Chapter 237: The Battle Begins! Rivers of Blood

The border between the Dawn Tribe and the Ironblood Tribe.

Thundercliff.

Brenhild stood atop the cliff; the mammoth tusk-inlaid helmet glinted with a bluish sheen beneath the storm clouds. Gale-force winds hit him head-on, whipping his wolf-hide cloak like a battle banner. His bare skin was carved with tattoos, his muscles poured like cast iron, his frame towering like an iron pillar.

He was the chieftain of the Dawn Tribe, a barbarian who wielded the power of rage.

Before his rage activated, Brenhild looked like a composed human leader—calm light in his eyes, a tranquil countenance—yet there was an uneasy multiplicity about him, as if he were not one person but “a crowd of people.”

In fact, that was roughly true.

To a creature that understood true sight, one could see numerous phantasmal images ebbing and flowing around Brenhild, and each apparition carried the air of a leader—some wise and measured, some imposing without anger, some defiant and unbowed... all markedly different.

After reaching Rank 3, barbarians could choose from many branching paths.

There was the Giant Path, the Totem Warrior Path, the Berserker Path, Wild Magic Path... among these, the path Brenhild had taken was called Ancestral Guardian.

When the living respect their ancestors’ culture and fight for the tribe’s survival, the souls of their ancestors guide and protect them.

When a barbarian on this path falls into rage, they can touch the spirit world, clearly feel the presence of ancestral souls, and draw different powers from different ancestor spirits.

Brenhild stared southward.

As far as his gaze reached lay endless sky and earth, sunlight falling serenely, yet he saw scenes of warfare erupting, the sky aflame, the land turned to scorched earth.

“Molten Iron Tribe.”

Brenhild turned to the orc standing beside him and said, “Ugosk, the Molten Iron Tribe is slowly absorbing the Gold Fang Tribe, growing stronger by the day. We cannot wait any longer.”

The orc’s body was hulking and massive, even stronger than Brenhild.

He had a sloping brow, a jutting jaw, prominent tusks, and coarse green skin. He was about human height but far broader.

Orcs, by racial nature, produce many warriors and barbarians.

Ugosk, like Brenhild, was also a barbarian.

But their barbarian paths differed.

Ugosk followed the Totem Warrior path.

His battle bear skull pauldrons, feathered cloak, and wolf-claw necklace were all symbols of totem beasts.

Barbarians on the Totem Warrior path take a beast spirit as their guide, protector, and source of power. When enraged, the beast-spirit’s essence channels supernatural strength into the barbarian, imbuing their fury with an almost magical force.

“The serpentfolk of the Poison Tail Tribe haven’t replied yet. Those indecisive folk said they need a few more days to consider,” the orc said in a rough voice.

Brenhild snorted, “Those swamp-dwelling reptiles are not to be trusted. They lack blood-and-honor courage and prefer filthy arcane tricks. They won’t hold in a crucial moment.”

Ugosk nodded heavily. “Once the war with the Molten Iron Tribe ends, we’ll cooperate and crush the Poison Tail serpentfolk.”

“All right. I’ve long had a dislike for those serpentfolk,” the human replied.

The Poison Tail Tribe was one-sided in its strengths, lacking in frontal combat ability.

Only the six-armed serpent woman Sword Saint made them somewhat feared. Although the tribe had many sorcerers and shamans, they posed little actual threat to barbarians of this rank. By contrast, they had fewer warriors and shamans than either of these tribes.

At this moment the orc bared his tusks in a fierce grin and said to the human, “Afterwards, Brenhild, are you ready to duel me to decide life and death and the final ownership of the convergence lands?”

Brenhild met the orc’s gaze and said, “In the end, victory will be mine. Ugosk, if you beg me for mercy then, I will spare your life.”

Ugosk thumped his chest. “Orcs will never be slaves. Death is glory to us. But I don’t believe you can give me death.” He did not hide his malice. “You are a powerful opponent, but I will snap your neck and flay your skin as a trophy.”

Brenhild and Ugosk.

Both were barbarians and leaders of two great tribes.

They had a close cooperative relationship, but they were also rivals. They’d fought privately many times, but never enraged to the point of brutal all-out conflict—only touching the edge of it.

They both understood that once a rage duel occurred, it would be unstoppable and mean all-out war between the Dawn Tribe and the Ironblood Tribe—life or death.

