Orion sighed, a rare expression of frustration crossing his face. Killing anything Archlord-rank or higher was a logistical nightmare. They possessed a Body of Faith—a taphysical anchor that made them nearly impossible to put down with a single strike.
Demigods were even worse. They rarely fought with their true bodies, preferring to project avatars or manifestations of pure will. Truly killing one required extinguishing every trace of their essence.
"If we could handle the Goddess Agaman, we can handle the Sea Folk," Orion said, his voice firm. It wasn't arrogance; it was a calculation.
"My concern isn't their combat power," he continued. "It's that they won't fight fair. If they get desperate, they could trigger a massive tsunami. Flood the coastal regions, salt the earth, destroy the infrastructure we just captured. A scorched-earth policy, but with water."
Orion's worry was well-founded. When the Agaman Holy Order first descended, the Sea Folk had used that exact threat to keep the theocracy at bay.
"So, we wait," Leonidas agreed, nodding slowly. "We let the coalition forces fully occupy the continent and establish a hardened defensive line along the coast. We don't poke the leviathan until we're ready to hunt it."
"Exactly. We bide our ti," Orion said, leaning back. "And when we move, we hit them so hard they can't strike back."
Titanion Realm.
A purge was underway. Dirtclaw and Gustalon were spearheading the operation, leading the Third and Fourth Legions in a sweeping campaign from north to south to eradicate the lingering Insectoid presence.
They were joined by several Wardens fresh from the Divine Kingdom, treating the campaign as a live-fire training exercise. The efficiency of the slaughter was terrifying.
Every day, convoys of heavy wagons transported mountains of Insectoid carcasses to Blackstone City. From there, the biomass was funneled to the Cave Spiders and the Scorpion Horde. For races that followed a Broodmother, there was no such thing as "too many bodies." It was just a feast.
"This is the place."
Dirtclaw and Gustalon materialized at the foot of a towering mountain in the central region.
"There's a cave system below," Gustalon said, his voice carrying the whistling undertone of a breeze. "Deep inside, there's a Wormholes Realm."
"If an Archlord wanted to hide their energy signature in this sector, that pocket dinsion is the only place that could hold them."
For Gustalon, the air itself was a spy network. Wherever the wind blew, his eyes could see.
"The realm is... odd," the elentalist noted, tilting his head. "The entrance should be warded, but the wind is just circling the threshold. There's no barrier."
This was the intel Dirtclaw needed.
"So, Gustalon... do we kick the door down, or smoke them out?"
Dirtclaw was an Archlord in his own right, but he knew his limitations. In terms of reconnaissance and magical utility, Gustalon was leagues ahead of him.
"Safety first," Gustalon replied. "We force them out. Better to fight on our terms than step into a trap."
It wasn't cowardice; it was prudence. A hidden Wormholes Realm could contain anything—ancient traps, void instability, or concentrated toxins. The stronger a warrior beca, the more they learned to respect the unknown.
"Your call," Dirtclaw grunted, stepping forward to shield the mage. "You flush the quarry; I'll butcher it."
Gustalon nodded. The air around him began to warp.
Wind mana wrapped around Dirtclaw, rendering him invisible, and the two vanished, reappearing monts later deep within the cavern, standing before the shimring distortion of the Wormholes Realm entrance.
"You're sure?" Dirtclaw whispered. "Why wouldn't they ward the gate?"
He scanned the area, sensing no magical tripwires.
"For beings like our Lord Orion, placing a ward on a hidden entrance is like lighting a bonfire in the dark," Gustalon explained softly. "It screams, 'Here I am.' The entity inside this hive is smart. Leaving it unwarded is the best camouflage. It's hiding a leaf in a forest."
"Clever," Dirtclaw admitted, hefting his weapon. "Too bad they're dealing with you."
"The wind is everywhere," Gustalon said, a touch of pride in his voice. "And nothing escapes my sight."
He raised a hand. A miniature tornado, no larger than a spinning top, materialized in his palm.
"Prepare for combat."
Dirtclaw cracked his neck and took a wide stance.
Gustalon infused the construct with Transcendent Power and tossed the miniature storm directly into the rift. He closed his eyes, his consciousness hitching a ride on the gale.
Wormholes Realm. Eryndor Paradise.
The na was a testant to ego. Eryndor had nad the realm after himself the day he ascended to beco the Insect King and took Myxara as his Broodmother.
This was their sanctuary.
Fueled by the resources of the pocket dinsion, Eryndor had achieved the rank of Archlord. Myxara, using his genetic template, had birthed a legion of hybrid insect-warriors.
Deep in the central breeding pit, the two rulers were intertwined. It was a primal, rhythmic union of feeding and breeding—one taking, one giving.
Snap.
The rhythm shattered.
" The barrier is gone," Eryndor hissed, pulling away.
"We've been found."
Their reactions were instantaneous. Retracting their specialized reproductive organs, they vaulted out of the pit, chitinous armor clicking into place.
"Stay here," Eryndor commanded, his voice a grinding chitter. "I'll handle it."
He loved Myxara. Not just because she built his army, but because their souls were fused. She was his queen.
But before he could move, the atmosphere inside the realm scread.
A massive hurricane materialized from nothing, expanding instantly to fill the cavernous space. It tore through the breeding grounds, sucking thousands of Larvae and gallons of nutrient fluid into its vortex. The realm spun into chaos.
Then ca the blades.
The hurricane didn't just batter the hive; it shredded it. Countless wind blades coalesced within the funnel, firing outward with centrifugal force. Larvae and insect-warriors were diced into mist before they could even scream.
Eryndor watched his children liquify, and he roared.
A sound halfway between a dragon's bellow and a locust's shriek tore from his throat.
He launched himself like a cannonball, Transcendent Power glowing on his carapace-covered fist. He punched the hurricane dead center.
BOOM.
The impact was cataclysmic. The storm shattered, dispersing into harmless wisps of air.
Eryndor landed, a savage grin of triumph on his mandibles. But the grin vanished a second later.
The wind didn't die. It regrouped.
The hurricane reford instantly, faster and more violent than before. The wind blades solidified, turning from invisible forces into translucent guillotines that hacked rcilessly at the hive's infrastructure.
"It's an Elental Storm!" Myxara shrieked from the edge of the pit. "Eryndor, there's a caster outside! You have to kill the summoner, or the storm will never stop!"
She didn't wait for a response. After delivering the tactical analysis, the Broodmother dove back into the depths of the breeding pit.
She was the brain, the womb, and the future. Eryndor was the sword. She would not die here.
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