Frontline Empress-Chapter 77: Master of Warfare

The battlefield shifted.

The Chained Droplet faction, battered and broken, finally moved back. Their leader's sharp command cut through the chaos, and his warriors obeyed without hesitation. The bandits retreated, slipping between the bodies of their fallen comrades, shields raised, steps careful but swift. Their withdrawal was not a rout. It was controlled, methodical—like a predator recognizing when to step back rather than risk annihilation.

Ophelia's army did not pursue.

Not a single soldier took a step forward. The moment their enemy disengaged, the intermittent skirmishes across the battlefield froze. The seamless formation that had fractured and stretched through the battle suddenly condensed.

Ophelia's voice rang out for the first time since the battle began.

"GATHER!"

Like a force pulling threads of a tapestry together, her army responded in an instant. The Holy Knights closed ranks, weapons locking. The Gloomtaurs fell into tight formations, spears aligning in unison. The front line solidified, the rear ranks adjusted, and within seconds, the entire army transformed back into a singular, impenetrable entity. Faster than before. More precise than before.

The battlefield had become a stage for Ophelia's Supreme Command.

The ability to control an army was an extension of the wielder. It was not a magic that simply imposed order. It bent only as much as the commander could shape it. The most skilled users—those with the highest synchronization rate—moved their forces without words, dictating entire battles with thought alone. But for those who lacked such synchronization, commands had to be spoken. And even then, Supreme Command ensured those commands were carried out with near-instant precision.

But what happened when someone like Ophelia—whose synchronization was near absolute—gave verbal orders?

The battlefield itself would listen.

The Grumblehold army surged forward. Their numbers were fresh, morale high, and they smelled blood. They crashed toward Ophelia's forces, ignoring the retreating Chained Droplet army.

At the rear of the charge, the hooded leader of the Grumblehold faction stood still, his massive greatsword resting against his shoulder. His gaze swept over the field, measuring the battlefield, calculating. Then, his eyes locked onto a familiar face.

Mabbel.

Beneath the shadow of his hood, his face twisted slightly—confusion flickering for just a moment. How was she still alive? But he had no time to dwell on it. Her head snapped forward, her body locking into formation. Even her eyes seemed unable to turn toward him, locked in place by an unseen force.

Ophelia's Supreme Command deepened its hold.

"FORM UP! FORM A WALL!"

The Grumblehold army crashed over Ophelia's like a tidal wave.

The Holy Knights surged to the front, weapons raised. This time, they were not alone. Among them, Gloomtaurs manifested massive shields from their own shadows. The barrier stretched across the battlefield, an unbroken line of steel and darkness.

The Grumblehold warriors slammed into them. The sheer force of the impact sent ripples through the formation. Even under Supreme Command, only the Holy Knights held firm, absorbing the brunt of the assault. The shadow-shielded Gloomtaurs were pushed back, their footing shifting under the force.

Then, they struck back.

The Holy Knights' swords flashed, slashing through gaps in the bandits' wild charge. The Gloomtaurs, barely moved by the impact, retaliated instantly. The massive shadow shields warped, forming jagged spears that lunged forward. Flesh tore. Armor crumpled.

But the Grumblehold warriors did not falter.

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They climbed. Over the bodies of their fallen, they vaulted the shields, leaping over the defensive wall.

They landed in open space.

Five meters of empty battlefield lay between them and the rest of Ophelia's army. The space had not been there before. The formation had shifted, widened, deliberately leaving that gap.

Standing alone in the center was Tridra.

She had already begun to retreat, her hands empty. But the ground around her was littered with something else. Small, unassuming stones carved with intricate runes.

The bandits towards the front hesitated. Something was wrong. But backing up was not an option. More bodies crashed into them from behind, pushing them forward. A flood of warriors spilled over the gap, a human tidal wave crashing into the empty ground.

The blue squares beneath them flickered a few times, dimming for only fractions of a second.

Ophelia raised her hand. Veins bulged beneath her skin as her entire focus poured into a single action.

