Ch.3 New World II

An hour had passed.

Yodh stood still in the middle of the battlefield, his towering figure calm and resolute amidst the sea of trembling soldiers. His hands clasped in prayer, his deep voice a solemn murmur.

“Forgive me, God, for the lives I am about to take. May their souls find salvation.”

A pointless gesture, perhaps. Yet ritual had power. Maybe not divine, but psychological at least.

To believe one’s actions were sanctioned, even if by an indifferent universe, allowed for a steadier hand in slaughter.

The kingdom’s battle horn bellowed. The earth trembled beneath the weight of advancing armies.

Yodh opened his eyes. His voice carried across the field, strengthened by sound magic, as he intoned his incantation.

“Oh, extraordinary fire, with your radiant glaze and glorious heat, I summon you through the power of my prayer—burn them with Fire Wall.”

Flames erupted in an unbroken line, stretching far beyond what the eye could see. The heat distorted the air. The fire did not flicker—it roared, as though it had been waiting for this command.

Yodh’s voice thundered, reaching every man, every soldier, every soul.

“DEATH LIES BEYOND THIS LINE. IF YOU WISH TO DIE, THEN COME AT ME.”

The enemy hesitated. But hesitation had no place in war.

The chief warrior of King Raaz’s army gritted his teeth, suppressing his unease. He commanded the first wave of 10,000 soldiers to advance.

War cries erupted. Mages behind them chanted incantations to quell the flames. The soldiers surged forward.

They approached the line.

Then, the world turned into hell.

The moment their feet touched the scorched ground, the flames awoke. It was not a natural fire. It was an executioner’s judgment with a singular purpose. Annihilation.

A wall of searing death surged forward. Magically enchanted armours flared to life. Runes shimmered. Protective enchantments recured. Barriers unfolded.

But they were useless.

The first wave of soldiers screamed as their protections shattered like brittle glass. Their bodies ignited instantly. Golden flames gnawed through the metal and flesh alike.

The heat boiled their blood before it could spill. Eyes busted in their sockets.

One warrior, his armour glowing red-hot, tried to rip it off. His gauntlets had melted into his skin. His fingers fused to iron. His movements sluggish as agony drowned his senses.

He fell to his knees. A guttural shriek escaped his burning throat before he collapsed into a heap of smouldering meat.

Another soldier, a high-ranked knight, desperately chanted an advanced water spell. A sphere of liquid formed around him. It lasted half a second before it evaporated.

The boiling vapor scalded his lungs from the inside. He clawed at his throat, gasping, before he collapsed into the growing mound of charred corpses.

A fire mage among them, thinking himself immune, attempted to manipulate the flames. He screamed when they devoured him instead. It consumed without mercy. Without distinction.

The mage fell. His body reduced to blackened bones in seconds.

Others tried different sorts of magic, but nothing mattered. The fire did not simply burn, it incinerated them to ashes.

Some managed to cross by just sheer luck. Their armour was glowing, molten in places. Their skin blistered. Lips cracked. Eyes red with pain and terror.

They had survived the fire. But before them stood something worse.

Yodh, an executioner with two colossal maces.

And the execution had only just begun.

Fear painted their expressions, but duty forced them forward.

A veteran warrior lunged with a great sword, swinging with all his might. Yodh did not parry. He did not evade. Instead, his right mace descended in an arc.

A dull, wet crack echoed as the man's skull collapsed, his entire body folding into itself like a crushed fruit. His sword, still mid-swing, never found its mark, the lifeless fingers lost their strength before impact.

Another rushed in—a halberdier, aiming low to sweep Yodh’s legs. Yodh shifted slightly, letting the weapon graze past.

His left mace came down, not on the soldier’s body, but on his weapon first. The halberd shattered into splinters.

The soldier barely had time to react before a backswing of the same mace caved in his chest, ribs puncturing his lungs. He spasmed once before going still.

A dozen warriors surrounded him. Their movements were synchronized, their attacks coordinated. They had trained for this. Yodh was outnumbered. But he was not outmatched.

Two spearmen lunged from opposite sides. Yodh turned sharply, his right mace moving like a blur.

The first spear was caught mid-thrust. Its shaft cracked. Its wielder’s arms snapped backward with a pop.

The second warrior aimed for Yodh’s exposed side, but Yodh twisted, using his momentum to drive his left mace upward. The soldier’s entire lower body lifted off the ground before his ribs shattered, sending him flying backward in a heap of blood and gore.

