Devourer-Chapter 233: Old and the New

Ordias wadded through the mud his armor soaked with Elven blood as he stared up at the towering trees ahead of him. The Elves have foolishly tried to engage his army outside the forest in some ridiculous attempt to stop him from reaching the trees.

Ordias felt a weak hand grab his leg and looked down to see an elf barely alive, clinging to whatever scraps of life he could muster. His face was carved open, an eye was missing and he could see parts of his brain exposed. The mutilated elf opened his mouth to speak but what came out was nothing but a weak gurgle.

Without a second thought, Ordias swung his blade and slashed the elf’s head open, his blade splitting his head open like a melon. The elf went limp and Ordias continued on his way.

He looked around him and saw one sharpshooter aim down at a wounded elf before pulling the trigger, a flash of light and spray of blood. A blood knight further away, stabbed his sword down claiming another and further away a dwarven ranger ripped his axe free from the head of a dead elf.

“General, the perimeter is secured.” one of his adjutants said, and he turned around to gaze at the young human man before him. The Empress has dispatched some of her best and brightest young officers to him. At first Ordias was worried he would be playing babysitter but it soon became apparent that academies in Averlon were producing some very promising talent. This one before him in particular showcased the right level of ruthlessness and cold calculation that Ordias himself liked.

His name was Jesen, a plain boy born to a typical family, his father was a butcher, which no doubt worked to desensitise him to the horrors of blood and war. Top grades, multiple recommendations from both the academy and military units.

“Excellent. I trust everything is in order?” Ordias asked as a volley of Magus Rifle fire lit up the trees. Ordias spotted a body fall from a tree with a thud, the cracks of a few more rifles rang out as beams of light slammed into the body making sure it wouldn’t get back up.

“Yes Grand General. We are now setting up a forward operating base about two clicks south. Listening posts are being set up as we speak and the scouting parties are getting ready to map the forest.” Jesen said as he looked down at his clipboard.

“Have them move in conservatively, no race is better at using home-ground advantage than the Elves. The woods are a fortress.” Ordias stated.

“Yes Grand General, your preparations for attempting to scourge the forest are underway, prelimnary tests however, show that they are ineffective.” Jesen said as he flipped through his notes.

“I expected as much. This will be a war of attrition, the elves have less manpower and a weaker ability to hold out. We just need to starve them out long enough for them to make concessions.” Ordias stated.

The Ordias knew it was impossible to completely destroy the Wood of the Ancients. That damned forest was more than just a collection of trees, it was a living force, ancient and indomitable. Fire refused to consume it, blades dulled against its thick roots, and even magic seemed to wane in the presence of its ancient power. Many had tried to lay waste to it, seeking to drive out its denizens or claim its land for their own, but the deeper they ventured, the more perilous their journey became.

The Wood of the Ancients was no mere woodland; it was an entity unto itself, watching, breathing, growing. Its gnarled trees twisted together like grasping fingers, their bark darkened with centuries of wisdom and war. The deeper one traveled, the thicker the air became humid with the scent of damp moss, old magic. The roots of the great trees burrowed deep, pulsating with unseen energy, as if feeding on the very life that stepped upon them.

But it was not just the forest that made the Wood of the Ancients so dangerous. For there were things in the Wood of the Ancients far older than elven kind, beasts and spirits that had slumbered since the dawn of time. Titans of bark and stone, whose heavy footfalls could shake the ground. Wraiths that fed upon the fears of lost souls, drawing them deeper until the earth itself swallowed them. And worse still, things without names, lurking just beyond the limits of sight, moving in the gloom between the trees, waiting.

The Ordias knew that while they could set fire to a few trees, drive out a few creatures, or fell a few elves, the forest would never truly fall. The Wood of the Ancients would endure, as it always had. And those who dared challenge it would find themselves lost in its embrace forever. Afterall the woods was grown from the corpse of Firstborn. This giant mass of trees was the grave of a god.