"RELEASE!"

The battlefield erupted.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The ground shattered, fire and force consuming everything within the kill zone. Hundreds of bandits were vaporized in an instant, their bodies torn apart by the explosive runes.

And yet, Ophelia's army stood untouched.

For those fractions of a second, when the blue squares flickered, her control split. In that instant, she gave one more command—one more adjustment.

The Holy Knights had encased themselves in Holy Power, a barrier strong enough to withstand the blast. The Gloomtaurs had enveloped themselves in hardened shadows, their shields forming protective spheres around them.

When the smoke cleared, the Holy Knights still stood. The Gloomtaurs still stood. The Grumblehold warriors? Gone.

But the battle was far from over.

The formation shifted once more, the front lines pressing forward. From the narrow gaps between shields, Gloomtaurs conjured massive lances, stabbing through the remaining bandits, skewering them in a relentless counterattack.

Seeing as how the initial trouble had been dealt with, Ophelia's gaze flicked toward the Chained Droplet faction. They had circled around, moving to strike from the side.

She saw them before they even finished their maneuver.

And in an instant, they stopped.

Not by choice.

Their bodies froze in place, their movement halted unnaturally. Then, the left side of Ophelia's army split off. A segment peeled away like a knife cutting through cloth, a perfect slice of soldiers tearing from the main formation.

About thirty of the incoming bandits found themselves intercepted before they could even complete their flank.

Every movement on the battlefield was accounted for.

Every action, every step—hers to control.

The Dark Elven Bandit King did not hesitate. With a powerful leap, he soared over the heads of his own warriors, sacrificing them without thought as he launched himself straight at Ophelia.

The wind howled past him, his jagged wings cutting through the air like blades, his longsword raised high. As he cocked his weapon back, the magnetic pull of his power flared to life, wrenching several Gloomtaurs from the battlefield below. Their bodies twisted midair, armor groaning under unseen force before they were flung toward Ophelia like living projectiles.

At the same time, his sword crashed down. The sheer weight of the strike split the ground beside her, sending cracks racing through the battlefield. The Gloomtaurs hit the dirt hard, their bones shattering on impact. Dust and debris shot up in all directions, momentarily clouding the battlefield.

But when the dust settled, Ophelia remained.

She stood exactly where she had before, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side. The Bandit King's massive blade was buried in the ground beside her, a hair's breadth from where she stood.

His predatory green eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer.

"You arrogant bitch!" he spat.

With a snarl, he wrenched his sword free and swung again, this time aiming to carve her in two. But before his strike could land, seven weapons intercepted his blade at once.

Seven weapons—each wrapped in a glow of Holy Power—clashed against his attack with earth-shattering force. The Holy Knights had broken from the front lines, surging toward him in unison to defend their commander. Their combined strength shoved him back, forcing him to skid several feet across the battlefield.

"KILL THEM ALL! KILL THE REST OF THE CHAINED DROPLET SOLDIERS!"

The Bandit King barely had time to recover before Ophelia shifted the battlefield once more. With a simple flick of her fingers, another detachment of Gloomtaurs split from the main force, moving as a singular, deadly wave toward the remainder of the Chained Droplet Army.

The bandits fought, but their will had already been broken. One by one, they fell beneath a myriad of strikes, their attempts to regroup failing before they could begin. Within moments, the battlefield was cleansed of all Chained Droplet soldiers except one.

Only the Bandit King remained.

A guttural growl rumbled from his throat. His hands tightened around his sword. If he was to fall, he would not do so easily.

The Holy Knights closed in.

Their movements were not their own. They did not hesitate, did not second-guess, did not falter. Every attack was perfectly timed, an endless barrage of slashes and strikes, each designed to pressure, disorient, and overwhelm. Ophelia's will guided them now, puppeteering their every motion with inhuman precision.

However, at the same time, it felt as though their muscles were being torn off their bones. They were making moves completely out of range of their own bodies... and they felt every inch of it.

