Strikers, the terrifying giant dragonfly golems with mantis sickles. Using the path Lydia opened, they rose to the skies, directly infiltrating enemy ranks from behind.

Right after the group set off, Lydia also jumped on an unmanned aerial striker and followed them into battle.

...

The whole sequence was broadcast in the stadium, to show the live audience that there was nothing to fear. Everything was under control. However, it had a different effect on some of the people in the stadium.

“Let me leave, I also want to fight out there,” Bartholomew Mathias insisted, seeing that other participants had joined the battle outside. Nam was also ready to join the fight outside, signaling his opinion with a silent nod before the Tower Master.

“You called it a shooting gallery, let me also join in,” Ibelin Godfrey demanded.

“Well, fine, Caleb, you go with them,” Seth gave in. Nam and Caleb would have been part of this anyway if the attack had not happened in the middle of the prize ceremony.

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“Should I also go?” Dowloon asked hesitant. She didn't owe Minas Mar anything, and it was clear she offered more out of concern that she might not get her prize in the and than care for the actual situation.

“Nah, they will manage. The situation isn't dire enough that we would have to ask our guests for help,” he said, though he was slightly worried about their plans. Why did Python send a representative?