The Empress would not tolerate being bogged down in a quagmire. Not with so many threats on the horizon. The Hive was ineffective at best here, the roots of the wood are so dense and sturdy that the hive could not burrow through. The hive’s only option was to go over land and that would be costly.

At the end of the day, this counter-offensive was just a method of diplomacy. Afterall the Empire and the Hive had more stomach for bloodshed.

Hours later Ordias had not moved from his spot, he silently watched the tree line as his soldiers tried their best to damage the trees. Fire both alchemical and magical did nothing. His scouting parties had returned bloodied which was exactly what he expected. The living armour cavalry fared better but losses were still there.

From what intel has been gathered it seems the elves have defensive positions a hundred metres deep into the tree line. Just deep enough for his troops be embedded too deep into the undergrowth where retreat was difficult and shallow enough into the forest where intel gained was minimal.

The stealth Hive Soldiers were doing only slightly better. The singular Briar he has access to is the only one that can move through the forest unrestricted. Ordias was tempted to request more but honestly, he knew those monsters would only be moved for the most important of tasks.

From what he understood, one Briar was worth an entire division of soldiers. So that means a four Briar kill team was the equivalent of a regular army. Seeing as a Briar Kill Team can go decently even with Mahaila the Swift, that means they were absurdly resource intensive to both create and maintain. In truth Ordias was also abit hesitant to be shackled with the responsibility of such an asset. If a Briar was lost under his command there would be a difficult conversation ahead.

Twin Ether cores, that was what the Great Beast said. It was a shocking revelation to Ordias. All creatures had only one Ether Core, and many believed it held the creatures soul. That was why the creation of a homunculus was impossible, you couldn’t create an artificial life form. It had to be bred through normal means. But to create something with two ether cores? That was something Ordias could not even comprehend.

He had known the impossible before. He had seen men rise from the grave, had watched sorcerers twist the fabric of the world, had commanded monsters that once dwelled only in nightmares. But this… this was something different. Something wrong. A being with two Ether cores was an affront to existence itself. If the Ether core was the soul, then what, exactly, was such a creature? A thing with two souls? Or something soulless entirely?

Power. That was the first thing Ordias forced himself to consider as he tried to master his unease. A creature with two Ether cores, no, not a creature. A weapon. A force beyond reckoning. He had spent centuries waging war, mastering strategies, commanding armies of the damned and the living alike, and never before had he encountered something that made him question the very nature of life itself.

The strength of a Briar was already absurd. To field four of them was akin to unleashing an entire warhost condensed into a single, precise blade.

Ether dictated life and power. A creature with two cores would not simply be stronger; it would be something entirely different. Twice the flow of energy, twice the resilience. If one core was damaged, would the other sustain it? If one was drained, could it draw from its twin? Or worse, what if the cores did not simply exist side by side, but fed upon one another? Would such a being be able to regenerate endlessly, its power an ouroboros of ceaseless renewal?

The Great Beast called it dual-core synchronisation, and honestly from what he could tell even Rosa had no idea what he meant and she was far more versed in magic than he. Though yes he knowledge on the subject was considerable, but not nearly as much as Rosa. She was like a living Grimoire, and as for those two? Mahaila and the Crowfather? They were older than even some of the Archangels and according to them, they had no idea either…

But regardless of his wandering mind, he had a task to do. With any luck his provocation will invite more attacks, attacks that will fight on bad ground.

Then the war horn rang out and Ordias smirked as it fell into place oh so easily. The elves had not changed after all these millenia. Still so protective of their fucking trees.

His living armour cavalry shot ahead, their armoured mounts bounding easily over the uneven terrain. The roots and shrubbery offered no obstruction as those white beasts tore towards the forest.

There were shouts of pain as glowing blue arrows shot out from the tree canopy, some of his soldiers were hit and went down choking on thier own blood. His sharpshooters and mages returned fire saturating the canopy with attacks. He spotted some bodies fall out of the trees but his losses were higher in the first strike.

