The Golden Lord has a perverted SSS-rank summoning system!

Ethan wanted Lord Fallenwinter alive.

He believed Zael Fallenwinter was a capable leader who, if handled well, could become one of the pillars supporting Goldenveil’s future.

If that proved impossible, however, Ethan would not hesitate to kill him.

The young lord let out a low growl, his grip on the sword firm as he climbed onto a small platform where the five mages who would participate in the initial phase of the battle were already positioned.

His blue eyes were cold as steel, and his fingers tightened around the hilt of the God-Slayer.

A sharp hiss echoed as the blade slid free of its sheath, revealing the gleaming metal bit by bit.

Ethan’s eyes flashed gold, his lips parting. "Shields!" he roared.

The soldiers did not hesitate, raising their shields to form an almost instantaneous wall of metal, the coordinated thud echoing across the field like a single clap of thunder.

In the next instant, from the forest below, a single spear—clearly hastily and clumsily fashioned—sliced through the air with a harsh whine.

Following it, thousands more.

They rained down upon the shields of the Goldenveil army in a deafening downpour, shattering against the sturdy metal in a chaotic symphony of shards and splintered wood.

Even those few that slipped past the shields could do nothing more than leave faint scratches upon the armor.

It wasn’t that the spears lacked force, but their quality was, well... just poorly crafted sharp pieces of wood.

Ethan swung his sword in a fluid motion, slicing a spear aimed at him clean in half. The two halves fell uselessly at his feet.

Scattered neatly across the ground among the soldiers lay javelins as well—short shafts of carefully polished black wood tipped with gold, sharp enough to cut through the air itself.

"Ready your javelins!" the centurions shouted from within their ranks, the order echoing from shield to shield.

The soldiers crouched in practiced movements, picking up the weapons from the ground while keeping their swords sheathed at their sides.

At a second command from the centurions, their arms rose in unison and the golden tips pointed toward the forest.

In the next instant, the first green skin burst forth from among the trees, charging madly toward them, its yellow eyes gleaming with a thirst for blood.

Following the first came a second, then a third, and in a matter of moments, a large mass of them poured out onto the plain.

Orcs, trolls, goblins, kobolds.

The greenskins hurled themselves against the base of the hill in animalistic desperation, guttural roars and grunts mingling with the heavy squelch of thick feet sinking into the mud.

The run was about five hundred meters to the top, up a gentle slope that, thanks to all that mud, had become hellish.

The vanguard, as expected, consisted entirely of orcs. More than five thousand of them, most in the second stage, with a few from the third stage scattered among them.

They were walking mountains of muscle and murderous intent, yellow eyes gleaming with a thirst for blood.

But those mountains wouldn’t be of much use on such a climb.

Although the slope wasn’t particularly steep, the very first few steps were enough for one of the orcs to slip.

His powerful body crashed to the ground with a wet thud, sliding backward and dragging three of his comrades down with him. They tumbled together in a tangle of flailing arms and clattering axes until they slammed into a bush and finally came to a stop.

Roars of rage rolled down the hillside, mingling with the frustrated grunts of those still fighting to regain their footing.

At the top of the hill, the soldiers of Goldenveil kept their javelins firmly aimed at the horde. The front lines crouched, clearing a line of fire so that the rear ranks could also take aim at their targets.

When the first orc crossed the 100-meter mark, Laine and Theron roared in unison, ordering the soldiers to release their javelins.

The front ranks didn’t hesitate for even a second.

Each soldier’s aura flowed through their arms to their fingertips, channeling into the shafts of their weapons, which left their hands with sharp cracks and tore through the air.

As soon as the first two rows threw their javelins, they crouched, making room for the comrades behind them to do the same.

A veritable deluge began to rain down on the greenskins—a shower of steel that darkened the gray sky for a moment before plummeting violently to the ground.

Those weapons were of exceptional quality, forged from the finest steel available, and each soldier had mastered powerful throwing skills that nearly doubled the natural speed of the javelin.

The leader of the vanguard, a third-stage orc—tall and powerful enough to make his green skin look as if it were carved from stone—swung his axe with a roar that shook the damp air.

The blade struck a javelin in mid-flight, clipping it with a metallic snap. But there were too many.

A second javelinssank deep into his abdomen with a wet sound, wrenching a hoarse grunt from his throat. A third pierced his shoulder, dark blood spraying in a hot arc through the air.

He still managed to parry the fourth with a desperate swing, but a fifth found its mark squarely, punching through his skull.

The colossal body collapsed onto the muddy ground, falling onto its side with a heavy thud.

Under the crossfire of eight thousand javelins raining down simultaneously, more than a thousand orcs died in the first minute of battle. They hadn’t even managed to cover half the distance to the top of the hill where Goldenveil’s soldiers awaited.

Bodies riddled with javelins fell heavily, sliding down the slick slope and knocking down those coming right behind them, creating a growing chaos of twisted limbs, broken weapons, and blood mixing with the earth.

If they were humans, this battle could already be considered a complete disaster.

But these were greenskins, and greenskins knew no retreat.

The orcs and trolls halted their advance, roaring orders for the goblins and kobolds to take the front line.

The goblins surged forward, a wave of greenish skin and red or sickly yellow eyes, rotten teeth bared, faces distorted by grotesque genetic abnormalities. They charged madly through the mud, screeching like starving beasts.

Close behind came the kobolds, slightly larger than the goblins, with hairy bodies and lizard-like heads, their jaws full of sharp teeth that gnashed with bloodthirst.

Through the treacherous mire, it was these creatures who formed the new vanguard, their small, disposable bodies serving as a makeshift floor so that orcs and trolls could advance over them without slipping.

Of course, the hell descending upon them was still only just beginning.

Behind Goldenveil’s army, the five mages were already chanting their most powerful destruction spells, hands raised to the sky as mana gathered around their voluptuous bodies in a vibrant, crackling aura.

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