The remaining fighters hesitated for the briefest moment. And that was enough.

Yodh lunged forward, faster than they expected.

His maces blurred in the air. One warrior’s head was obliterated in a spray of red mist. Another’s torso was caved in with such force that his back exploded outward, fragments of bone and metal embedding into the soldiers behind him.

A shield-bearer raised his defence. A tower shield reinforced with magic. Yodh saw the mage behind him, chanting an enchantment to strengthen the barrier. The warrior smirked, thinking himself safe.

Yodh swung both maces in unison, a downward slam. The air trembled from the sheer force.

The shield shattered, and the soldier behind it collapsed. His entire body was driven into the dirt like a nail hammered into wood. Blood oozed from his crushed form. Armor twisted into an unrecognizable mess.

The mage barely had time to scream before a thrown mace caved in his face, which snapped his neck.

Swordsmen, archers, spearmen—one after another, they came. One after another, they fell.

A warrior with twin daggers managed to close the distance. Fast. Too fast.

He darted around Yodh, avoiding his swings, slashing at exposed gaps. His blades found flesh.

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But it was not enough.

Yodh grabbed him mid-stride. One massive hand wrapped around the assassin’s throat. He squeezed. A snap. And the body went limp. Yodh discarded him like a broken doll.

The battlefield was now a slaughterhouse. What was once a war had devolved into butchery.

The few who survived his onslaught were swiftly dispatched by the imperial soldiers behind him.

Then after a few minutes, silence.

Their screams had vanished, swallowed by and behind the inferno. The war cries had turned into nothingness.

The battlefield saw no movement, only the crackling of fire.

The chief hesitated. Then, suppressing the growing dread in his chest, he commanded the second, third, and fourth waves to charge.

Each wave met the same fate.

Flames devoured the living. Enormous boulders rained from the sky. Formations turned into graves.

In mere minutes, the battlefield was littered with corpses—40,000 dead.

Not peasants forced into war. Not ill-equipped mercenaries. These were warriors. Seasoned, trained, powerful. And yet, their strength had amounted to nothing.

King Raaz, watching from afar, felt his blood run cold.

He had expected battle. He had expected struggle. But this—this was not battle. This was a slaughter.

The chief warrior trembled. The next wave was ordered. The fifth charge surged forward, compelled not by courage but by command.

And then, suddenly—the fire vanished.

What remained was not a battlefield, but a graveyard.

The once-proud army of King Raaz had been reduced to twisted husks.

Blackened skeletons stood frozen in their final moments—some reaching for unseen salvation. Some clutching their melted weapons that had fused to their bones.

The air reeked of scorched flesh, a sickly stench thick enough to coat the tongue.

Pools of liquefied fat and blood mixed with the soot. It sizzled where embers still glowed. Flesh darkened as the bodies continued to cook.

A soldier who had barely survived the flames twitched among the dead. His body half-burnt. Armour melted into his charred skin.

He reached out with trembling fingers, his lips parting to beg—for mercy, for water, for death. His voice was nothing but a hoarse rasp. His throat had burned away.

He was not alone.

Among the countless corpses, a handful of men still moved. Some tried to crawl, others lay still. Eyes wide, staring at the sky—alive, but motionless.

And at the centre of it all was Yodh.

He stood unfazed. Drenched in blood. Not his own. The crimson fluid dripped from his maces, pooling at his feet.

His expression like a stone. Unreadable, indifferent.

His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the ruin he had wrought.

Yet betraying nothing. No remorse. No satisfaction. No joy.

This was not war. This was butchery.

The battlefield fell into an unnatural silence. There were no screams left, no cries of agony, only the whisper of wind over bodies that would never rise again.

Then, finally, King Raaz shattered the silence with a desperate command.

“RETREAT! EVERYONE, RETREAT!”

The order spread like wildfire.

Soldiers turned and fled. Discipline abandoned. Some dropped their weapons. Some trampled their own comrades in their desperation to escape.

Riders spurred their mounts to full gallop, while foot soldiers sprinted with all the strength their weary legs could muster.

They ran and ran. Not for the kingdom. Not for duty. Only for survival.

Amidst the chaos, Yodh did not move.

He let them run. Let them flee. The judgment had been passed.

And then, closing his eyes, he clasped his hands once more. Blood still dripped from his fingers as he whispered another prayer.

Perhaps the dead could hear it. Perhaps they could not.