The Bandit King retaliated with monstrous strength and speed. He deflected blows, weaved between strikes, and countered brutally—but something was wrong.

His muscles burned. His limbs felt heavier with every second that passed. A force beyond mere combat was pressing down on him, suffocating him, smothering him beneath an invisible weight.

The Supreme Command.

The Holy Knights were assisted by it, their bodies moving with enhanced strength and precision, their strikes coming faster and harder with each exchange. But for him, the effect was the opposite.

The overwhelming authority of Supreme Command bore down on him like a mountain. Every step, every movement—it felt like his own body was resisting him. His breathing grew ragged, his vision swam. The weight of the battlefield, of fate itself, was pressing down on his shoulders.

For the first time, he felt it.

The pressure.

The pressure of losing.

The pressure of death creeping closer.

His vision darkened at the edges. His body, once so fast and strong, now struggled to keep up. Each second dragged him deeper into the abyss.

And Ophelia watched, silent and unmoving, as her control tightened.

Ophelia's gaze flicked toward the rear of the battlefield, where the Bandit King of Grumblehold lingered. Unlike the reckless Dark Elf, he held back, sharp eyes scanning the chaos while his forces shifted subtly.

His hand gestures were precise, relaying his commands perfectly. The bandits at the front hesitated, then began a controlled retreat—not a rout, but a measured fallback, tightening their formation. He was shifting his forces, playing the long game.

Ophelia didn't pursue.

Instead, her army moved once more. The front line, once a solid wall of bodies, twisted at her command, breaking apart and reforming into a spearhead. With no wasted movement, the formation drove forward, cutting into the enemy ranks like a blade through flesh.

The spearhead struck hard. The Gloomtaurs at the tip met the bandits' tightened defenses head-on. Steel clashed against steel, bodies slammed into each other, and for a moment, the battle became a blur of movement.

Bandits fought desperately to close the breach, pushing in from the sides, but the Gloomtaurs were relentless. Their monstrous speed and precision shredded the frontline, opening gaps that allowed the formation to wedge deeper.

But the cost was greater than Ophelia expected. A few more Gloomtaurs fell than she would have liked. Some were struck down mid-charge, others overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The spearhead formation was vicious, but it came at a price.

Yet, it was worth it.

Because at the heart of the enemy's ranks, one figure now stood alone.

Mabbel.

The leader of the Gloomtaurs, unlike the rest, was not built for speed and precision alone. She was a force of destruction, a monster that belonged in the thick of battle. The black scythe in her grip gleamed under the battlefield's dull light, its edge carving through flesh and steel alike.

With a single swing, she cleaved through ten men at once.

Her movements were brutal, ruthless. She didn't waste effort on flourishes or unnecessary strikes. Each motion sent bodies flying in half, each step forward widened the breach. The enemy swarmed her, desperate to bring her down, but they barely lasted seconds before her scythe ripped through them.

The disruption she caused rippled outward.

The enemy formation, once holding firm against the spearhead's impact, faltered. Bandits stumbled over fallen comrades, their coordination thrown into disarray. Some tried to reinforce the front, only to be cut down the moment they reached the fight. Others hesitated, unwilling to throw themselves into a massacre.

And that hesitation was all Ophelia needed.

With a single command, the Gloomtaurs shifted again.

"FORM UP!"

The spearhead collapsed, reforming back into a solid wall that pressed forward with overwhelming force. This time, there was no tight defense to resist them.

"NOW KILL THEM ALL! KILL THEM ALL UNTIL NONE ARE LEFT!"

Mabbel had broken their rhythm.

Now, the enemy's frontlines buckled under the weight of Ophelia's forces. The bandits struggled to reform ranks, but every attempt was met with a fresh assault. They weren't just being pushed back—they were being crushed.

At the rear, the Bandit King of Grumblehold grit his teeth. His once-calculated retreat now felt like a mistake. If it wasn't obvious before, it was now.

He was fighting a master of warfare.