(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit)
Commander Mickey Jas waited patiently for the Cult engineers to finish assembling their war arrays, standing at the head of the vanguard with his spear embedded into the fractured stone, unmoving as artillery fras unfolded behind him and mana conduits locked one by one into the earth, because this mont was not ant to be rushed, and the cost of impatience here was bound to be paid for in blood.
Only when the final synchronization glyphs flared across the command lattice did he draw his spear free and turn toward the countless ranks arrayed behind him, billions of Cult warriors standing in disciplined silence as engines humd, weapons were steadied, and anticipation simred just beneath the surface.
"CULT WARRIORS," Mickey Jas roared, his voice carried outward not just by amplification arrays, but by raw, unrestrained authority, rolling across the battlefield like thunder across open plains.
"THIS IS THE DAY YOU HAVE ALL TRAINED FOR YOUR ENTIRE LIVES."
His spear lifted, its tip aligning with the vast, curved arc of the Chakravyuh's outermost ring, where Master-tier soldiers stood packed shoulder to shoulder, armor glowing faintly as formation sigils pulsed beneath their boots.
"THIS IS THE DAY YOUR ANCESTORS, AND THEIR ANCESTORS BEFORE THEM, PRAYED TO BE A PART OF."
A low growl rippled through the Cult ranks, restrained, contained, but hungry.
"TODAY..." Mickey continued, aura flaring outward as killing intent bled into every word, "WE BRING THE FIGHT TO THE RIGHTEOUS SCUM."
The sound that followed was not a cheer.
It was a promise.
"TODAY," he bellowed, spear rising high, "WE MAKE THEM PAY."
He drew in a breath, the battlefield seeming to tighten around him. "ON MY THREE, WE CHARGE."
Behind him, the war machines ca alive, siege arrays locking into forward alignnt as engineers fed final paraters into targeting matrices.
"ON MY THREE, THE WAR MACHINES RAIN HELL ON THEM."
The sky itself seed to darken as cannons angled forward.
"ON MY THREE..." his voice dropped, heavy and absolute, "...WE BECO IMMORTALS."
A single heartbeat passed.
"ONE..."
The Cult army took its first synchronized step forward. "TWO..."
Mana surged through conduits, engines scread to full output, weapons tightened in hands that had rehearsed this motion thousands of tis.
"GO. GO. GO!"
The battlefield detonated into motion.
Cult war machines unleashed their payloads in perfect synchronization, artillery fire screaming overhead as energy lances slamd into the Chakravyuh's outer ring, shattering formation sigils and tearing open dense blocks of defenders just as the infantry surged forward beneath the bombardnt, billions charging as a single, cohesive wave rather than a chaotic flood.
*BOOM*
*CRASH*
*SHRIEEK*
The initial impact was overwhelming.
Master-tier defenders barely had ti to raise their shields before Cult Commanders crashed into them like a collapsing horizon, the Cult army charging behind them with such precision and density that entire enemy regints ceased to exist within seconds, erased under the compounded force of disciplined montum and superior power. Commander Mickey Jas was at the very front.
His spear swept outward in a blazing arc, aura condensing along its shaft as the weapon cleaved through space itself, the strike erasing tens of thousands of enemy soldiers in a single motion, bodies and armor disintegrating under the sheer density of power behind it as the stone beneath cracked and cratered outward.
To his left, Commander Anderson Silva advanced with terrifying calm, his sword flashing as it cut through enemy lines at their structural weak points, severing command clusters and reinforcent corridors with surgical efficiency, every step he took opening controlled gaps that Cult soldiers flowed through without breaking formation. Further along the battlefield, Commander Dupravel Nuna did not advance with the army at all.
He vanished.
And where he reappeared, devastation followed.
Entire sections of the outer ring imploded as his presence rippled outward in violent bursts, assassinations blurring seamlessly into wide-area annihilation as he carved through rear ranks alone, destabilizing the Chakravyuh's alignnt wherever he passed and forcing defenders to fracture their attention in futile attempts to respond to sothing they could neither track nor contain.
For a brief, intoxicating stretch of ti, it looked as though the Cult
army would simply carve straight through.
But unfortunately for them, the Chakravyuh had never been designed
to fall quickly.
As the Cult spearheads drove deeper, the formation's true nature revealed itself, the concentric rings tightening their invisible vice as pressure shifted sideways rather than inward, intact sections rotating and closing with grim precision until Righteous soldiers began to pour in from multiple directions, surrounding the advancing Cult forces on three sides and applying a suffocating choke instead of a frontal wall. What had started as a clean, decisive incision slowed as resistance thickened, montum bleeding away under coordinated lateral assaults, until the advance no longer felt like a breakthrough at all, but a grinding struggle against a formation that refused to yield cleanly and demanded paynt for every ter gained.
The Cult could advance, but only by widening the breach outward as
much as inward, because every ter gained toward the center left their flanks exposed to fresh waves of defenders cycling in from adjacent arcs, Master-tier soldiers flooding sideways into the gap with grim determination.
The diagonal assault that had seed so devastating monts earlier now beca a liability.
Cult units found themselves fighting forward and sideways at the sa ti, formations stretching under the strain as Commanders were forced to constantly rebalance pressure, redirect forces, and
rotate units to prevent encirclent.
This was the Chakravyuh's cruelty.
It did not seek to stop an invasion outright.
It sought to slow it.
To bleed it. To force attackers to pay for every step with ti, stamina, and lives.
And so the battle transford.
The initial avalanche gave way to a grinding war of attrition, each concentric segnt refusing to collapse neatly, forcing the Cult army to fully annihilate entire arcs before safely advancing deeper, because leaving even a fragnt intact ant risking being cut off from
behind. Yet even as the tempo slowed, the Cult did not falter.
War machines continued to assemble behind the advancing lines,
siege platforms anchoring themselves into the stone as artillery shifted fire patterns to support widening engagents rather than forward breakthroughs, while pilots above adjusted their bombing runs to disrupt lateral reinforcents instead of simply softening the path ahead.
The Cult army adapted in real ti.
Monarchs rotated between pressure points, Transcendents reinforced faltering flanks, Grandmasters led counter-sweeps to collapse encircling forces, and Masters filled gaps with disciplined
precision, each unit knowing its role, each movent flowing into the next as though rehearsed for this exact scenario.
Because it had been.
They had trained for this.
They had prepared for a formation designed to grind armies into dust.
And still, they pushed.
Every swing of a Monarch-tier weapon erased tens of thousands of
enemies.
Every coordinated surge shattered another section of the ring.
Slowly. thodically.
Relentlessly.
The Chakravyuh demanded endurance.
And the Cult answered with it.
As the battle settled into its brutal rhythm, one truth beca
unmistakably clear to every soul watching the livestream, to every soldier bleeding on the stone, and to every God observing from within the prison's heart.
That the Cult army had not co seeking a swift victory. They had co prepared for a war that would worsen with every step
inward. And they had decided collectively and without hesitation, that no matter how many rings stood between them and their Dragon, they
would tear through every last one. Layer by layer. No matter the cost.
Until they eventually saved him.
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