Ordias grinned as the living armour cavalry easily blocked and dodged the elven arrows. Their six legs made it so that they could move extremely unpredictably and the symbiotic nature between the rider, his armour and his mount made it so that they could fight like a single living organism.

Lets see how you do elves…

Hear my cannons sing…

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Minuvae knelt beside the wounded soldier, pressing her hands to the gaping wound in his side as she channeled her magic. Warm, golden light seeped from her fingertips, knitting flesh and muscle together at an unnatural speed. The soldier let out a sharp gasp as pain flared before dulling to an ache. He would live. That was what mattered.

She wasn’t a full-fledged Elven Healer, those mages could mend the body as though injury had never occurred, restoring skin to its unbroken state, leaving no trace of battle. Minuvae, however, was an adventurer. And adventurers didn’t have the luxury of slow, meticulous healing. Their spells were practical, fast, and ruthlessly efficient. Designed to save lives on the battlefield, they closed wounds quickly, stopped bleeding in an instant, and ensured mobility in the shortest time possible.

But there was a cost.

The flesh beneath her hands was sealing too aggressively, pulling too tight. Jagged scars would remain, thick and raised, twisting unnaturally where the skin had rushed to mend itself. Some wounds healed so poorly that the scar tissue left behind could stiffen a limb or cause pain for years. That was the trade-off: life now, suffering later. But in war, later was a distant concern.

The soldier groaned, sitting up with a grimace as he clutched his side. His uniform was in tatters, blood-stained and scorched from the enemy’s artillery. He wasn’t the only one. The field around them was littered with the fallen, some still breathing, others too far gone for even her magic to save. The acrid stench of burnt flesh and metal filled the air, mingling with the distant cries of the dying.

Minuvae wiped the sweat from her brow. The Empire was relentless. Their strategy had adapted well to ranged warfare, exploiting weaknesses her people had never thought would be a liability. The Elven forces had always prided themselves on their agility, their unmatched speed in close combat. But none of that mattered when the enemy could cut them down before they even reached the front lines.

She swallowed hard, as she heard another volley of fire-imbued projectiles rained down from the distant artillery lines. The Elves had spent centuries mastering the art of the blade, of the bow, of elegant skirmishes in dense forests.

The Empire had no interest in entering the forest in earnest, instead they experimented on the trees at the perimeter, looking for ways to destroy those powerful and resilient trees.

The Elves had spent millenia perfecting the art of war on their own terms, the blade, the bow, the fluid and deadly dances of close combat in the depths of their forests. Their warriors moved with precision, silent as shadows, striking with lethal grace before vanishing back into the trees. It was an art, a philosophy, a way of life.

But the Empire had no interest in fighting on those terms.

They did not send their armies into the deep woods to be ambushed in the Elves’ domain. Instead, they stood at the edges, experimenting, probing, testing ways to strip away the very foundation of Elven superiority. They studied the trees that had stood for millennia, resilient and ancient, warded by old magics, and they sought ways to break them. They poisoned the roots, burned the bark, introduced pests that gnawed at their lifeblood.

Each time the Elves tried to strike back, they lost more than they gained. Their warriors emerged from the safety of the trees, seeking to disrupt the enemy's operations, only to be met with brutal, unrelenting precision. The Empire was perfectly content to hammer them from a distance with siege weapons and long-range spellcraft, softening them up before sending in their cavalry and hive soldiers horrors.

Minuvae clenched her fists, feeling the sharp sting of her nails biting into her palms. This war was unlike any before. The Elves had always relied on their natural gifts, on their centuries of honed skill, on the slow and steady rhythms of their long lives.

At this rate, the Empire wouldn’t even need to win a decisive battle. Time alone would wear the Elves down.

And if something didn’t change soon, even the great forests, the heart of her people’s power, would be nothing more than kindling for the Empire’s advance.

Something needed to change…