CH623 · Rewrite
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Chapter 623: Battle to the Death

Under the artillery bombardment, the church’s formation broke apart and scattered. The Judgement Army stumbled and bunched; the God’s Punishment Warriors, immune to panic, accelerated and left them behind.

Then Lightning noticed something wrong.

A rider in priest’s vestments crested the ridge road from the rear, trailing a halo of yellow light. Wherever the rider passed, the scattered men steadied and closed ranks again. The army reformed—this time loose rather than ordered, individual spacing too wide for a single shell to destroy a column the way it had before.

A pure witch. Lightning was already calculating targeting angles when Maggie screamed.

“Careful!”

She pulled hard upward—ten meters, fifteen—as a brown cloud swept through the space her body had occupied. The cloud twisted, resolving into the blurred silhouette of a man.

“Rotten bastards!” The swarm’s voice was shrill with fury. “You dare go against the church? Die!”

“Killing your own kind, and you’re proud of it?” Lightning leveled her pistol at the mass of locusts. “Maggie—keep guiding the cannons! I’ve got this one.”


Enemies filled Danny’s vision.

Far more than the last wave. The misty mountain slopes gleamed with the sheen of armor from ridge to ridge, and the God’s Punishment Warriors came at a dead run from the first moment, no shields, no measured advance—just speed and mass. He had seen something like this once before, standing on the wall during the Months of Demons, watching thousands of beasts charge in a tide that didn’t know how to stop. That had been frightening. This was worse: these things wore faces.

But he was not afraid.

The demonic beasts hadn’t broken that low stone wall the Militia had defended, and the God’s Punishment Warriors would not break through the First Army’s line. He was certain of it.

Besides—she was somewhere behind the position. That morning, stepping into the trench, he had glimpsed green fabric turning toward him, a face that smiled before looking away. He knew it was only courtesy. The smile had taken root in him anyway.

He would not let the line break.

It was a pity Iron Axe had pulled him from the sharpshooters after the discipline violation. The revolving rifle felt crude in his hands now. He could have taught the God’s Punishment Army a sharper lesson with his old weapon.

“Three hundred meters!” Malt called. “Javelin range!”

Danny pressed a hand briefly to the top of Malt’s head. “Watch yourself.”

Malt had recovered from his injuries and been demoted back to standard infantry. His punishment had been lenient—one month’s pay docked, no confinement—since the commander-in-chief had judged him an accomplice rather than a ringleader.

The enemy’s charge was faster than the four machine gun forts could fully suppress. Smoke from field artillery and the God’s Punishment Warriors’ own dust cloud opened gaps in the interlocking fire. Then the first warriors crossed the red warning line.

“Two hundred meters—spears!”

“Down!”

“Get down!”

Danny emptied all five rounds in a single burst and dropped flat. He reloaded in the dirt. When the volley of javelins had passed, he rose, picked his nearest target, and fired into the stone-carved face.

God’s Punishment Warriors did not flinch at muzzle flash or the man next to them dying. They marched through it. Only when a bullet found a critical spot did one stop—not from pain, but from physics. This one took a round through the chest and neck. Blue blood sprayed, and the body tilted like a felled tree before it fell.

Danny burned through three preloaded cartridges, moving back by stages to the second trench as the line compressed. He swung himself over the trench wall—

And a shadow fell from above.

A God’s Punishment Warrior had cleared the barbed wire in a single leap. The greatsword was already swinging when Danny registered it. He grabbed Malt behind him and pulled the smaller man into his chest.

The blade came down.

A crash of steel. Danny’s arm went numb. When he opened his eyes he was on the ground, and Malt was still in his arms—but only the top half of him. The cut was clean through the waist. Malt’s mouth was open. He looked at Danny and tried to say something. Blood came instead of words.

The God’s Punishment Warrior stepped over them both.

A sword blow struck Danny’s forearms. Another swept toward his face. He had time to register the rough edge of the blade, dark with his own blood. He thought of green fabric and a smile that was probably not meant for him. That was all he had time for.

Cold light. Two swords collided, sparks biting the air between them. The God’s Punishment Warrior’s weapon twisted free of its grip and clattered into the trench.

A woman stood over the position like a wall: long black hair, golden light burning in her eyes.

The warrior lunged with bare hands. She caught it, and where her fist landed the skull caved without ceremony. Blue-white matter spattered across Danny’s face and chest.

“Up,” she said, glancing at the soldiers still in the trench. Then she turned and engaged two more warriors who had come over the wire.

“This man’s injured!”

“Get him out of here!”

“Malt.” Danny’s voice had gone hoarse. He tightened his remaining arm around the small body. “Take Malt too.”

“He’s dead!” a voice snapped. “Do you want us all killed?”

Hands seized Danny’s arms and dragged him rearward. The trench, and what remained of Malt, receded from his sight.


Lightning banked hard and chased the swarm.

She had worked out the enemy’s logic. The swarm witch had split her magic among too many individual bodies—a strategy that made her difficult to kill outright, but also meant each insect was vulnerable. Maggie had transformed into a swallow, the natural hunter of locusts, and kept herding the cloud into a tighter and tighter knot, compressing it, preventing it from dispersing into an unshootable mist. Lightning unloaded her pistol into the mass whenever it bunched. The swarm’s voice was weakening.

When she moved to reload, the swarm suddenly reversed direction—streaking not toward her but toward the ground.

“Maggie!”

A goshawk folded its wings and dove.

“What—what is this—impossible—!”

The swarm tried to scatter. Too late. The goshawk’s beak opened, and the cloud simply vanished into it. Maggie landed on the rocky ground, shifted back to her own shape, and chewed with an expression of profound disgust.

“Terrible.”

Lightning holstered her pistol. “Because they aren’t roasted.”

Only then did she register the blood on her own skin—red across her forearms, from the early passes when she hadn’t kept her distance and the locust mandibles had found her. Hard little rasps. Against an ordinary person, that swarm would have been devastating.

She looked down at the camp: craters, scattered bodies, the smoke of a dozen small fires.

“Artillery guidance isn’t needed here anymore.” She pointed south, toward the command platform. “Let’s support His Majesty.”

“Awh!”

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