Several tribes coexisted in the convergence lands.

If they plunged into total war, it would hand other tribes opportunities to exploit them; it would be pointless.

But if the convergence lands came down to only Dawn and Ironblood, the two had already promised to have a sacred, honorable duel to decide ownership of the lands.

“That can wait for later. For now, let’s discuss how to deal with the Molten Iron Tribe.”

Brenhild said, “We cannot pin our hopes on the Poison Tail Tribe. Those serpentfolk are fickle and deceitful, not to be trusted.”

Orcs, straightforward by nature, likewise disliked serpentfolk.

Ugosk nodded and said in a low voice, “My great blade thirsts for blood. It cannot wait to sever a dragon’s head.”

His desire was not only for the tribe’s future but also for himself.

If he killed enough dragons, he would likely refine a dragon-soul totem and become considerably stronger.

“The warriors of the Dawn Tribe are ready for war.”

“The warriors of the Ironblood Tribe crave battle and bloodshed.”

Both spoke bluntly, no pretense. After more discussion, they quickly reached agreement: they would no longer wait for the Poison Tail Tribe; they decided to open war against the Molten Iron Tribe.

At that moment an urgent message arrived.

Brenhild’s eyes narrowed. He took a message stone from his chest and received the dispatch.

—The Molten Iron Tribe’s forces are marching toward the Blackstone Pass.

Blackstone Pass is one of the key channels leading from the south to the north.

Steep and treacherous on either side, full of dangerous magical beasts, difficult to traverse, with boundless open plains on either side.

The Molten Iron army was clearly marked and gradually approaching Blackstone Pass.

Their marching disturbance had been detected by Dawn Tribe sentries.

A dense, almost countless mass of gnolls, kobolds, lizardfolk, and a smaller number of ogres and centaurs—an elite force—spread across the plains before the pass, advancing step by step.

“Good. Instead of consolidating the Gold Fang Tribe, they march on us,” Brenhild sneered. “The dragons of the Molten Iron Tribe are bold and audacious.”

Ugosk gave a low growl. “If they want war, they shall have it! Let us meet them at Blackstone Pass and show the Molten Iron Tribe our might!”

Blackstone Pass was easy to defend and hard to assault; the Molten Iron Tribe would pay a bloody price here.

“The first battle is important—it will uplift morale, affecting the warriors’ fighting spirit afterward.”

“I will pull forces from other Dawn Tribe garrisons to reinforce Blackstone Pass,” Brenhild said.

Blackstone Pass belonged to the Dawn Tribe; humans had the largest garrison there—barbarians, warriors... even a few spellcasters.

Ugosk nodded, voice grave: “The Ironblood Tribe will send a cadre of berserkers to Blackstone Pass to tear those Molten Iron monsters to pieces.”

They then left each other a way to communicate, and the two chieftains departed Thundercliff.

Humans of the Dawn Tribe and orcs of the Ironblood Tribe had already been mobilized and were in a state of combat readiness.

Orders were issued, and massive numbers of soldiers assembled toward Blackstone Pass, awaiting the Molten Iron army.

Dragon Valley’s sunset dyed the cliffs blood-red. The brass-silver dragon Deborah’s silvery-white scales reflected the afterglow.

She cocked her head, eyes flickering with curiosity. “Garoth, the force you sent to Blackstone Pass is large, but it’s mostly gnolls, kobolds, and lizardfolk... Can these lower-ranked subjects take such a crucial pass? If the first battle fails, the tribe’s morale could plummet.”

From earlier enquiries she’d learned the Molten Iron Tribe’s opening move at Blackstone Pass and felt puzzled.

The red iron dragon smiled faintly. “They’re merely cannon fodder—let them die if they must.”

A strategic pass like Blackstone matters to surface creatures; to us it’s barely a mark on a map. We dragons control the skies—no pass can truly bar us. When the fighting around Blackstone Pass reaches its peak, that’s when we begin our real action.”

Great kingdoms and empires also had aerial defenses.

If one flew recklessly and was targeted, one might even be struck by magical satellites.

But in the remote convergence lands, that wasn’t a worry; the skies were effectively open to dragons. Only when touching ground did dragons need to consider safety.

The brass-silver dragon roughly understood Garoth’s intent.

Her only problem was sending so many sentient lives as cannon fodder—it felt cruel.

“Yet these sacrifices are necessary for the path to order,” Garoth said.

As a metal-dragon half-blood, Deborah leaned to the lawful good side.

But lawful-good didn’t mean saintly mercy.

If a knight devoted to order were falsely accused of hindering society and failed to preserve order, that knight drawing his sword and executing the slanderer—even if the slanderer were weak—would not be unusual.

Deborah blinked, finding Garoth decisive and resolute; he should be the one to rule these convergence lands.

“What about the serpentfolk? Are we to let them reap the spoils?” she asked.

Deborah disliked the Poison Tail Tribe’s fence-sitting neutrality—that it claimed neutrality but really sought the biggest advantage.

“If they had pledged allegiance at the start, I would have given them good positions.”

“But they chose to watch from the shore and try to take everything for themselves.”

A cold smile tugged Garoth’s mouth. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Now they want to bargain? After the war they’ll pay a tenfold price.”

How delicious. Deborah’s eyes gleamed; she found Garoth’s cruelty oddly appealing.

“Garoth, train with me—teach me,” she said, her mind replaying the memory of Garoth’s fiery claws gliding over her body. Her tail twitched as she spoke softly.

“Not now.”

Garoth rejected Deborah’s invitation. “The situation changes by the minute. I must focus. Another time.”

“All right.”

Deborah sounded slightly disappointed, then ran off to play a guessing game with the faerie dragon Vira.

Perched in place, Garoth listened to the Ignas brothers’ discussions and battle reports through the Bloodkin Chain while quietly adjusting his own state for the coming fight.

Convergence lands, Blackstone Pass.

The setting sun poured crimson light across the earth.

Kobold Dag licked his sharp teeth and stared at the heavily guarded pass ahead.

Behind Dag, the Molten Iron host spread across the plain in front of the pass.

Gnolls crouched low, their fur rising and falling with each breath; kobolds nervously clawed at the ground with short hands, their tiny scales shining greasy under the sun; towering ogres clad in heavy armor breathed like old bellows; lizardfolk hugged the ground like shadows; centaur warriors pawed their hooves; the taut hum of drawn bowstrings was thin but piercing.

“Smell that? The scent of fresh meat.”

Dag’s dragon-like head lifted and thundered.

“My children!”

“Tear that opening wide! For the mighty Redwing Lord, for the Molten Iron Tribe!”

After a brief pause, he spread his born wings and roared, “Charge!”

In the next instant, like a busted dam, a black tide surged toward the pass with the earth trembling.

The gnolls were the first wave to smash into the iron barrier.

They launched on all fours with explosive speed, their gaunt, scaled bodies streaking into black blurs.

The gnoll sub-leader Yellowfang Rak charged at the front, claws screeching sparks against the hard ground, closing on the gigantic gate the Dawn Tribe had set up across the middle of the pass.

Then a heavy echo boomed from the cliff top—

Woooo—Woooo—

A deep bovine horn sounded like distant thunder, rolling across the plain and pass.

In the next moment, death fell from above.

Countless black dots poured from the cliff, shrieking as they tore the air.

They were arrows, dense as rain.

They pierced the gnolls’ crude leather armor easily, shredding muscle and smashing bone.

A sprinting gnoll’s left leg was pinned and shattered on the spot; it writhed in agony trying to pull out the bone-on-arrow, only to see a second arrow pierce its neck and end its misery.

“Scatter the charge!”

The gnoll leader barked, flipping aside to avoid an iron arrow. The arrowhead lodged deep where he had stood; around him more companions convulsed or lay grievously wounded from the rain of arrows, blood gathering into tiny streams, trickling along ground ruts.

Still the arrows kept falling.

A wave of gnolls fell in an instant, but the following monsters hoisted their dead comrades’ corpses as shields and continued to press forward.

After paying the cost of many lives, the Molten Iron creatures finally reached the Blackstone Pass.

Arrows still fell, and spells like fireball, Chain Lightning, and Frost Spike began to take effect—every inch of progress became hard-won.

At the same time, while the gnolls and kobolds drew most of the fire, stealthy lizardfolk warriors had already crept close to the pass.

On the steep cliff face, nearly vertical, dozens of lizardfolk—so near they were hard to see—clung and sprinted upward like giant geckos.

Their slender claws ended in thick keratin hooks that bit deep into rock crevices, holding them as if on flat ground.

Their target was the protruding stone ledges halfway up the cliff—

—the Dawn Tribe archer positions.