Chapter 535: 535

Their eyes, though bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, widened as they took in their approaching comrades. The sight of fellow ratfolk in new armor was an anomaly, a stark contrast to their own battered, stained hides. If only the ceaseless roar of battle allowed for conversation, questions would have erupted: What happened? Where did that armor come from?

But there was no time, no space for words. The overwhelming need to survive, to simply fall back and rest, drove them onward. They retreated, carrying with them the silent hope that one day they would get answers, or perhaps, that a similar, miraculous surprise awaited them back at the camp.

Meanwhile, on a rugged hill overlooking the chaotic ballet of battle, a solitary goblin mage, Snivel, moved with a surprising blend of frantic energy and precise calculation. He wasn’t equipped for direct combat, his frame slight beneath robes embroidered with arcane symbols, but his role was just as crucial. Occasionally, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist would send a minor ward shimmering into existence around a sensitive piece of equipment, or a gust of wind would subtly clear the dust from a lens. He was setting up a series of intricate arcane devices: polished brass focusing arrays, glowing crystal resonators, and delicate runic matrices that hummed with latent power.

Snivel paused, his pointed ears swiveling, before he reached for a slim, brass-bound telescopic scope. His single, unblinking eye, a milky white contrast to his green skin, peered through the lens. The image resolved: amidst the swirling dust and clashing forms, he saw them – the Ratmen, transformed and empowered, tearing through the demonic ranks. A grim satisfaction touched his lips. They had arrived.

He pulled back from the scope, scanning his meticulous setup. Every crystal aligned, every rune energized. Placing a three-fingered hand to his ear, where a small, glowing earpiece was nestled, he spoke into it, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “I am ready and set to go.”

Back in his makeshift command center, a spartan room devoid of comforts, Rattan paced. Sleep has long been something foreign to him The cube, now restored to its original, luminous form, floated in the center of the room. It projected a detailed hologram of their world, a miniature, swirling orb of familiar landscapes and territories.

Tiny pinpricks of light flickered across the holographic map, appearing and disappearing with calculated precision. Each light represented a hidden unit, a prepared position, a ready signal from his people. They were in place, their silent affirmation echoing through the room.

“For the greater good,” Rattan murmured, the words a low, guttural promise spoken to no one but himself. His eyes, usually filled with weary calculation, now held a fierce, unwavering resolve. With a decisive gesture, he uttered the command: “Activate the cams.”

Across the empire, in hidden rooftops and concealed tunnels, the individual lights on Rattan’s holographic map flared into a steady glow. Each marked a goblin mage, hands poised over intricate arcane arrays. On the windswept hill, the lanky mage with spectacles focused, his fingers dancing over the activation runes of his own setup. A barely perceptible shimmer of energy pulsed outwards from his station, followed by similar pulses from hundreds of other hidden locations.

Suddenly, within countless homes, taverns, and town squares across the Imperial lands, the scrying pools and magical mirrors that normally hummed with trivial gossip or flickering entertainment erupted into a chaotic frenzy. Static danced across their surfaces, images warped and stretched, then snapped into stark, terrifying clarity.

It was still early morning, and many goblins, just beginning their day, had idly glanced at these ubiquitous magical mirrors, typically used for Imperial propaganda or local news. Now, they found themselves rooted in place, their breath catching in their throats. What was displayed before them was something never seen in all their lives, a nightmare brought to their very doorsteps.

They had heard whispers, of course—faint rumors of the Empire being at war with some unknown, distant enemy. Refugees, gaunt and silent, had occasionally trickled into their cities, carrying stories of ravaged lands. But these whispers, like dust motes in the wind, would settle quickly, forgotten within a day or two. The war had always felt so impossibly far away, a problem for someone else, in another corner of the vast Empire.

Today, for whatever reason, that war, that distant nightmare, was not only brought to their faces but projected in such a raw, unvarnished way that they physically could not look away.

They were confronted with the terrifying, raw reality of the Abyss itself. The screens roared with the unholy cacophony of battle, but it wasn’t just noise; it was the sickening crunch of bone, the wet tear of flesh, the guttural shrieks of pure, unbridled malice. Monstrous, chitinous demons with eyes that burned like embers in the perpetual twilight of their forms tore through desolate, ravaged landscapes.

