Frontline Empress-Chapter 76: The Battle Begins

The moment The Chained Droplet Army surged forward, the battlefield seemed to contract, the distance between the two forces vanishing in mere seconds. The thundering of armored boots on the frost-dusted prairie drowned out all other sound. Yet, within Ophelia's army, something far more profound than fear gripped them.

Control was gone.

Every soldier, from the disciplined Holy Knights to the seasoned but chaotic Gloomtaurs, felt their will dissolve as their bodies moved without their consent. The golden radiance that had once signified the Supreme Command flickered out—and in its place, the ground beneath them fractured into shifting, glowing squares of cold blue light.

At the same time, across the field, the charging bandits' footing illuminated in ominous squares of deep crimson. It was as if an invisible force had split the battlefield into a chessboard, marking each side, designating who belonged where and who would fall first.

Then came the hunger.

It rose like a tidal wave from within the ranks of Ophelia's army—a violent, all-consuming bloodlust that coiled around their very being and shot outward like a pressure wave, crashing into the charging bandits. The Chained Droplet warriors staggered for half a step, an unnatural chill rattling their bones as primal fear sliced through their adrenaline-fueled momentum. They had faced enemies before. They had killed without hesitation. But this? This was something else.

And then, the reorganization began.

In a single, seamless motion, the army transformed. The Holy Knights at the front stepped forward, their shields and weapons locking into an unbreakable wall, with a few Gloomtaurs towards the front wielding long spears, bristled between the gaps like a field of iron thorns.

Behind them, the Gloomtaurs, uncharacteristically disciplined, shifted into perfectly aligned horizontal and vertical rows—a grid-like formation that mirrored the blue squares beneath them.

The Knights braced. The collision was instantaneous.

The first wave of bandits smashed against them like a tidal force, their weapons swinging in wild arcs. Yet, not a single Holy Knight staggered. Their shields absorbed the impact, their stance reinforced by something far greater than mere strength.

The Gloomtaurs behind them lunged forward in unison, their spears striking between the cracks in the bandit armor, the points driving deep into flesh before they immediately retracted and reformed the ranks. Not a single movement was wasted.

The Chained Droplet bandits had expected chaos—a disorderly clash of bodies and blood. But instead, they had slammed into a machine. A perfectly calculated, tactical killing force.

Even as the front line held strong, Ophelia raised her hands. A conductor of death, directing an orchestra of slaughter.

Two large chunks of her army suddenly peeled off. On the left and right, groups of Holy Knights and Gloomtaurs burst outward, splitting into flanking forces that swept like twin blades, slamming into the exposed sides of the enemy horde.

The bandits, too focused on their forward momentum, barely had time to react before they found themselves crushed in a three-way bind. The frontline Holy Knights held firm like an unbreakable dam, stopping the enemy's charge in its tracks. At the same time, the two flanking groups struck from both sides, closing in and compressing the bandits' ranks, leaving them with no room to maneuver.

Trapped and exposed, they became easy prey for the relentless thrusts of spears and the swift arcs of swords cutting through gaps in their armor. In mere moments, their numbers dwindled—dozens cut down before they could even comprehend the slaughter.

At the head of the Chained Droplet Army, the Dark Elven Bandit King watched his forces crumble at an alarming rate. His brows furrowed, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Why?

How?

Gloomtaurs were savage warriors, unruly in nature. Their combat was supposed to be brutal, untamed, reckless. And yet here they were—moving with precision that rivaled a kingdom's elite battalion.

Then, his gaze settled on Ophelia.

Standing amidst her forces, she was no longer giving orders—she was the orders. The army moved with her. The bloodlust they exuded was her will given form.

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His lips twisted into a sneer.

"Enough."

He stepped forward, then leapt into the air.

The sky darkened around him as his jagged black armor rippled, expanding across his form. Two bony, grotesque wings tore free from his back, expanding with a sickening crack. A rough, jagged mask of dark metal enveloped the upper half of his face, leaving only his predatory green eyes visible. His longsword pulsed, a dark sheen washing over the steel like a liquid shadow.

Ophelia's eyes flickered.

"A parasite..." she muttered.

The Bandit King swung his sword—straight at a section of her army where Ophelia stood.

Before anyone could react, twenty Gloomtaurs were lifted into the air, however, Ophelia was unphased as she looked up.

The Gloomtaurs sleek black armor betrayed them, bending to the will of the Bandit King's control. Their bodies whipped upward, twisting unnaturally as the force of gravity seemed to reject them.

Then—they plummeted.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

They slammed into the earth like meteors, their bones shattering, the sheer impact rupturing their internal organs before they even had a chance to scream.

And then, the Bandit King landed.

With a single step, he tore through Ophelia's ranks. His longsword lashed out, the metallic pull of his power dragging enemies helplessly into its deadly arc. A Gloomtaur attempted to dodge, but his armor betrayed him as well, yanking him straight into the descending blade.

One slash—three bodies collapsed. He spun, his jagged wings cleaving through throats like merciless scythes, leaving only gurgled gasps in their wake. Another swing—his blade wrenched an entire line of Gloomtaurs closer, locking them in a death trap they had no hope of escaping.

Ophelia's forces, so meticulously arranged, began to fray at the edges. The Holy Knights still held the front line, but the Bandit King was breaking through the pincers, carving a direct path through the most disciplined ranks.

For the first time since the battle began—Ophelia's machine faltered.

And yet—she smiled.

Her fingers twitched slightly, adjusting the flow of her orchestra.

The Holy Knights reacted instantly, shifting formation with a precision only possible under the Supreme Command. Their bodies, no longer their own, moved as a singular entity, their heavy shields and raised weapons forming an unbreakable perimeter around the towering bandit king.

