The emergence of the Corvus entity in his mind was like a twilight filled with circling ravens, the surroundings cloaked in an oppressive darkness by the man’s power. In reality, though, Matar had merely felt an overwhelming drowsiness and slumped, asleep, in his throne. Yet, within that dream-like state, he clearly saw the person he was talking to. He couldn’t make out the face, however, as it was perpetually obscured by tendrils of thick, suffocating smoke. The man’s voice was a chilling rumble, as deep and fathomless as the ocean, sending shivers that seemed to claw their way up Matar’s spine. From that dreadful voice, he heard about an impending, devastating war.

“If the Thallerion race wages war against you because of Sapar’s rash actions,” the voice spoke to him, each word a cold pronouncement, “you will surely be utterly defeated by those people! Their strength will crush you!” Matar listened intently, absorbing every terrifying syllable during their conversation.

“When Xerxez, the King of Thallerion, in his arrogance, declares a challenge, simply send a letter stating unequivocally that you are not afraid. But, with cunning, dictate this: ‘only after six months from now.’ On that precise day, the Peronican will deliver his child, a pivotal event.” This was the entity’s chilling command. “If the king, in his impatience, agrees to your confrontation happening six months from now, you must go immediately to Moonatoria, without delay, before that appointed time arrives.”

A wide, almost predatory smile stretched across Matar’s face when he finally awoke from his profound slumber, still seated on his throne. He kept his newfound knowledge and insidious plans to himself for now, a silent conspiracy brewing within him. He would wait, with calculated patience, for his father to return from his current endeavors of harassing the Thallerion farmers. Matar knew his next move, a complex, brutal chess game. He was simply biding his time, waiting for the opportune, blood-soaked moment to quietly and smoothly execute his meticulously crafted plan.

Sapar and Fhajo had also arrived in Wendlock, their presence casting a dark shadow over the land. From their vantage point, they saw with seething anger that the Thallerions were now brazenly managing the fertile crops that once belonged solely to the Ossibian farmers.

“Those insolent, land-grabbing Thallerions!” Sapar shrieked, his voice laced with venom,

“They are greedily claiming Wendlock, defiling our ancestral lands!” They stood on a high, windswept plateau, their eyes fixed on the bustling Thallerion communities in the plains below. Sapar had brought not just a formidable force of soldiers, but also a furious mob of protesting farmers. However, their true intent wasn’t mere protest; it was to unleash unbridled chaos, to maim, and to utterly destroy the Thallerion crops.

“Destroy all their crops, every single stalk! Cut them all down to the very roots! Trample every last vegetable underfoot until nothing remains but mud! Burn the rice fields until only ash stains the earth!” Fhajo bellowed, his voice thick with malicious glee.

“Beat the farmers mercilessly until their bones shatter, and kill without hesitation if you deem it necessary. Let their screams be our music!”

“Yes! Leave no one untouched by true, agonizing pain!” Sapar declared, a dark, satisfaction blooming on his face as smoke, hot and sulfurous, billowed from his nostrils. “Charge! Let the massacre begin!!!”

With a deafening roar, the horses galloped towards the unsuspecting plains, their hooves striking the earth with a thunderous force, like massive boulders plummeting from a great height. Sapar’s men, consumed by a feral rage and an insatiable lust for vengeance, hurled themselves into the fray. Fhajo and Sapar remained on the desolate plateau, their figures silhouetted against the setting sun, watching with grim satisfaction as their men carried out their heinous wishes. Then, as if summoned by the impending doom, the crows arrived – not just a few, but an overwhelming, inky storm that descended upon the plains. They began to feast, pecking ferociously at the fruits, snatching and devouring terrified chicks mid-squawk.

But what unfolded next was truly gruesome, a scene ripped from the depths of a nightmare.

The crows, with an unnatural intelligence and a horrifying hunger, began to attack the wounded farmers. They descended upon them, their sharp beaks plunging into soft flesh. Many farmers screamed as their eyes were mercilessly pecked out, leaving them blinded and writhing in agony. It was as if a macabre feast had begun, the crows gorging themselves on the fallen. They swarmed over the dying and the dead, tearing at the flesh of the massacred farmers, their beaks dripping with gore. Even the terrified, whimpering sheep and squealing pigs, their throats slit, became part of the gruesome banquet.

The Thallerion farmers suffered an unspeakable, abominable fate at the hands of Sapar’s forces, their torment amplified by the relentless, demonic aid of the swarming crows who seemed to relish in their destruction. A few, by some miracle, managed to escape the slaughter, fleeing into the encroaching darkness. But for those who dared to fight back, who bravely stood their ground, only agonizing death awaited them.

“Haha! Finally, the crows are full! Return to Ossibuz, my dark allies,” Sapar cackled, a chillingly intimate bond shared between him and the feathered harbingers of death.

“Crow! Thank you, master! The flesh of the Thallerions tasted exquisitely delicious!” a crow shrieked, its beak still slick with fresh blood, its voice a guttural rasp that, eerily, only Sapar could hear, a secret communion of evil.

“Do we need to attack the woman?” The crow said sensing the survivor not too far away.

“No, just let that woman tell her king what we did here on Wendlock.” Sapar smoke gently touched the crow feather and then flew away in a flock.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep