Chapter 136
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 136
Chapter Title: 13th Floor - Lv. 775 Lavahammer Assault Brigade (7)
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The long, dark crimson fur looked almost like a mane.
Fearsome beasts in monstrous forms growled low.
"Nice resonance."
"It'd be great if we could tame and ride them."
"That's not a living creature, idiot."
"Hmph, that's just talk."
Gigantic blood-red wolves.
Their shoulder height easily surpassed two meters.
Even trolls posed a threat to them, and ogres would do well to steer clear.
Of course, as officers, they all had experience battling vampire wolves.
Goblins, whose racial traits weren't overpowering and who excelled in organized warfare, made fine ordinary soldiers.
Vampires, however, featured numerous powerful individuals with all sorts of irregular abilities.
Thus, they tended to appear as elite special forces with specific objectives rather than rank-and-file troops.
Vampire units operating as special forces naturally didn't fight Greenskins head-on fairly.
Among them, enhanced blood-summoned beasts were practically a staple.
They were mainly thrown forward as sacrificial decoys for escapes.
A nuisance, but not lethal.
Of course, the vampire summons they'd seen before weren't quite that massive.
Still, there wasn't much difference; aside from a murkier hue, they looked the same.
So even after the first troll fell, the surface officers showed little agitation.
The dead one had just been a bit careless—nothing out of the ordinary.
The only ones furrowing their brows over losing another valuable staff officer were the ogres in HR.
The command staff didn't give a damn.
"Is that the federation's new god?"
"Not a god—a great warrior or something."
"Do exiles taste good?"
For monsters who only ate meat, cannibalism was no taboo.
Vampires had an especially weird flavor. Tasting the enemy after victory was commonplace.
Of course, that didn't mean they were letting their guard down.
The fallen troll had been plenty strong.
The leisurely stride of the strong had shifted into a charge acknowledging a worthy foe.
A thunderous battle cry echoed out.
The Greenskin battle cry instilled fear beyond even a beast's infrasound, in a way.
Normally, a few soldiers would flinch.
But not now. The goblins recalled the great incarnation of chaos at their side and easily overcame their terror.
The elite paratroopers who'd dropped in felt the same.
Surrounded by Greenskins in hostile terrain, yet their morale held firm with ironclad certainty of victory.
Their mission was simple.
Buy time until the great warrior's scheme engulfed the planet.
Then escape swiftly.
The vampire nation was a federation.
Over the federation's 500 years, many powerful vampires had emerged.
Including national treasure Barbaroi, the director—and many great warriors fallen in war.
And one legend passed down among them:
The tale of a planet drowned in blood.
That planet had to be completely incinerated, and ages passed before it could be reused.
The tragedy was that the vampire who'd reached such heights perished swept away by their own power.
A fairly famous story.
In a world teeming with freaks, info on powerful individuals who outstripped mere fleet power was vital.
You couldn't pulverize everything with fleets. They were slow and cumbersome.
To goblins, physically perpetual weaklings, such mighty beings were like ideals.
Thus, the federation meticulously recorded and passed down their unexpected past victories.
The empire must have records too, since they were the victims.
But imperial Greenskins generally shunned study and didn't live long enough to witness survivors.
If anyone remembered, it'd be ancient dragons or wyrms—but none graced this battlefield.
So no Greenskin here, seeing those dark red wolves, recalled some ancient catastrophe.
The goblin soldiers felt thrilled terror at what might unfold behind them.
Believing they'd etch themselves into a new legend.
Meanwhile, the charging Greenskins showed no such concern.
Machine guns roared.
"Graaaah!"
"Fire! Keep firing! We need to hold them back!"
Melee was the ultimate horror.
The lead troll faltered; beside it, an ogre winced from bullets mid-charge.
With their massive bulks and miracle springs strapped on, they didn't drop easily.
And spotting orcs weaving through cover amid the giants gave headaches.
Ogres and orcs even fired back.
Boom!
An armored car, thrust forward like a torch, suddenly tipped and collapsed. One side was badly crumpled.
"Chaos forever!"
The goblin crushed beneath prayed to the end before expiring.
An ogre's bizarre cannon—lacking stability but with a barrel wide enough for a whole goblin—boomed.
Their huge frames and strength enabled heavier weapons.
Goblins, smaller than humans, could barely handle fixed guns; these brutes wielded them like pistols.
Squad leaders gritted their teeth.
