Chapter 372: 372

“I am,” Phanthom admitted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “Victory is assured. There’s no longer a challenge, no art to it. Even their desperate gambits lack creativity. This is mere slaughter, and slaughter bores me.”

Phanthom turned away from the battlefield, his dark cloak billowing in the wind. “Malzor,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of finality, “continue as you see fit. The ratmen are broken; there’s no need for me here.”

Malzor nodded, his gaze lingering on Phanthom. “And where will you go?”

“To find something… stimulating,” Phanthom replied. “Perhaps a battlefield with a worthy opponent. Or a realm where the game is not so rigged in our favor.”

As Phanthom began to fade into the shadows, he glanced back at the field of despair one last time. The ratmen’s cries, the demons’ laughter, the endless cycle of pain and torment—it was a masterpiece of suffering. Yet to Phanthom, it was nothing more than a canvas already filled.

Malzor watched him disappear, then turned his attention back to the battlefield. “A shame,” he muttered to himself. “But predictable, coming from him.”

With renewed vigor, Malzor continued to command the demons, ensuring that the ratmen’s despair would remain an endless well of power for their forces.

Phantom appeared at the portal in the abyss that led to the other side of the world. He already knew his creator was nearby, waiting for him.

Still in his gargoyle form, Phantom stepped through the portal and emerged into a battlefield where the roars of demons clashed with the screeches of ratmen. The higher-tier demons in the vicinity bowed as he passed, acknowledging his presence.

With their forces gaining ground, Phantom now had the freedom to move as he pleased. His steps carried him into the chaos of the battlefield, a mayhem of bloodshed and destruction.

As he walked, sprays of blood from the carnage around him seemed to part and fall away, never touching him. Neither the demons nor the ratmen took notice of his presence; it was as though he was invisible, a ghost among the massacre.

Phantom suddenly halted when a faint yellow light caught his eye. It was dim but unmistakable—a ratman with the fire of hope burning inside him. Phantom observed the way the ratman fought, his curiosity piqued.

The ratman had managed to rally a capable team around him, their efforts keeping the demons at bay. Yet, his ruthlessness was evident; he showed no hesitation in using the deaths of his comrades to gain an advantage over his enemies.

Phantom noticed that the composition of the ratman’s team constantly changed—comrades died, yet the leader remained steadfast, quickly replenishing his ranks. Phantom was intrigued by the ratman’s cunning methods.

“Truly ruthless,” Phantom thought. The ratman had a sharp eye, able to pinpoint when one of his fellows was on the brink of death. If the ratman deemed it useful, he would swoop in at the last moment, saving them and turning them into loyal teammates.

Phantom considered walking away. He knew that sooner or later, the ratman would meet his end. But then, a thought crossed his mind: What if?

His form shifted, transforming into that of a ratman. He began scavenging among the fallen, equipping himself with their steam-powered technology. He retrieved a steam pistol and watched as an imp demon prepared to lunge at his new favorite ratman.

Without hesitation, Phantom aimed and fired. The shot was precise, piercing through the imp’s eye and dropping it instantly.

Phanthom’s precise shot startled the group. The imp demon, mid-leap, let out a shrill screech before collapsing lifelessly at the feet of the yellow-lit ratman. For a brief moment, the battlefield chaos seemed to fade as the ratman’s sharp eyes locked onto Phanthom, now disguised as one of their own.

The ratman leader nodded in acknowledgment, perhaps mistaking Phanthom for a rare ally with excellent marksmanship. Without hesitation, the leader waved him over, his team temporarily regrouping behind the remnants of a shattered steam tank.

Phanthom joined the ragged group, now just another ratman with soot-streaked fur and a steam pistol clutched in his clawed hands. The leader barked quick orders, his voice steady despite the cacophony of screams and clashes around them.

Phanthom, ever the observer, quickly adjusted to the ratmen’s tactics. A towering abyss demon barreled toward their position, its claws carving deep grooves into the earth. The leader shouted for cover, and the team scattered, steam-powered rifles hissing as they unleashed rounds of concentrated shrapnel.

Phanthom, however, stood his ground. Calculating the demon’s trajectory, he aimed the steam pistol at a weak point in the demon’s armor-like hide—the joint of its knee. The shot hit true, and with a mechanical hiss, the steam-powered projectile embedded itself, causing the demon to stumble.

