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

"Now that the mages have entered the battle, the Shaman won’t take long to act. Stay alert!"

Theron’s voice boomed as he charged, his boots stomping sharply against the churned earth before he leapt, clearing the trench in a single bound.

For any other man, dropping into that slippery sea of mud, blood, and guts would have been a terrible idea. But he was a fourth-stage warrior.

He could already sustain flight for a few minutes at a time, and his mastery over aura made it virtually impossible for him to stumble, even on the most treacherous ground.

His eyes swept across the dense curtain of trees, searching for any trace of the Orc Shaman among the shifting shadows.

Above him, the five third-stage mages unleashed hell upon the battlefield.

Dozens of fireballs sliced through the sky, streaking over the heads of the soldiers of the First and Second Legions, bathing their armor in an orange glow that danced across the steel as if the sun itself had descended to march beside them.

The incandescent spheres rained down on the enemy line without mercy, reducing dozens of Green Skins to living torches within seconds.

Their agonized howls were swallowed by the crackling fury of the flames before the next wave was ready to descend upon their heads.

Miserable screams echoed without pause, and the terrible stench of burning flesh drifted on the wind toward Goldenveil’s army, mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the dust churned up by the explosions.

It was during the third wave of fireballs that a reaction finally came.

Theron’s eyes narrowed on the forest.

From within the treeline, a thin thread of mana slithered upward, snaking toward the sky the instant it crossed the crest of the hill, aimed straight for Goldenveil’s mages.

Theron did not hesitate.

The ground beneath his feet cracked with a sharp snap as he propelled himself upward, his blade cleaving cleanly through the thread of mana.

An explosion engulfed the skies, its report rolling back like a muffled thunderclap.

Holding himself aloft through the sheer force of his aura, Theron studied the rear ranks of the green-skinned army.

From within, a strange orc had emerged, wrapped in tattered brown robes.

He was small and thin, his delicate figure standing out sharply against the colossal physiques typical of his kin.

Theron narrowed his eyes.

Below him, the goblins and kobolds had already smashed against the lines of the First and Second Legions, hundreds falling dead into the trenches that ringed the army.

Those trenches soon filled to the brim, and the piled corpses eventually formed a grim bridge that orcs and trolls used to join the fray.

The primus centurions and officers charged against the third-stage orcs and trolls, leaving the rest for the rank-and-file soldiers to handle.

Powerful swords and gleaming shields clashed against crude clubs, axes, and rusted blades, filling the air with a deafening chorus of steel.

The mages did not pause for even a single moment, redirecting their focus now to the enemy’s rear lines.

Amid the screams of men and beasts and the endless clang of clashing metal, the explosions of their magic silenced everything in fiery waves of heat and sound.

The Orc Shaman barely spared Theron a glance, a deep frown contorting his wrinkled face.

"Cursed sinners who dare to defy the name and will of the God of War!"

He slammed his staff against the ground with force, and around his gaunt feet a red sea welled up, bubbling like boiling blood as it engulfed everything within thirty meters.

"Only death awaits you."

From the crimson sea, a single hand rose up, black as the deepest night, clutching at the void, encased in heavy armor of congealed blood and bone.

The hand dragged the rest of the body upward, revealing an inhuman, distorted figure fused to the armor itself, as if flesh and metal were a single substance.

Dozens more hands burst forth immediately after, hauling their deformed bodies out of the scarlet lake with wet, sucking sounds.

Theron, of course, could feel the raw power radiating from those beings, creatures that seemed to have been torn straight from the depths of hell.

They were all roughly at the peak of the third stage, and there were about seventy of them.

"He’s trying to summon Plague Knights. Stop him!"

Amelia’s voice echoed inside Theron’s head, and he nodded at once.

He had no idea what Plague Knights were, but he certainly didn’t want to find out.

His gaze sharpened as he leaned forward in midair, his aura condensing into a platform beneath his feet.

His knees bent, and his boots found firm footing in thin air.

With a thrust carrying the full power of a fourth-stage warrior, Theron lunged toward the Shaman, whose eyes widened for a brief moment.

The Shaman barked an order for the orcs around him to form a defensive barrier while he pressed on with his summoning.

Theron, of course, was in no way willing to let that happen.

His body twisted through the air, and his blade followed the motion in a wide, lethal arc.

The powerful third-stage orcs who charged at him served little purpose other than to be torn to shreds—their bodies split cleanly in half, collapsing into the muck in twin heaps of steaming meat.

The Shaman growled with rage, forced to raise his staff to parry Theron’s descending blade.

He had expected to block it with ease; after all, his staff was of far superior quality to any ordinary human weapon.

Sadly for him, Theron’s sword was no ordinary human weapon.

It was a Rank S blade, a masterpiece forged by Garrick, the chief blacksmith of the Divine Forge of Goldenveil.

The Shaman’s staff snapped in two with a sharp crack, and the summoning was abruptly cut short.

The first Plague Knight was still emerging from the sea of blood, only waist-deep.

A pitiful scream tore from his lips as the portal slammed shut, severing his right hand and half his body clean away. What remained collapsed to the ground before bursting into a fine, bloody mist.

The other Plague Knights met identical fates.

The Shaman, meanwhile, could only retreat in desperation, his body hurled backward by a terrible force.

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