owlsbooks Chapter 951 166: The Night of Chaos
Chapter 951 166: The Night of Chaos
The missionary camp built around the Energy Tower surprisingly had a rudimentary defense.The perimeter of the camp was merely a low fence made of rough logs, with a few watchtowers pieced together from planks standing lonely at the corners of the camp, where the sentinels atop could even converse with passersby outside through the fence.
Such defensive facilities bear more resemblance to an open marketplace than a military outpost.
This seemingly lax defensive posture was by no means a sign of complacency from the Missionary Group.
After all, the accompanying guards were battle-hardened Steam Knights.
These iron warriors had marched from the icy fields of the Northern Territory to the scorching Desert Kingdom, then wandered back to the Old World, enduring unimaginably brutal battles.
They had witnessed firsthand the earth-shattering duel between the Godslaying Armor and the ancient Divine, fully aware of the terrifying threats lurking in this world.
With such knowledge, to say they let their guard down is sheer fantasy.
The Missionary Group's design of the camp's defenses was actually a well-thought-out strategy.
While towering walls and strict defenses could offer a sense of security, they would also build an invisible barrier in the minds of survivors.
They wished to create an open, welcoming environment, rather than make people seeking refuge feel like imprisoned captives.
The current design of low fences allowed passersby an unobstructed view into the camp, thereby earning the locals' trust more easily.
Moreover, in the face of absolute power, even the strongest walls become meaningless.
The leaders of the Missionary Group knew well that it would be more resource-efficient to request additional Steam Knights or a Godslaying Armor from the Floating City than to build fortifications.
After all, even the sturdiest iron walls would crumble instantaneously under the assault of a squad of Steam Knights or the crushing of a Godslaying Armor.
If the attacks couldn't be stopped by fortifications and the threats that could be stopped don't require walls, then these simple fences and watchtowers were sufficient—at least that was what the missionary group always believed.
However, on this moonlit night, the howling cold wind seemed to carry eerie whispers.
The campfires swayed violently in the wind, and the shadows cast by the flames twisted like monstrous shapes, clawing at the wooden fence.
The knight atop the watchtower pulled his cloak tighter, raised his telescope, and scanned the distant ruins.
It should have been deserted, yet at that moment, something seemed to slither in the darkness, like countless creeping shadows slowly closing in.
He immediately blew the warning whistle, the shrill sound tearing through the silent night sky.
Almost simultaneously, the fence on the camp's perimeter exploded!
Wood chips flew, a thick beam was snapped by some massive force, crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
Dozens of cultists draped in tattered black robes swarmed out of the darkness, like demons crawling out from the crevices of hell.
Their black robes, long eroded by time and filth into rags, fluttered with their twisted strides, like some vile tentacles.
Their faces smeared with dried blood and ashes, outlining blasphemous totems, each marking seeming to scream silently.
Their exposed skin was etched with twisted runes, not drawn with ink but branded into their flesh with hot irons, squirming with every breath as if alive.
Their eyes, if they could still be called eyes, burned with frenzied flames, pupils dilated into unnatural blackness reflecting unspeakable horrors.
The man at the forefront, though hunched, exuded an overwhelming aura.
He raised a rusty ritual dagger high, its blade stained with the dark brown stench of iron and decay, remnants of dried blood from countless sacrifices whose throats he personally slit.
His finger joints were twisted and deformed, nails as black as hooks, clutching the hilt tightly, as if the dagger had become one with his rotting flesh.
A hoarse roar squeezed from his throat, sounding like sandpaper scraping against rusted metal: "In the name of the Old Gods, sacrifice these heretics!"
The camp plunged into chaos.
Survivors screamed and scattered, some shoved to the ground, trampled by the panicked crowd before they could get back up, the sound of breaking bones drowned in the waves of terror.
The cries of children, the screams of women, and the shouts of men intertwined, echoing in the cold night.
The priests responded swiftly, their voices steady and powerful, attempting to maintain order amidst the panic.
"Do not panic! Retreat towards the Energy Tower!" They shouted to calm the populace while organizing a makeshift defense, positioning themselves between the mob and the civilians.
Elderly priests aided the frail seniors, while the younger monks carried crying children, escorting them to the reinforced shelter near the Energy Tower.
The Steam Knights had already assembled, their very presence forming an impenetrable iron wall.
The heavy armor hummed deeply, like the breathing of a beast, steam valves spewing hot mist that coalesced into rolling clouds in the cold night.
The teeth of the Chain-Saw Sword rotated at high speed, its buzzing slicing through the night like the sinister laughter of death.
Beneath their visors, the knights' eyes were cold and focused, awaiting the imminent bloody baptism.
The cultists surged from the ruins on all sides like a tide, their tattered black robes flapping in the cold wind, faces daubed with sinister totems of blood and ash.