Chapter 154: The Retreat of the Werewolves

Linley did not rely blindly on brute force in combat; he possessed unfathomable and ghostly methods.

Seeing the fresh blood smeared across the stone wall, a chill gripped everyone's heart—Linley had actually teleported the werewolf directly into the rock face.

Yet, upon careful reflection, this was hardly surprising. The city of Slorca was built underground, and casting a teleportation spell carried a high probability of intersecting with solid rock walls. This precisely explained why the werewolves chose to use a teleportation array rather than individual teleportation spells.

Once anyone was teleported into the stone wall, there could only be one outcome.

Death without a burial place!

The crowd cast fearful glances toward Linley, realizing that what he now held in his hands was not merely a teleportation portal, but the lives of all the werewolves.

Philip’s face turned icy. He stared at Linley, the cold glare in his eyes capable of killing him a hundred times over.

However, Linley was shrouded in a powerful divine protector, making it impossible to assassinate him in the short term.

Unflinching, Linley declared, "I have no desire to push you to extremes. I will give you a choice right now: withdraw your troops and leave this place immediately, and I will spare the lives of your subordinates."

Philip’s expression shifted drastically. Was this a demand for his surrender?

How could that possibly happen?

He had never surrendered once in his entire life.

Philip fixed a cold gaze on Linley. The two men locked eyes for a long moment until a black-robed werewolf approached Philip’s side.

"Your Highness..."

He whispered a few words into Philip's ear. Linley frowned slightly, vaguely catching words like "General," but the black-robed werewolf immediately used a spell to muffle his voice, preventing Linley from hearing the rest.

Having heard the report, Philip exchanged another brief gaze with Linley before finally turning away.

"Young High King, I will return!"

Philip disdained surrender, but too many werewolves had perished today.

A batch of werewolves had just been killed by the exploding mechs, and Philip would already find it difficult to account for these losses to his subordinates. If he remained unmoved now, knowing full well they would die, which werewolf would ever follow his commands in the future?

After careful deliberation, Philip decided to withdraw.

Yet, his journey was not entirely without reward; at least he had deduced Linley's true identity from that sword.

The High King of the Night Elves had actually participated in the battle personally—this news would undoubtedly interest the Empire.

The werewolf army began to retreat.

Before the Dark Portal, wave after wave of werewolves lined up to teleport away, and Linley watched as their numbers rapidly dwindled.

He issued an order not to pursue them; chasing them now would likely drive the enemy to desperate measures.

Roughly half an hour later, all the werewolves had departed, and the evil mages who maintained the Dark Portal, along with Philip, left through the only remaining operational teleportation array.

"Destroy that teleportation array immediately!"

At Linley's command, Lady White immediately led a contingent to dismantle the formation.

The alliance warriors breathed a collective sigh of relief, yet after half a day of fierce combat, none of them had anticipated it would conclude in this manner.

"We won?"

"That's right, did we actually win?"

"It's not that we seem to have won—we really won!"

First came the incredulous murmurs of a few Paladins, followed by joyous embraces among groups of soldiers, which soon swelled into deafening cheers erupting from the entire army.

"We won! We actually won!"

"We held Slorca!"

Joyful shouts echoed from the alliance soldiers.

At that exact moment, Linley could no longer sustain the divine protector enveloping him; his pair of golden wings instantly dissolved into nothingness, and the flames burning around his body gradually extinguished.

"Little Prince!"

Eve walked over with a look of concern.

"Lord Prophet!"

The Paladins halted their cheering, gazing at him with tense expressions.

"I'm fine."

Linley slumped to the ground, letting out a long breath. "I'll be fine after a little rest."

In truth, he had been bluffing the entire time. Teleporting those werewolves had already pushed him to his absolute limit; how could he possibly have teleported the remaining tens of thousands of werewolves?

His holy light was once again nearly exhausted, but this was no major crisis. With just a single day of rest, Linley would be able to return to his peak condition.

"I'm going back to rest."

Linley scanned the camp. "But this battlefield still needs to be cleared, and I need to choose a commander."

"There's no need for that. Leave this matter to us dwarves!"

Bael’s hearty voice rang out.

He walked up to Linley and gently patted his shoulder.

"Brother, you saved us dwarves! Leave the rest to us!"

Bael then turned to the other Paladins and elves, announcing, "You should all return to rest as well. I have already sent word of our victory to the upper levels—go back and accept the gratitude of our people!"

The Paladins cheered.

"Big Brother Bael, don't forget that goblins are still hiding underground."

Linley reminded him.

"Of course, I know what to do." Bael glared fiercely. "Those green-skins dared to betray us; I'll definitely round them up."

"Your Highness."

Lance the Paladin stepped forward. "Please make sure to include me in the cleanup operation. A few female goblins ambushed me just now, and I must arrest them with my own hands."

The other Paladins watched this scene with throbbing headaches. As if any goblin would dare ambush him!

To think he wouldn't even spare the goblins.

"Could the war have been so grueling that he's no longer picky about his targets..."

"I heard he went looking for some female elves to chat with last night and got beaten up for it."

"No wonder he's so starved..."

The Paladins murmured among themselves. Every paladin order had heard tales of this young paladin's exploits, and even the elves were well aware of his character.

However, these whispered tales among the Paladins remained unknown to Linley. Having handed over the duties to Bael, he and the alliance soldiers boarded the elevators in an orderly fashion and returned to the main district.

They were met with the profound gratitude of all the dwarves. All along the way, dwarves swarmed forward to present the alliance soldiers with their most precious gift—fine wine.

Dwarves loved to drink, and they loved to use wine to express their respect.

Linley, however, declined the wine. Flying above the main district, he led the royal mages toward the royal palace.

"My two hundred thousand!"

"My thirty thousand!"

"My twenty thousand!"

Linley and the mages had stars in their eyes. Their minds were entirely consumed by golden coins, for none of them could forget the dwarven king's ten-to-one payout on the wager.

"His Little Highness's drunkenness seems to have vanished."

Down on the ground, Eve watched the departing figure of Linley, a smile blooming on her face.

Lady White felt it too. Ever since Linley had awakened, his actions had grown much closer to his usual self—had it been the Linley deeply influenced by the holy light, he likely wouldn't have used such bloody methods to force the werewolves into a retreat.

Yet, at the same time, she sensed a subtle change in Linley's gaze. He had grown up enough.

In the goblin city, once the dwarves had finished clearing the battlefield, a shadowy, illusory figure suddenly materialized.

"...Such vicious methods!"

Gazing at the bloodstains smeared across the stone wall, sending people straight into solid rock—such tactics were hardly different from their own demonic ways.

The phantom reached out, brushed a finger against the blood, and brought it to his mouth.

"Werewolf blood tastes truly wonderful..."

"And it's still sweet."