CHAPTER 529: CHAPTER 430: HUGE PROFIT

"The 107th Legion has been annihilated!"

"The 103rd Legion has been annihilated!"

Two more death reports came from the direction of the Undead Army.

"General!"

"General!"

Even the generals who had stubbornly denied the losses and dismissed the rumors now fell silent.

They knew the truth—far too many warriors had died in the past three days. At this point in the war, the soldiers were exhausted and filled with fear.

"We can’t hold out!"

"That’s the Tyrant!"

"The Tyrant can kill legends, even immortals! The island is swarming with endless undead. We can’t hold out—we’re throwing our lives away in vain!"

Collapse came in an instant.

It started with one or two warriors, then spread to squads, battalions, entire legions. Fear and disgust ignited like sparks, sweeping across hundreds of legions in moments.

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Run for your lives!"

"We surrender! Spare us! Spare us!"

The Coastline Alliance faced a full-fledged collapse.

One legion after another fled in all directions; one legion after another fell to their knees in surrender.

Disintegration.

Utter defeat.

"It’s over!"

Deep within the defensive line, Wusenuo had been standing his ground and directing the battle for three days. When he saw legion after legion scatter and submit, he seemed almost relieved, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. There was no anger left in his heart—only a sense of release.

"The Tyrant."

"Benage."

Wusenuo gazed into the distance, his sight unable to reach where he imagined Benage stood. Yet in his mind’s eye, he saw Benage shrouded in blood-red light, his expression indifferent.

The Tyrant.

The Butcher.

With the might of millions of undead, slaughtering millions of warriors, the overwhelming presence chilled even Wusenuo to his core.

"This kind of person..."

The nine immortals of the Coastline Alliance all remained silent.

The four immortals they had invited to assist also said nothing.

"I’m back."

"What’s the status of the battle?"

"This Benage is too strange. He has alliances with dozens of Ancestors in the Undead Realm. Every one of those Ancestors is fanatically loyal to him. I visited four of the Undead Lords in succession, urging them to give orders against Benage, but not a single Ancestor obeyed."

"It’s bizarre! Some Ancestors even emptied out their entire armies to aid Benage!"

Amid the silence.

The tenth immortal of the Coastline Alliance, Dimension Walker Keen, returned, looking utterly travel-worn.

For three days, he had been racing through the Undead Realm, visiting its rulers in hopes of cutting off Chen Jichuan’s "Undead Disaster" at its source.

The four Lords had indeed granted him an audience.

But he had been turned away by dozens of Ancestors, his efforts completely futile.

Keen, unable to achieve his goal, rushed back to check on the situation in the Virtual Arena.

He was not yet aware—

"The war is over."

"We lost."

Wusenuo’s voice was hoarse. The "Dragon Blood Warrior," known for his endurance, now looked utterly drained.

"Lost?"

Keen finally noticed the silence among the immortals present.

A cold realization gripped him.

Glancing at the strategic map, he found it true—every Black Armored Army had scattered, their forces split apart and isolated by the pale undead legions, with no signs of resistance left.

The Undead Army was advancing unimpeded.

Keen looked up.

"Benage."

There he was—the Tyrant himself—accompanied by Space Rhythm Beirut and twenty-four Ancestors, marching victoriously into the depths of the arena.

The nearly two hundred legends gathered by the Coastline Alliance dared not block his path, instead stepping aside one by one.

The arrival of the King—the retreat of all heroes.

This was the era of the Tyrant.

...

"Benage."

"You’ve won."

Wusenuo’s face showed a mix of emotions.

The deaths of millions of warriors did not faze him much.

Hundreds of thousands.

Millions.

Even tens of millions.

For an immortal like Wusenuo, they were mere numbers. These people, even if they didn’t die in this war, would still perish one way or another within decades or centuries.

"If not immortal, early death or late death—it’s still death."

A matter of time.

Thus, Wusenuo was not grieving.

Countless years ago.

When the Virtual Arena first emerged, dozens of immortal organizations fought violently over it. Legends and immortals alike clashed, armies poured into the fray.

That war was even more intense, shattering the vast continent and leaving it fragmented. The land sank, and all that remained was this eighty-thousand-mile island.

How many millions died back then?

Casualties ten times greater than what had occurred in today’s battle.

Wusenuo had survived that war, long accustomed to death, and felt no sorrow because of it.

What unsettled him now was only the Tyrant.

Three short days.

Just three days.

The Coastline Alliance suffered millions of casualties, surrendered over ten million warriors, and was utterly defeated.

Now the enemy stood at their doorstep—legends yielded, immortals fell silent, and fear gripped every heart.

Nearly two hundred legends.

Fourteen immortals.

If they had banded together and charged out when the tide began to turn, they might have been able to reverse their fortunes.

But they didn’t dare.

The Tyrant was standing just beyond the twenty-thousand-mile Forbidden Magic Formation. If they charged out, they would not only face the millions-strong Undead Army but also the mirror images of hundreds, or possibly more, Ancestors created by the Great Mirror Image Technique.

A charge like that would surely require sacrifices.

No one wanted to test whether they would be the one to die.

...

"Three days and nights!"

"Millions of undead soldiers!"

"So, the Tyrant doesn’t even need the Mirror Image Army or the Great Mirror Image Technique to be this powerful!"

"A one-man nation-conqueror? The Tyrant doesn’t just conquer one nation! The Coastline Alliance mobilized over a dozen empires, hundreds of kingdoms and duchies, summoned hundreds of legions, and all were crushed by the Tyrant alone!"

"The Tyrant!"

"Invincible! Invincible! The Tyrant is invincible!"

...

Within the arena.

The war had raged for three days and nights, and the spectators had watched for three days and nights. From initial anticipation, excitement, and awe, to mid-phase dread and numbness, and finally arriving at indescribable emotions.