But in the end, it did not matter. The dead had no need for such words. If an afterlife existed, then their fates were already sealed. If not, then they had become nothing, beyond suffering, beyond prayers. Prayers were for the living.

A desperate attempt to convince oneself of morality.

*

Far away within the imperial palace, Emperor Shyok of the Ketu Empire observed the battle through a magic mirror.

Sat on a grand chair with folded hands. His expressions were unreadable. The shining light of the enchanted glass casted shadows across his face.

Beside him sat his older brother, Mayu. His expressions were of amusement.

“I told you sending 30,000 soldiers was just too much,” Mayu remarked dryly. “The last time we sent 50,000, the waste in supplies alone strained our budget. Not to mention the ones who died from fatigue before even reaching the battlefield. And assembling the artillery cost more than the war itself.”

Shyok did not look away from the mirror. His voice was calm. "It’s not about necessity, Mayu. It’s about demonstration. Beyond Yodh, our army must remain a force to be reckoned with. Besides, this serves as practice. War keeps men sharp.”

Mayu scoffed, gesturing toward the mirror. “With Yodh around, I doubt we’ll ever need an army. Look at that massacre. Can you imagine anyone defeating him?”

Shyok exhaled. “Neither can I. If there exists someone beyond him, then even our entire empire’s strength would be meaningless.”

Mayu hesitated. “I heard from the old man once… there was someone who came close.”

Shyok’s expression darkened for the first time that night. A hint of unease crossed his face. “Yes. But that was forty years ago. If he has not been seen since, he is likely dead.”

Mayu said nothing at first. Then he sighed as he watched Yodh’s blood-soaked figure through the mirror. “I just hope there aren’t others like him. One monster in this world is more than enough.”

*

Croxeus’ eyes fluttered open. Light blue sky stretched endlessly above him.

He exhaled slowly. Sand coarse beneath his fingers. The air was dry, heavy with heat. The scent of humidity.

His mind still clouded.

The world had been deleted. He had been deleted. Yet, he still existed.

He sat up.

The desert stretched infinitely in every direction. A lifeless expanse beneath an uncaring sun.

The mirage wavered in the distance. Illusions of movement where none existed.

“Now that I think about it... I suppose we died.” he hoarsed. “Is this afterlife?”

He looked down at himself. His avatar remained unchanged.

That wasn’t right. If he had died, shouldn’t his form have reverted?

Or was he still in the simulation?

His eyes fell on his companions. Unconscious but unscathed.

His mind replayed the moment. The deletion wave had hit them.

The last thing I remember is… everything getting deleted, he wondered. So, where the heck are we? Did those guys outside notice something?

Are we still in the simulation?

His fingers twitched. He attempted to use his interface panel.

Nothing.

His eyes narrowed. That was wrong.

He tried again. No response.

Interface panel isn’t working at all, what about...

He willed himself into the air. [Fly] responded immediately, his body rose above the dunes.

He felt the magic coursing through him.

“At least my magic is still functioning,” he murmured.

As he ascended higher, his eyes scanned the horizon. The monotonous sands stretched on, endless—until, finally, something else.

A cluster of structures. Civilization.

A village?

His interest piqued. He activated [Total Illusion], his presence fading into nothingness. Carefully, he approached.

Children ran through the dusty streets, laughing. One extended a hand, and a shimmering bubble of water emerged midair.

Croxeus still. Magic?

He observed further. An adult levitated a crate of supplies. Another ignited a fire with a mere gesture.

This... doesn’t make sense, Croxeus thought, perplexed.

A new simulation where APCs can use magic? Why would they ever create something like this?

Maybe it’s not a simulation at all. Could this be another server? Are these people humans using VR?

No that can’t be why would they cosplay as villagers doing dirty work.

I can’t even use my interface to confirm aghh.

His fists clenched. Too many unknowns.

He turned away. Fled back toward his unconscious comrades. Knelt beside Ard.

He looks so much like him. I wonder what he’s doing now… I wish I could see him again.

He inhaled sharply, suppressing the thought. There was no time for sentiment.

Summarize. Eliminate uncertainties. Work with what is known.

“The interface panel is not working. Magic still works. We have been relocated—somewhere. Maybe another simulation or virtual; reality. By the looks of it, things are different here.”

Then a thought surfaced in his mind. Almost impossible but it still made some sense.

“Another world...”

He almost scoffed at the thought. “Is that even possible?”