Extreme Cold Era: Shelter Don't Keep Waste-Chapter 929 - 155: End of the Farce
This ridiculous war has finally come to an end, ending like a farce hastily wrapped up.
The so-called "last counterattack force" of the Desert Tribe was simply no match for the iron flood of the Empire's army.
Their proud desert cavalry charge, the power bestowed by ancient deities, crumbled like a fragile sandcastle under the tsunami of the steam knights' chain-saw swords and booming heavy artillery. They couldn't even muster a decent resistance before being utterly crushed into powder by the firepower, with no room for struggle.
Their last hope—the much-anticipated goddess Sekhmet, was merely a slightly troublesome prey under the slaughtering blade of the Godslaying Armor.
Even though she displayed power far beyond human understanding, her fate was sealed in the face of Perfikot's meticulously designed Godslayer weapon.
How ironic!
The chieftains of these desert tribes must still remember that the strongest force the Empire displayed during the last rebellion was just a few "Knights of Divine Grace"—those early autonomous knights made by Perfikot, barely reaching legendary combat levels in an extreme state.
At that time, although the evil god army they summoned was ultimately defeated, it still made the Empire's troops pay a certain price, at least drawing blood and causing the loss of many elite soldiers.
But this time, they certainly did their homework.
The chieftains combed through every brick and stone of the ancient temples, deciphered every obscure inscription, and even sacrificed the entire tribe's lives, using blood and souls as offerings, just to gain enough power.
When they finally summoned a real deity, they must have imagined avenging their previous shame, making the Empire's troops tremble in divine power, begging for mercy on their knees, right?
Unfortunately, reality always likes playing such cruel jokes.
When the divine entity summoned by the desert tribe with all their resources finally descended, she seemed like a clumsy street magician, awkwardly performing so-called "miracles" before the iron-clad Godslaying Armor of the Empire.
Her raging sandstorm, her scorching sun, her wrath of divine punishment—all appeared so ridiculous in front of the Godslaying Armor.
Sekhmet's divine might was indeed astonishing. If it were ancient times, her power could indeed overturn the outcome of a war or even destroy a nation.
Even if it were a few years ago, the Empire might have found it difficult to resist a deity's power, perhaps choosing to avoid its edge or paying a hefty price to barely match it.
But with Perfikot developing the Godslaying Armor, deities?
They had long ceased to be invincible in her eyes.
Perhaps, in Perfikot's eyes, gods had never been invincible.
The most ironic thing is that until their last breath, the clouded eyes of the tribal elders still shone with incomprehensible confusion.
Their wrinkled faces twisted, their cracked lips trembling, but they could never utter the question that troubled them to their deaths.
They couldn't understand until they died: Why did the same summoning ritual, the same ancient spells, produce an evil god army last time that could fight back and forth with the Empire's Knights of Divine Grace, even costing the Empire dearly, but this time, there was no room for counterattack?
Why did they sacrificial more lives, recite more complete spells, yet receive a more thorough defeat?
The answer was evident yet cruelly laughable—while these tribespeople were still painstakingly searching for the broken spells in the ancient temples, Perfikot had already dissected three lesser gods in well-lit laboratories.
While they kneeled in the temple, hoarsely praying for divine power, the Empire's engineers had already iterated the weapon system of the Godslaying Armor to the seventh generation, with every detail optimized a thousand times.
This was a cross-era duel, one side worshiping the past, while the other was forging the future.
When the chain-saw sword of the Godslaying Armor cut off the deity's head with a jarring roar, the tribal warriors were still kneeling and praying to the headless divine corpse, as if that could bring their god back to life.
Their bloodshot eyes were filled with despair and devotion, yet they couldn't understand what was happening in front of them.
Besides giving Perfikot a little fodder for laughter over tea, this absurd scene had no more value.
It was laughable like a child attempting to fight a cannon with a stick, yet carried a kind of pitiable innocence.
She suddenly found it somewhat laughable: these ignorant primitives would probably never know that the supreme deity in their eyes was merely a precious alchemy material for Perfikot, a research specimen waiting to be dissected.
One wonders if they knew this truth, would they be angry enough to crawl out of the pile of corpses?
But this is fine; at least this farce proved one truth: In this world where the weak are prey to the strong, technology is the only "deity" worth believing in.
The laws written by the Empire in steel and steam are far more real and reliable than those illusory oracles.
As for those so-called deities? They're just raw materials waiting to be slaughtered!
Like ores waiting to be smelted, data waiting to be analyzed, these so-called gods will eventually be dissected into the most basic components in the Empire's laboratories.
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"Regent, the divine core left behind by the deity summoned by the desert tribe has already been recovered." An Alchemist respectfully presented a report to Perfikot, his voice tinged with a few traces of barely concealed excitement.