The brute bio-tanks closed in fast.
Machine gunners drew constant fire from orc snipers, creating gaps.
Even shoving aside corpses for fresh gunners, enemy volleys soon claimed them.
Blood washed blood amid the fray.
"Plasma toss!"
Not a vast kill radius, but plasma worked fine on those monsters.
Hurled en masse, it stalled the charge, granting a breather.
"Drop pods! Direct drop! Intercept!"
Goblins in gear mobilized.
Early drops targeted trailing lasers at heat signatures.
Black tubes plummeting onto positions ignited.
"Fall back from drop zones!"
One unvaporized tube cratered the center.
The ground caved, but no troll burst out—just the scent of roasting meat.
Nearby tanks rolled in from the right. Tanks, but troll-sized at best.
Yet machines outclassed beasts.
"Ram the barrel!"
"Fire in chaos's name!"
A troll swung a glowing plasma greatsword at the oncoming tank.
Armor melted vertically, but the tank rammed and fired point-blank.
A buffered blue beam pierced the troll's chest.
The troll groaned oddly, sucking fluid from a hose via its back reservoir.
Flanking shots followed; it finally toppled.
No formations—just berserk rushes from regenerating five-meter muscle masses, tough as hell.
Flames erupted; an ogre unleashed innate magic, roasting a squad hunkered by an armored car.
Others rushed to fill the gap.
But Greenskins drew inexorably closer.
Green-skinned monsters charged, using comrades' corpses as shields without a care.
Same green hue, yet such vast innate power gaps.
Major Spencer, commanding up front, came under attack.
His blade flashed plasma, lopping a troll's head as he charged.
The federation oddly prized melee skill higher.
Deep-seated racial complexes craved symbolic triumphs over trolls via blade, not guns or shells.
Spencer was a goblin who'd scored higher in swordplay than shooting.
His flashing sword clashed with an orc behind the troll corpse.
Raw power pushed him back, but he deflected and yielded.
The orc's axe belched fire—a crude rear rocket providing destructive thrust.
Overwhelming physics reached limit; he spun aside, aimed his pistol at the orc's head, and fired.
Any swordsman of this era knew pistol work in the off-hand.
The orc screeched its death throes.
"Cowardly goblin..."
"War knows no cowardice."
But as Spencer looked up, he sensed death.
Light filled his vision.
The troll's favored massive beam greatsword had a blade thicker than a goblin's torso.
He couldn't even lift it, let alone wield.
Trolls beat goblin swordsmen without ambushes.
As he closed his eyes to pray, the light aiming to claim him halted abruptly.
The legendary great warrior's comrade blocked the troll's strike with a sturdy shield.
One-handed, no less.
The massively muscled human, orc-sized with brown skin, said casually,
"Command from the rear, Major."
His other hand gripped no federation rifle—likely a precious, high-output dwarf-make.
The troll growled irritably, pressing harder as the greatsword stalled.
Magic plasma containment formed a razor edge, biting the shield.
"Nngh!"
Slamming his body against the shield, he shoved back forcefully; the troll yielded momentarily.
The ripped Hispanic muscleman unleashed a roundhouse on the monster's leg—never dreaming it'd lose in strength.
Despite the size gulf, it connected.
A bang echoed; the troll-leg like an old tree trunk skidded meters amid explosion.
Not true staggering—just center of balance lost from sheer impossibility.
Enough.
The plasma rifle poured light into the troll's maw until its brain pulped.
"Wasn't sure it'd work."
The maknae had recently hit tanker skill territory.
Tanking meant strength.
Strength meant offense.
Stacking tanker passives often yielded defense-scaling attack skills in many games.
High-level stacked-tankers rivaled trolls in raw might—even for humans.
Most died before reaching it.
"Duck!"
Too-familiar voice; maknae reflexively crouched, shield forward.
Flashing light and heat passed; two orcs targeting him toppled farther off.
"Damn strong. More useful than me, even."
"Aw, bro. I'm always your shield."
The Hunter chuckled.
"Thanks, even if just words."
"Hyah!"
The Girl soared.
Technically a jump, but it'd look like flight to onlookers.
Stacking [Dash] a few times turned it into true flight—at thruster-level speed.
Her role: smash black tubes dropping into goblin lines.
Fresh drops always stunned paratroopers briefly.
Exploit that to rip pods apart and claim the troops inside.
Lately, she'd keenly felt the labyrinth's game-like nature.
