The Invasion of El-Ladh (4)

Such was the verdict reached after solemn deliberations among the armchair scholars of the Otherworld Destruction Gallery.

Targeting the World Tree, are they?

Slowly but surely, the demonic beasts had been attempting to terraform this other world. Yet in El-Ladh, that invasion had ground to a screeching halt, entirely courtesy of the World Tree. It restored lands blighted by extradimensional rifts and repelled the maddening mental contamination radiating from them. From the vantage point of the beasts, the World Tree was likely the single greatest eyesore they wanted wiped off the map.

The competing theory was simply that the elves made an easy target. Examining past incursions of demonic beasts proved the point. The territory bordering closest to the Outside was the dwarven mountain range. Yet thanks to dwarven metallurgical prowess and raw ferocity, the beasts had managed to seize nothing more than the front threshold of Kilgrote.

"And the second I threw them a little logistical support, they drove them right back out, didn't they?"

All I sent was canned tuna ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and soju, but that was enough for the dwarves to hurl the invaders straight back over the battlements. Next on the beasts' hit list had been Adrian—or more precisely, the splintered Kingdom of Kellierton.

In a sense, there was no target riper for conquest than humanity. Unlike other races, they boasted the largest population, yet they were perpetually consumed by petty internal squabbles. The schism that split Adrian down the middle had been born entirely of domestic rot, not demonic beast aggression.

"Still, whenever a common enemy rears its head, they rally, don't they?"

The defining human trait: power spikes whenever backed into a corner. Heroes don't emerge from turbulent eras by coincidence. The beasts attacked with unrelenting ferocity, but humans dug their heels in and held the line with sheer stubborn tenacity. And if they were on the verge of being overrun? Simple—they just cut and ran. They retreated in force to join ranks with foreign contingents, dragging the war into grueling overtime until the invasion collapsed under its own weight.

Except, of course, for the elves. What did the elves have? Nothing. Absolutely, unequivocally nothing.

Granted, they possessed exceptional physical traits and centuries of lifespan, but those biological advantages only shone in interpersonal duels. That was why, prior to the Great War, they had garnered universal contempt across the continent for their haughty elitism—yet faced few repercussions for it.

They had raw strength. If diplomacy failed, they could retreat into their forest fortress and wait out any siege. The nightmare only began once the Great War shattered the world. Enchanted arrows meant to fell mortal men barely chipped the thick hides of demonic beasts. Nor had elven society developed advanced industrial technology like the dwarves, or adaptable institutions like humanity. They were a one-trick pony relying entirely on high base character stats. And the price for coasting on racial arrogance was devastating.

The dwarves thoroughly loathed them. With human markets readily available, why bend over backwards to bargain with stiff-necked elven snobs? Humans, on the other hand... were a slightly different breed of degenerate.

The elves despised humanity right back. In the blink of an eye, human generations turned over and moral standards deteriorated. Just when a noble, honorable ruler took power, thirty to fifty years later corrupt vermin inevitably usurped the seat. A short-lived race utterly subservient to base animal impulses. In the end, the elves had no one to lean on. Except for me.

"Are they trying to bribe me?"

I had genuinely intended to supply aid for free out of the goodness of my heart, yet an endless tide of gifts kept pouring into my inventory. Frowning with theatrical reluctance, I scooped every last trinket into my personal stash.

"Fantasy elf artifacts? Yeah, no way in hell I'm passing that up."

In return, I purchased the classic weapon of war I had originally earmarked for them.

A machine gun. The venerable heavy machine gun, known back home as the MG50, was promptly dispatched to the front lines of El-Ladh.

Lately, El-Ladh had been thrown into complete chaos over the demonic beast threat. The pumpkin-headed abomination had merely been the vanguard. Dire reports had poured in warning that well over a dozen mutant variant beasts were marching in concert toward the elven borders.

"Hmm, so this is..."

"Just looking at the cold metal gives me chills."

"Still, it looks somewhat different from that 'shotgun' device the beastfolk carry, doesn't it?"

Curious elven ears twitched and leaned forward across the grand council table of Eladrien, capital of the elven realm. Their gaze was fixated entirely on the strange contraption Juddak had dropped into their laps.