One monstrous behemoth, all segmented plates and razor claws, ripped a downed foe in half, a sickening geyser of blackened blood erupting against the scorched earth. Another, a lesser demon, gaunt and needle-toothed, immediately descended upon the twitching remains, its snuffling muzzle rooting for softer tissues, its mandibles audibly gnawing at the exposed viscera. Limbs were torn asunder, entrails spilled like grim garlands, and the ground was slick with a glistening sheen of gore. These were not mere monsters; they were embodiments of hunger and destruction, their ferocity a visceral, unholy spectacle. They didn’t just kill; they savored the rending, their twisted forms writhing with a horrifying glee as they literally attempted to consume the flesh of downed foes, their shadowed faces contorting in silent, hungry ecstasy.

Then, the focus shifted, and a collective gasp rippled through the towns. The cameras zoomed in on the ratmen—but these weren’t the savage, unequipped skirmishers the Empire’s propaganda had always painted them as. These were desperate, valiant fighters, now clad in unfamiliar, gleaming armor, their weapons crackling with an inner light that seemed to repel the encroaching darkness. They fought with a ferocity born of sheer desperation, pushing back against the demonic tide with an unexpected, almost miraculous strength, their desperate struggles illuminated against the backdrop of an unimaginable horror.

The images were jarring, unedited, utterly devoid of the Empire’s usual heroic narratives. Fear turned to bewilderment, then to a dawning, terrible realization. This wasn’t a series of distant skirmishes; this was a true, brutal invasion, a war on their doorstep that, for reasons unknown, was being horrifyingly underplayed by the very Empire sworn to protect them.

A cold wave of anger and shame washed over the stunned goblin onlookers. They watched, transfixed, as the very ratmen they despised, the creatures deemed lowly and expendable by Imperial decree, fought with a desperate, visceral courage. They saw them, battered and bleeding, pushing back against the encroaching Abyss, defending homes that, in the grand scheme, were also their homes. Meanwhile, they, the supposedly superior goblins, had been lounging in their taverns and city squares, utterly oblivious to the true horror unfolding just beyond their pampered lives.

A ripple of murmurs began, a question that started as a hesitant whisper and quickly swelled into an indignant roar. “Where are our mages?” someone cried out, the frustration clear in their voice. “Why is it only the ratfolk fighting? Where is the Empire’s army?” The contradiction was stark, infuriating. The Empire had always claimed their legions were invincible, their mages unparalleled. Yet, here were the despised ratmen, holding the line.

Then came the most damning question, cutting through the growing outrage: “Ratfolk are not blessed with mana, so how come they are able to fight with such monsters?” The common knowledge was that mana, the lifeblood of magic, flowed only through the ’blessed’ races—goblins, elves, dwarves, and humans. Ratfolk were considered too primitive, too base. Yet, on the screens, they wielded glowing weapons, their movements charged with an impossible power. “If the ratmen can, why can’t we also fight to protect our homes?” The question hung in the air, a challenge not just to the Empire’s authority, but to their own ingrained beliefs about themselves and their place in the world. The illusion of safety had shattered, replaced by a searing realization of their vulnerability and the Empire’s betrayal.

Just as the shouts of anger and shame reached a fever pitch, the very sky above the battlefield tore open. Not with demonic portals, but with the sudden, breathtaking appearance of huge ships—Imperial vessels, gleaming like predatory fish in the dim, ash-choked air. A collective gasp rose from the goblin onlookers. Imperial ships! Here!

Then, from the gaping maw of the largest vessel, huge, burly armored figures began to descend. They didn’t lower; they jumped from the ships high in the sky, plummeting like meteors towards the embattled earth. Each impact sent up an enormous cloud of dust and debris, momentarily obscuring the view as the ground shuddered under the force.

From the dissipating smoke, emerged Ogre Knights, their hulking forms encased in ancient, runic armor that hummed with a low, potent energy. Their presence was felt instantaneously, a seismic shift in the flow of battle. They tore through ranks of low-level demons in what seemed like the blink of an eye, their massive weapons cleaving through chitin and sinew with terrifying efficiency.

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