Chapter 847: Chapter 824: The Ending is Already Predetermined

Necromancy is a taboo in most places across the Multiverse. Many civilizations strictly prohibit any form of its study, not merely because of a natural revulsion toward corpses, but more importantly because of the potential of this Arcane Art to upend the existing order–necromancers can command a horde of absolutely loyal, reasonably powerful, and tireless soldiers with just a wave of their hand. Moreover, as long as this army kills more enemies than it loses, its size can grow like a tumor, eventually becoming a weapon with which the malevolent spellcasters can extort the civilized world.

Of course, necromancers aren’t the only threat in the world, but only a necromancer, even an apprentice who has stolen their teacher’s notes, can single-handedly create such immense trouble. Commanding an army is far more complex than people realize, involving salaries, officers, logistics, leadership, and other aspects. Merely maintaining it from self-collapse is very difficult. But these problems do not exist for the undead soldiers; they do not complain about inedible rations, demand promotions, work hours, or paid leave. Most importantly, they do not question any orders from their leader.

Lancelot knew well that if it were an army of living soldiers, it would be hard to advance under such a terrifying rain of arrows. Even with the iron discipline of Bartez, it would be impossible not to waver. But for an army of skeletons and zombies, the concept of morale simply did not exist. They unhesitatingly stepped over the bodies of their companions, who were quickly trampled underfoot by others. In less than five minutes, the undead army had marched a thousand feet through the deadly arrow rain and reached the walls of Raventown.

The undead certainly did not carry any siege equipment like ladders or grappling hooks. Their only tools were their own hands, clumsily but resolutely climbing towards the top of the wall. The defenders on the wall abandoned their longbows and drew their melee weapons, ready for the fight. Bruto had been continuously throwing his Magic Warhammer at first, but as the enemies got closer, he had to stop–the Warhammer needed time to return to his hand, and he had to have a hand free to catch it, or else he’d have to go and retrieve it himself.

In the dwarf’s field of vision appeared a skeletal hand grasping the edge of the battlement. He swung his Warhammer with the speed of lightning, just as he did every day as a blacksmith apprentice. The Warhammer easily crushed all the finger bones, and the skeleton immediately fell, dragging several other enemies with it. A slight smile of satisfaction appeared on Bruto’s lips, but it quickly froze. The reason was simple: more claws appeared at the edge of the wall, and the fastest enemy had already lifted half of its body up. The fleshless skull roared ominously at the dwarf.

The number of enemies was overwhelming, and the defenders soon lost control of the wall’s edge, engaging the climbing enemies in close combat.

Lancelot and his six companions guarded a fifty-foot section of the wall, with him alone covering nearly twenty feet. The human knight did not use the faster and more precise Frostslash, but opted for the larger Glacier. Even with just his physical strength, he could wield the oversized great sword into a storm, and the enemies’ bodies barely slowed his weapon at all.

Apart from Lancelot, the other companions were doing unexpectedly well: Barrend’s Battle Axe always hit the most vulnerable parts of the enemies, and Alamir’s Hardhead Hammer could knock down an enemy in one strike. As for Bruto and Tanya, although not as exaggerated as Lancelot, they were also in the state of an adult fighting children. Even Kalalin was effortlessly waving his staff, pushing any enemy that got too close away, and then throwing a Flame Arrow from his palm, blowing the enemy to bits.

Lancelot couldn’t help but feel puzzled, wondering what was going on. How had everyone’s strength skyrocketed overnight? But soon, occasional flashes of golden light made him realize the reason: Cranvo’s emblem, which granted the bearer certain advantages when fighting undead creatures. Cranvo had given one to each member of the adventuring party, except Lancelot himself–the Lord of the Dead believed his strength was already sufficient, not needing such trinkets.

The gods were, of course, correct, but aside from Lancelot, many people here did need such items.

Though still retaining some combat instinct, most low-level undead beings had quite limited combat power, roughly equivalent to goblins. Some troublesome ones included zombies, which were slower than skeletons but had flesh and skin still clinging to bones, granting them a trait called undead resilience, making them very hard to kill, requiring a strong enough blow to quiet them.

There were not many zombies in the undead army attacking Raventown, but they caused enough trouble for the townsfolk. As Soveris requested, every warrior who stayed behind was an elite, but, as the saying goes, two fists are no match for four hands. With an overwhelming number difference, the defenders gradually fell into a disadvantage. They were split into small groups of two or three, standing back-to-back against the surrounding enemies, like a few abrupt rocks on the shore, seeming about to be submerged by the rising tide. By this time, the Lich had lost less than one-tenth of his forces, so it was no wonder he appeared so confident and assured, believing the ancient fortress was within his grasp.

Though the defenders continued to hold on with all their might, as their strength waned, the sound of human screams grew more frequent, and casualties began to rapidly increase. A human warrior was slightly slow in raising his shield, and the next second, his sword-wielding right hand was severed at the wrist. Another half-elf ranger, though blocking every enemy attack, was forced to the edge of the wall, and, with one careless step, fell screaming off the wall.

Many more exposed weaknesses under the increasingly dense attacks, their bodies accumulating new wounds. Though the battle’s excitement dulled the pain, their lifeforce drained continuously. Once reaching a certain critical point, they would collapse suddenly, like a deflated ball.

Though not under tremendous pressure himself, Lancelot remained aware of the overall battle situation. Realizing the battle’s outcome was already decided, he nonetheless planned to prolong the process as much as possible.

At that moment, Lancelot keenly caught the sound of dense wing beats. He looked up to see a large flock of ravens swiftly flying towards them, the nearest ones already diving. With gravity increasing their speed, they dived faster and faster.

The ravens’ flight seemed somewhat peculiar. Instinctively, Lancelot gathered a bit of True Yuan in his eyes, allowing him to see the cause of their strange posture–each bird clutched a fist-sized spherical object in their claws, appearing as if cradling their own eggs.