"Was the name... a machine gun, did they say?"

Yet surprisingly, the gathered councilors did not seem entirely thrilled.

"Mmm... to be candid, I was hoping he would send more of those hand grenades..."

"Indeed. Or those jumping ground mines. The destructive force behind those was perfection, yet he sends another shotgun...?"

"It is not a shotgun, it is a machine gun. Lord Juddak distinctly designated it as such, did he not?"

"Are they not essentially the same thing?"

Huddled in a tight circle, the elders scrutinized the heavy machine gun with deep-seated doubt.

Guns? Certainly, they were impressive. But in continental perception, a firearm was treated as a specialized trump card—a weapon capable of slaughtering any foe with nothing more than the gentle flick of a finger. However, its perceived flaw was severe: you had to get within point-blank range, and it lacked the breadth to suppress a rushing army. Having only ever witnessed shotguns in operation, the elves harbored a fundamentally warped perception of ballistic warfare.

"Is this truly adequate for open war?"

"What if we attempt to close the distance only to be trampled and killed?"

The council elders were particularly vocal in their apprehension. Rather than dealing with such an alien, unproven contraption, they wished for crates of grenades and landmines—munitions whose earth-shattering power they had already tasted with their own eyes.

"Your Majesty, deploying such an unvetted weapon on the front lines seems reckless..."

"For Your Majesty's safety, it would be far wiser to mount it as a static defense inside the audience chamber."

They swiftly concluded that the machine gun had little practical utility in a sprawling battlefield siege. After all, they couldn't tell the difference between a shotgun and a heavy machine gun, and like all ancient elven traditionalists, they harbored an instinctive bias toward familiar comforts.

"No."

Queen Armion, however, saw things quite differently. She didn't give a damn about the senile elders' blabbering. From the exact second that long, sleek, magnificent piece of mechanical great magic had been hauled into the council hall, her eyes hadn't strayed from it for a single heartbeat.

"Ah... it is utterly exquisite."

"Your Majesty?"

"Mersen, when did the scouts say the demonic beast swarm would reach Eladrien?"

Tap, tap, tap.

"Mersen?"

"Eek! I-I was just thinking the exact same thing, Your Majesty!"

Caught in the middle of browsing the gallery on her magical slate, Mersen's long ears quivered violently. Processing the Queen's inquiry a beat too late, she hastily composed herself.

"Ahem... according to the latest divisional reports, the horde is projected to breach Eladrien's perimeter tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Heavens... they have advanced this far already...?"

Mersen's confirmation instantly plunged the council hall into a pall of suffocating gloom. A nighttime engagement was the worst possible tactical condition. Though elven kinetic vision and low-light eyesight were superior to humans, it offered zero structural advantage against legions of mindless monsters charging in suicide waves. In a chaotic, high-density melee, night fighting risked immense attrition, and the elders could already taste the bitter copper of elven blood.

"Splendid!"

Yet Queen Armion beamed. Her expression wasn't merely cheerful—it was flush with manic, breathless ecstasy.

"The hour has come to marvel at Lord Juddak's great magic... I mean, to put it to glorious operational use!"

Armion wriggled her pointed ears in restless anticipation, like a child who could hardly wait to open a forbidden present.

"Are you referring to... the mines and the shotgun?"

"The M15 Anti-Tank Mine and the M2 HMG Heavy Machine Gun. Do be precise when uttering their sacred names."

"A-Ah, my humble apologies, Your Majesty..."

The councilors shuddered slightly at their Queen's unhinged fixation on Juddak's lethal gifts.

"No, sitting here will not suffice. I must oversee the theater of war in person."

Armion silently prayed with all her soul for the sun to sink below the horizon as quickly as mortal physics would allow.

Late into the dead of night.

Even the moon had hidden behind thick shroud of clouds, bathing the ancient woods in pitch-black ink. Into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fragile silence of El-Ladh, monstrous growls and bone-chilling roars began to vibrate across the canopy.

Grrrk...

Skreeeech!

"They're here!"