“Move in!” the leader yelled, and the ratmen swarmed the faltering demon. Phanthom was among them, moving with precision and unnatural fluidity. He jammed a steam grenade into the demon’s open wound and leapt back just as the device detonated, reducing the creature to a smoldering heap.

A towering abyss demon raised its clawed hand, channeling a sphere of dark energy. The air around it shimmered with malevolent force. As it hurled the orb into the fray, the blast consumed dozens of ratmen, leaving behind only scorched earth and the echo of screams.

The ratmen fought back with their steam-powered weapons, but their projectiles often disintegrated against magical shields or failed to penetrate the thick hides of their foes. Hope waned until a desperate shout rang out:

“Activate the disruptor!”

A ratman engineer hurriedly fumbled with a mana disruptor bomb, its cylindrical body hissing as it powered up. Phanthom watched with feigned interest, his keen eyes noting how the device worked: it emitted a pulse of anti-magic energy, nullifying spells and disrupting demonic enchantments.

As the disruptor detonated, an invisible wave rippled through the battlefield. Demonic flames flickered out, and magical auras faded. The demons faltered, momentarily stripped of their overwhelming advantage.

“Now! Push forward!” the yellow-lit leader bellowed.

The ratmen surged, their steam-powered rifles and cannons roaring to life. Phanthom, wielding a salvaged steam pistol, moved with the group. His shot found its mark—a hellhound mid-charge, its head snapping back as the bullet pierced its skull.

Another demon lunged forward, only to be intercepted by a team of ratmen with steam lances. Pressurized jets of boiling steam erupted from the weapons, scalding the demon’s flesh and forcing it to retreat.

The demons, stripped of their magic, didn’t retreat. Instead, they adapted with terrifying ruthlessness.

A balrog, unable to summon its signature flames, roared in frustration and charged forward with brute strength. It crushed a ratman beneath its massive claw, then hurled another into the air, impaling him on jagged debris.

Phanthom watched as a group of imps, using their agility, swarmed a ratman squad. Though unable to fly, they leapt from body to body, tearing flesh with claws and teeth. One imp grabbed a steam-powered grenade, pulling its pin and diving into a crowd of ratmen. The explosion sent blood and shrapnel flying.

Phanthom moved with the ratmen, ensuring his disguise remained intact. When another mana disruptor was activated, he seized the opportunity to push back a demon brute. Using a steam-powered lance, he drove the weapon into its abdomen, releasing a burst of scalding steam that left the creature writhing in agony.

The yellow-lit ratman leader seemed emboldened by Phanthom’s precision. “You, with me!” he ordered, gesturing toward Phanthom. Together, they led an assault on a pack of abyss demons attempting to regroup.

As the demons fell, the ratmen’s morale surged. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they pushed the enemy back, reclaiming ground lost to despair. Phanthom, however, remained detached.

His gaze often drifted to the leader, still illuminated by the faint yellow glow of hope. The ratman’s ruthlessness fascinated him—how he balanced survival with leadership, how he used the lives around him as both shield and weapon.

But Phanthom wasn’t here to inspire victory. He sought to understand. What drove these creatures to cling to hope in the face of such overwhelming odds?

The tide shifted again when the demons regained their magical abilities. A hellhound, now wreathed in flames, burst through the ratman ranks, igniting dozens with a single swipe.

Phanthom, noting the demons’ renewed strength, observed the ratmen’s mounting despair. Their steam technology, impressive as it was, couldn’t withstand the full force of the demons’ magic. The disruptors were too few, their effects too temporary.

The yellow-lit ratman hesitated, his fire of hope dimming. Phanthom, ever the opportunist, stepped forward. He fired his pistol into a demon’s eye, then turned to the leader. “Don’t falter now! Push them back!”

The leader rallied, but Phanthom knew it was a losing battle. He stayed close, fascinated by how hope flickered and faded in the face of inevitable defeat.

A loud horn suddenly echoed from the ratmen’s side, signaling a retreat. Phantom, noticing that the ratman leader had survived, smiled faintly as his figure melded into the ranks of the retreating demons.

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