He loomed over them, his jagged black armor making him appear more like a demon than an elf, but the knights did not waver. Their golden radiance clashed against his dark presence like sunlight against storm clouds.

The bandit king smirked, raising his longsword high above his head, fully expecting to rip them apart with the sheer force of his magnetism. But the moment he exerted his power, something unexpected happened—while their armor trembled, shifting slightly under the pull, the knights themselves barely moved.

Their sheer physical resilience, amplified by Ophelia's influence, allowed them to resist his pull. His smirk widened into a grin, teeth bared like a beast before the slaughter. Lowering his sword, he lunged exactly towards Edwin before saying...

"You are the strongest here."

The moment he dashed forward, the Holy Knights including Edwin snapped into action, striking in unison to stop him. But he was too fast. He weaved through their attacks, his wings extending to batter them aside while his blade carved through the gaps in their formation.

However, the knights adapted with the help of the ever planning Ophelia, closing in, striking at his exposed flanks with disciplined blows meant to restrict his movement. Every time he advanced, they cut him off. Every time he struck, they absorbed the impact with their shields and countered with a barrage of weapon attacks.

Yet, the real battle wasn't with the bandit king—it was with his army.

The moment he was engaged with the knights, the rest of his forces lost their anchor. Without his overwhelming presence commanding them, the bandits faltered, their movements reactive than proactive, their cohesion crumbling.

And that was exactly what Ophelia wanted.

She stood behind the ranks, watching with eerie stillness as the battlefield unfolded before her, her fingers twitching subtly, orchestrating the movements of her army like a conductor shaping a symphony of death.

The Gloomtaurs, despite their brutish nature, moved with near-perfect coordination, their formations shifting in real time to counter every desperate attempt the bandits made to reform their lines.

A cluster of bandits on the left flank tried to break through, hoping to regroup with their comrades, but the Gloomtaurs intercepted them in an instant. The front line of spearmen formed a tight phalanx, their shields locking together while their spears thrust forward in unison. The bandits crashed into them and found themselves impaled before they could even raise their weapons.

On the right flank, a group of ax-wielding bandits attempted a reckless charge, believing brute force would break through the weaker Gloomtaur lines. But Ophelia had already anticipated it. The moment the bandits reached striking distance, the Gloomtaurs at the front suddenly retreated, creating a deceptive gap in the formation.

The bandits surged forward, thinking they had broken through—only for the second rank of Gloomtaurs to emerge from the sides, encircling them in a crescent-shaped trap. The moment they realized their mistake, it was already too late. Swords, spears, and daggers tore into them from all sides.

At the center of the battlefield, the main bulk of the Chained Droplet army was in complete disarray. Their initial momentum had been shattered, and now they were fighting blindly, reacting instead of strategizing. Every attempt to regroup was thwarted before it could begin. The Gloomtaurs, under Ophelia's direction, weaved between their ranks, striking where they were weakest and fading before a counterattack could be mounted.

It was as if their expert-level knowledge of fighting in the forest had turned the army around them into their very own forest. One made specifically for their killing.

Ophelia's gaze flickered toward the Holy Knights. They were struggling—though they held the bandit king at bay, his overwhelming power and monstrous skill made it clear they couldn't keep this up forever. But they didn't need to. Their purpose was never to win. It was to keep him occupied long enough for the rest of his army to be annihilated.

And Ophelia was making sure that happened.

A tremor rippled through the battlefield. The sound was deep, thunderous—a quake that did not belong to the earth but to something far more ominous. The fighting stalled for just a breath as every soldier besides the focused Holy Knights, turned toward the sound.

From the left of the snow-covered prairie, beyond the thinning mist of battle, a dark passage carved into the mountains yawned open like the maw of a beast. And from that darkness, a force emerged. The rhythmic stomp of boots against frozen ground sent another low rumble through the air.

Marching in perfect formation, their numbers stretching to nearly seven hundred, an army surged forth, a wave of metal and flesh that carried with it an undeniable presence. At the very front, standing taller than any of his men, a single figure led the charge—a man clad in a dark hood, his face obscured. His grip was firm on the hilt of a gargantuan greatsword, its blade so massive it carved through the air with sheer weight alone.

Tension twisted around the battlefield like a vice. The momentary stillness shattered as even the bandit king, locked in a vicious clash against the Holy Knights, turned his gaze toward the approaching force for less than second.

However, that was a fatal lapse in focus.

Ophelia noticed the shift instantly. She felt it in the way his grip on his sword loosened ever so slightly, the way his stance wavered for just a fraction of a second. That was all she needed.

With an unseen command, the Holy Knights responded. The hesitation in their bodies was long gone—they lunged, their movements controlled, sharpened by her will. Edwin led the charge, his longsword a gleaming arc of judgment as he struck with pinpoint precision. The bandit king barely had time to react. His instinct forced him to retreat, but he was just a moment too slow.

Edwin's blade cut deep. A bright slash of crimson erupted across the bandit king's right leg. The wound gushed as the impact forced him to stumble backward, his footing slipping on the snow-dusted ground. With a snarl, he pushed off, retreating into what remained of his army, only to see just how dire his situation had become.

Eighty percent of his forces—gone.

What was once a fearsome army had been reduced to a scattering of desperate, disoriented survivors. The Gloomtaurs and Holy Knights, now perfectly in sync, continued their relentless pursuit. The remaining bandits struggled to maintain cohesion, reacting rather than strategizing, their formations nonexistent as they broke apart under the relentless assault.

But none of that mattered anymore.

The battlefield had changed.

A new force had arrived.

The air shifted, heavy with the weight of impending destruction. The moment the hooded figure at the front of the advancing force took a step forward, his deep voice cut through the frigid wind like a battle horn.

"CHARGEEEEEE!"

The Grumblehold faction had arrived.