Global Lords: Building the Strongest Civilization with SSS Rank Talent Chapter 113: The Continental War Begins

Red sat in the dark expanse of the Void, observing the primary monitor. The Omni-Web radar illuminated the continental map in a brilliant network of subterranean fiber-optic roots. A massive cluster of hostile crimson blips surged toward the western periter and hit the edge of the Continental Moat.

"Pathetic," Red muttered, his voice echoing in the absolute isolation of the Void.

A coalition of three minor deities had massed on the far banks. Thousands of armored centaurs and enchanted infantry stamped their hooves in the dirt, staring down at the bioluminescent teal current of the Continental Moat.

"You march a dieval cavalry against an industrial firewall," Red said, resting his chin on his knuckles. "You deserve what happens next."

A brass horn blasted across the plains. The western vanguard surged forward, plunging down the embanknts and crashing into the glowing shallows. They swung their swords above the water, roaring challenges to an empty shoreline.

Red tapped a single, unmarked key on his console. "Process them."

Deep within the eastern embanknts, massive bronze gears of the Industrial Siphon-Locks ground into motion. The water level dropped violently, exposing the mud-slicked riverbed. The earth ruptured along the shoreline. Hundreds of Caustic-Mandible ants unburrowed from the hidden sub-level, locking their spiked rear legs into the bedrock.

Their abdons violently contracted.

A barrage of pressurized, fluorescent green acid sprayed across the trench.

The chemical payload hit the vanguard lines. Iron armor bubbled and dissolved into gray sludge on contact. Centaurs shrieked as the acid chewed through their flesh and snapped their front legs, sending them collapsing into the corrosive mud.

From the elevated ridges above the trench, the border garrison opened fire. The Kobolds hoisted their Pneumatic Bolt-Throwers, bracing the tal stocks against their shoulders. The chanisms snapped with the violent force of industrial pistons.

Thick Star-Iron bolts tore across the gap, punching clean through the enchanted shields of the infantry and pinning the soldiers directly to the stone walls.

An enemy commander, glowing with a golden defensive aura, hurled a spear up at the ridge. The weapon pierced a Kobold gunner in the chest, shattering its tallic scales and tearing through its ribs. The kinetic force threw the Kobold backward into a shallow capillary trench flooded with the teal Aegis water.

Red zood the cara in on the fallen unit. "Watch the investnt."

The glowing liquid surged into the fatal chest wound. Muscle fibers lashed together like living cables. Splintered bone snapped back into perfect alignnt, and the dark tallic scales sealed over the new flesh in under two seconds. The Kobold opened its eyes, pulled itself out of the trench, and racked another Star-Iron bolt into its weapon.

"Completely broken," Red whispered, a sharp smile breaking across his face. "The ga engine has no counter for hyper-cellular regeneration. "

Red leaned back on his throne and watched the massacre unfold on the primary monitor. The western coalition forces dissolved into the mud of the riverbed.

Red let out a chuckle. "As I have said, as long as war happens in my territory... I am undefeatable."

Up on the eastern ridge, the Kobold garrison maintained a relentless firing pace. They cranked the levers of their Pneumatic Bolt-Throwers. The chanical snaps echoed over the trench. Dozens of armor-piercing Star-Iron bolts rained down into the killing floor. The projectiles punched through enchanted cavalry shields and pinned the centaurs directly to the bedrock.

The invaders possessed superior numbers. They lacked the industrial infrastructure to make those numbers matter.

A string of golden text scrolled down the right side of Red’s interface.

[ Unit: Dust-Paw Kobold Gunner has reached Level 34. ]

[ Unit: Dust-Paw Kobold Gunner has reached Level 32. ]

Flashes of leveling light erupted along the ridge. The defenders absorbed the massive experience yields from the slaughtered high-tier vanguard. Their dark tallic scales thickened. Their muscles coiled tighter around their bones. They leveled up repeatedly without taking a single casualty.

"A self-sustaining grinding farm," Red said. He tapped a finger against the armrest. "You feed high-level assets into a at grinder, and my border guards reap the benefits. Keep sending them. My force needs to level up."

Down in the moat, the western vanguard broke. The surviving infantry dropped their weapons and scrambled up the muddy embanknts, desperately trying to escape the slaughter. The Kobolds adjusted their sights and continued firing. Star-Iron bolts tore through the retreating soldiers’ backs. The war had officially begun. The battle itself never materialized. Red’s defensive line proved entirely impenetrable.

A shrill chi echoed through the Void. The System interface flashed crimson.

[ Incoming Transmission: Coalition of the Western Marches. ]

Red dragged the notification to the center of his screen and tapped the accept icon. Three holographic windows materialized in the dark space. Three minor deities stared back at him. A man wearing a crown of woven thorns gripped the edges of his console. A woman in silver plate armor bled from a bitten lip. The third god simply stared at the floor.

"Call off your garrison," the man with the thorn crown demanded. His voice cracked through the audio feed. "You are slaughtering my paladins like livestock."

"You ordered your paladins to cross my moat," Red replied. He rested his chin on his knuckles. "I am simply processing the trespassers."

"We surrender," the woman in silver armor blurted out. She looked up at the cara. "We cannot break your defenses. The Glitch is eating our territories from the north. If we turn back, the glass-ash storms will consu us."

"Then you know the price of admission," Red said.

He pulled up the standard Eastern Alliance Vassalage Contract and sent it across the feed. The terms glowed in the space between them. A thirty percent tax on all raw materials. A ten percent passive Faith share from their entire population. Complete submission to the Bastion’s central authority. And of course, the system penalized terms and conditions.

The three gods read the floating text. The man with the thorn crown closed his eyes and pressed his thumb against the digital seal. The other two followed his action seconds later.

[ System Alert: Three Factions Have Joined The Eastern Alliance. ]

Red dismissed the communication windows. He typed a quick command into his terminal. Down at the Continental Moat, the Kobold garrison lowered their Pneumatic Bolt-Throwers. The massive bronze gears of the Siphon-Locks engaged in reverse.

The water level stabilized.

From the eastern banks, hydraulic pistons pushed thick steel bridges out across the gap, locking into the western bedrock.

"Cross the bridges," Red’s voice bood through the System Nodes planted along the border. "Leave your weapons in the mud. Welco to the Empire."