Defying previous tactical doctrine, the beasts had not arrived from the eastern border adjoining the Outside. In an unprecedented maneuver, they surged in pincer formations from the north and west. Mutated horrors warped by dimensional fissures tore through the tree line one by one. And just as the reconnaissance runners had warned, their scale was nightmarish.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Gods above..."

"How in the world are we supposed to kill those things?!"

The elven sentries had braced themselves for pumpkin-headed ghouls at worst, but what stomped into view were hulking, aberrant quadrupeds standing well over three meters in height. At that mass, they matched the patriarchs of mature mountain trolls. Worse still, unlike wild trolls incapable of casting magic, these mutated variants possessed shimmering, crystalline mana barriers encasing their hides. The standard enchanted arrows and rapier thrusts of the elven garrison would never pierce that dense muscle to reach vital organs.

"W-We can't bring down beasts like that..."

Pure despair swept across the elven battlements. To be exact, that panic was confined entirely to the fresh recruits who had never seen the bouncing mines detonate.

"The vanguard is crossing the perimeter into the great magic's domain!"

Mines. That was the mundane reality the elves revered as high-tier sorcery. Would iron contraptions truly hold the line? Regardless of how violent the concussive force might be, could cold black powder truly obliterate apex variants of that stature?

As countless terrified conscripts held their breath in dreadful skepticism, the veteran rangers who knew better quietly reached up and clamped both palms firmly over their ears.

"Cover your ears, kid."

"Pardon?"

"If you don't understand why, just engrave it into your skull. Actually, don't even bother thinking—just do as you're told!"

A novice archer thrust into his first real battle blinked in bewilderment before pressing his hands against his ears. Looking around the wall, he caught sight of several veteran warriors trembling—not with terror, but with barely suppressed, manic exhilaration.

Are Lord Juddak's weapons truly that extraordinary?

Just as his creeping doubt began to give way to morbid curiosity—

"They stepped on one!"

An elf practically overdosing on sheer dopamine shrieked at the top of his lungs.

A heartbeat later, the young recruit understood everything.

"?!"

A cataclysmic shockwave struck the ramparts, feeling as though an ancient titan had seized the bedrock with bare hands and shaken the world. The detonation tore across the valley with the thunderous fury of a shattered heaven.

Skraaaaaagh!

Just like the towering beasts sent hurtling through the treeline, the young archer lost his balance and crashed onto his back. When he cracked his eyes open, the canopy above had turned a blinding, violent crimson. It was supposed to be the dead of midnight, yet the sky had ignited into a brilliant furnace of fire and smoke that seared his retinas.

"Is this... great magic...?"

The kind of legendary, apocalyptic sorcery inscribed only within the forbidden margins of ancient scriptures. Stumbling frantically back to his feet against the parapet, he looked down into the clearing—only to discover that the massive alpha variant that had triggered the blast had vanished without a trace, vaporized into mist and red rain. Coordinated secondary explosions rippled across the valley floor, reducing the mutant vanguard to an unrecognizable charnel house of blood and splintered bone.

Yet the nightmare was far from over.

Kieeehk!

Grrrk!

"More beasts are charging the breach!"

With the mutant alphas pulverized, the frenzied horde of lower demonic beasts poured out of the dark woods in overwhelming numbers. Paralyzed by the sheer, endless tide of fangs, the young elf froze in place—until a regal presence materialized right behind him.

"Y-Your Majesty?!"

It was Armion, Queen of Eladrien herself.

"Your Majesty, you must not be here!"

"Please, retreat to the sanctum immediately!"

"Silence! Take your hands off me, all of you!"

The young archer's mind spun in dizzying confusion. What in the world was that sky-shattering divine explosion, and why was the monarch of all elves standing on the outer parapet with a wild grin? Through his widened pupils, he watched as Queen Armion—cheeks flushed red and chest heaving with wild, breathless ecstasy—heaved an immense slab of blackened military steel onto the stone embrasure.

Clack—THUD!

"EL-KYAAAAHOOO!"

Mounted upon the battlements was humanity's eternal masterpiece of industrial butchery, revered across centuries of world war—the MG50 heavy machine gun.