Four Split Personalities

So, it became clear who had produced those dozen corpses.

Old Cole didn’t waste words, he rolled up his sleeves and got into a fight with them.

As it turned out, the men facing him were the heretics he had seen on Holy Mountain Sumer.

And then...

The scene from before occurred, Cordova killed all of them and, after turning the incident into a message sent to Double Leaf, continued on his way until he forcefully logged out at game time AM06:59:59, and after spending an ordinary day, re-entered the game at real-world time PM07:00 on the same day to continue his journey.

...

Game time AM09:54

Thirty miles west of Mithril City, main battlefield

"How could this be possible, why was even this anticipated...?"

Disguised as an Orc matron, Jiawen of the Yellow Teeth, accompanied by a few elites from the Second Slave Capturing Group and several high-level members of the Whisper Sect, bit her lip and raised the flintlock gun in her hand. She pulled the trigger at two Zijing Guards approaching, barely managing to halt their momentum. At the same time, several high-level Whisper Sect members stepped forward and whispered something low, causing several riders from the Baroka Rock Mountain Knight Regiment to fall off their horses, swept aside by the broad-range Water Magic cast by a few Mages from the Slave Capturing Group.

This was located on the western fringe of the battlefield, and it was one of the few places where a large-scale melee hadn’t erupted yet. However, the distant sounds of clashing weapons, war cries, and screams were still endless to the ear, every moment exploding with countless intense Qi Forces and brutal elements, reaping living lives one after another.

In a war that initially pitted 35,000 against 50,000—a total of more than 80,000—the battle almost instantly intensified. The Balfie Sword Knight Order and Rock Mountain Knight Regiment had lost at least four figures in numbers at their first collision. The Ice Curtain Mage Group, shielded by the Mercury Guards and the main force of the Second Slave Capturing Group, was constantly performing joint spellcasting. Although they mostly used the lowest-level and quickest Ice Rain Technique and Wave Surge Technique, they still reduced the numbers of the Lord’s Allied Forces with high efficiency.

However, in contrast, Fire Claw’s Wolf Cavalry and Simon’s Night Watcher Regiment weren’t idle during this time. In these grueling two hours, they had already torn through the Second Slave Capturing Group’s defense line six times, slaughtering almost ninety percent of these elite veterans like locusts desperately consuming their foes, and despite every counter-strike from the Mercury Guards and the Mage Group causing them nearly a hundred casualties, the crazed Wolf Cavalry and follow-up Blood Claw Guard didn’t retreat a step, taking full damage head-on and keeping the Night Watcher Regiment’s casualties to an extremely low level.

This wasn’t because they were particularly close to the Simon family. The reason these men could be so reckless was simple: they had a vendetta... a deep-seated hatred!

"Kill them all! You little bastards!!"

Nazgrel Black Scar bellowed loudly. The Wolf Cavalry Commander clutched the reins tightly, prompting his enormous black-mane battle wolf to rise on its hind legs. His Double-edged battle axe [Selahil] swung down mightily, casting a wide arc of deep blue light almost five meters across, instantly slaying seven or eight Ice Curtain Mage Group members who hadn’t retreated in time. Then, lifting his saber in his other blood-soaked hand, he roared, "Let them pay a blood debt with their blood!"

The Wolf Cavalry quickly caught up to their commander, who had already charged ahead of the main troop. Their eyes filled with rage, they swung their weapons with all their might, slaughtering any enemy who couldn’t escape their range, while their battle wolves helped their riders shred the enemy by fiercely biting and clawing.

"Blood for blood!!!"

The knights screamed at the top of their lungs, partly to vent their emotions and partly because they needed to focus their attention with this loud shouting; otherwise, the pervasive mind-intrusive screams enveloping the battlefield would penetrate their ears, which they wished were deaf, and disrupt their thoughts.

"The river flows eastward~ And on the ground, the orangutans tumble!"

"Woo hey, woo woo hey hey!!"

"Magic staff, bang bang bang bang bang bang bang, bang bang!"

"Chasing dreams, chasing dreams, chasing dreams in the circle of show business!"

"Friction, friction! A pace like a demon is coming! Like an old demon arriving!"

"Tooth-brace girl! Powerless against beauty! Sister has such strong, beautiful legs!!"

From who knows when, these bizarre, terrifying, and morose "sounds" that also somehow encapsulate a mysterious logic and rhythm had echoed through every corner of this battlefield. Emerging from the throats of a vast number of people scattered across various battle zones—people who were off-key, boisterous, defiant, grating like ducks, or as harsh as broken gongs—they had crafted unprecedentedly cool background music that perpetually tormented the minds and bodies of every listener and devastated the values of any sane person, akin to a cruel intellectual assault!

The demented melody, when sung by an opera singer, might become a form of art; when sung by the common folk, it might be a jest; when sung by the tone-deaf, it surely became torture...

So, what spectacle would emerge if seven or eight kinds of demented melodies were sung in unison by two or three thousand individuals—who were incompatible with the very notion of "music" in the eyes of their comrades, leaders, and subordinates, and even seen as natural enemies—divided into teams and groups and singing in harmony, broadcasted through countless amplification arrays?

In the words of Motan, the architect of this nightmare, it would be "a cleansing feast for the senses."

A feast for the ears that spared no friend or foe!

A feast for the ears that made you desire life and death simultaneously!

A feast for the ears that stirred the soul!

A feast... that significantly reduced the effectiveness of the Whisper Sect adherents, to the point where they could not exert their powers!

"Your armor is absolutely... useless... useless!"

Bang!!

A man, appearing to be a common farmer, leaped forward unsteadily with an iron sword in hand, executing three swift sword movements that created phantom shadows and struck a thick tower shield.

Then, he was promptly flattened onto the ground by Fernan, a warrior standing behind him who was shorter than the shield. Fernan looked down with a face full of disgust, covered one ear with a hand, gripped the edge of his shield with the other, took two steps forward, and then mercilessly slammed it down, exclaiming, "Protect your own damn... armor what the... Whatever is hard, chop it. Are you insane!"

Subsequently, the flustered Whisper Sect adherent was truly beaten to death.

Naturally, he didn’t die from insanity, although as a middle-rank heretic swordsman worshipping the Evil God, his sanity was certainly questionable. However, his attack strategy was rather clever—simply put, he planned to use the power from his "master" to nullify the enemy’s defense, so the subsequent variations in his sword technique could easily eliminate the shield-bearer.

Theoretically, it was a sound idea.

In reality, the likelihood of this idea materializing was quite high.

If... it wasn’t for the incessant background music resounding throughout every corner of the battlefield, this heretic might have actually succeeded.

Clearly, the seemingly insurmountable power of the Whisper Sect actually had its flaws. For a long time, the old medic Motan, who had been closely watching, observing, and studying this sect and this Evil God, successfully discovered this vulnerability.

After compiling numerous case studies and obtaining extensive combat records about the Whisper Sect from Fire Yang, Motan postulated a highly plausible hypothesis—that the power of the Whisper Sect was fundamentally similar to self-suggestion or self-deception. However, unlike mental magic, through the medium referred to as "whispers," the affected person’s distorted perception turned these ’illusions’ into ’reality.’

But using "whisper" required concentration, or else the power of the suggestion greatly diminished.

Therefore, before the battle began, Motan had a particularly sound idea. He proposed selecting two thousand of the worst singers from among fifty thousand warriors, to train them personally for the duration of one class, then strategically spread them out across the battlefield. Once the fighting started, through the use of amplification magic, gadgets, and techniques—they would begin singing!

The result was outstanding.

Chapter 547: The End