Before, raw power cleaved; now, 'attack power' dwelled in her swings.
Like stealth bonuses—some unreal modifier.
Seizing a brief gap, she peeked her mind map.
At level 195, glowing numbers showed stacked passives.
[Dagger Mastery (10)]
More mastery and stats amplified labyrinth buffs, transcending reality.
Exiles inevitably grew stronger if they survived.
Turning unstopped black tubes into coffins, she glanced back.
Blood-red wolves had multiplied massively.
High-level Greenskins resisted fiercely, but defeat was clear.
Pods halted their pour.
Mages, mana-dry and fumbling guns, stood awkward.
Old-timer scanned surroundings, Mjolnir gripped like a guard.
Face full of dissatisfaction.
Spotting her, he spoke.
"Having fun solo?"
"Not scared of dying, gramps?"
"That's rich from you."
"Me? Uh. Kinda weird, yeah."
"Orcs are all weird anyway."
Fair enough.
She shrugged acceptance.
"Damn, stepping up means eating rear shots. Sigh. Mind grabbing that rocket axe?"
"Like it?"
"Too cool. Spar with it later?"
"No holding back!"
"Won't need to—you can't win anyway."
The non-exile old orc muttered bitterly.
The brigadier realized his grave miscalculation.
No ordinary summons.
The blood wolves merged—not into giants, but unrecognizable blobs.
Writhing crimson masses poured down like spills.
No claws, eyes, fur, or fangs between them...
Slash, burn, crush, repel.
Nothing worked.
They swept and engulfed everything.
The brigadier felt blood drain from his face.
Couldn't block the fluid torrent sweeping like rapids.
A massive maw swallowed a troll whole.
Enveloped by wolf-unknown, the brigadier felt drowning.
But worse.
Sensations blurred. Fingertips onward ceased being his, bit by bit.
Utterly gruesome chill.
Transforming into something else.
Somehow, hatred surged—for all life, infinite malice.
Not troll destruction instinct.
More like ghoulish undead...
Screaming, he drew full-body strength.
Maw opened; blood flooded in.
Squeezing nursling-era power, troll might briefly repelled the fluid.
Coughing violently, he spat blood.
Tried fleeing.
Ankles grabbed—no, bitten.
Teeth spawned from blood, tearing troll ankle.
Ends melted, decomposing.
Body parts dissolved.
Tried running; foot squelched mush.
Flailing arms to advance; body crumbled.
Smooth, scarless from regen—but useless now.
Staggered, collapsed.
Submerged anew.
Vision red. Chaos everywhere.
Whispers at ear.
Annihilate all life.
Become one.
We are one.
Last thought before blackout:
I...
No—we are one.
"Getting hard to control."
[Impressive you're holding it at that scale. Isn't the proper use just unleash and bail?]
"Gotta be sure, or we get crushed quick."
Pre-proliferation, surprisingly weak.
Original wolves slipped control gradually.
My [Blood Reservoir] stake in the blood dwindled.
Huge bodies meant proportional blood.
Mixing non-human blood accelerated independence.
Thus, summon as AoE nuke.
No friend-foe ID even.
Unique skill [Lord of Blood]'s key subskill:
[Crimson Beast of the Apocalypse]
[Simple name says it all]
Chuck it and bail—no life survives.
Lucky plants don't count as life.
Vampire standards ignore non-blood entities.
[But winning with this wrecks the place anyway, right?]
"Stops when I leave the floor. Caster-gone ruling."
[Makes sense.]
"Didn't know?"
[First time seeing an exile use such a skill.]
"Gotta hide it in the kingdom."
[Walking nuke right there.]
"Rankers could handle, but by then I've already pissed 'em off."
Nature god guffawed.
[Curious about kingdom post-arrival leveling.]
"You'll see."
More pressing now. Some might recognize this soon.
No spare orbital barrage to wipe it.
A savvy reversal hero might scramble down?
Right on cue, a pod crashed ahead with a boom.
Coffin-shaped drop pod design.
Occupants too huge, naturally.
Federation small fries used round ones.
Size screamed ogre.
Blood blobs crept toward living prey as the lid burst.
Muscled ogre leaped.
Hammer ignited; rocket hammer boosted the jump.
Blazing inferno repelled my summons. Cloaked fully—expert wield.
High-level ogre, insignia two gleaming stars.
Assault brigade commander, likely.
So thinking, I blinked.