School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 180 --Faceless

"It’s quite simple," the demon army leader began, glancing towards the setting sun in the west.

"When your troops departed, there were two people of note. A man of exceptional demeanor and a woman in military garb yet carrying herself like a lady, likely the lord’s daughter. And you, escorting them; how could you be merely a battalion commander of the third unit?"

"Furthermore..." the leader continued, "the soldiers you’ve brought with you are sweating profusely, indicative of a hurried march here, and the number is few.

You must have just discovered our true identities and hastily gathered this team."

"Correct." Owen admitted openly.

"Your forces haven’t spread throughout the city, which means your target is the city gates. Drop your illusions, then. When you engage in battle, those illusions cannot be maintained, right? Faceless."

"You know quite a bit," the faceless leader remarked with an appreciative gaze at Owen.

However, being stared at by such a face would hardly bring pleasure to anyone.

White lips, white eyes, pig-like ears, and a nose that seemed to be halved, all wrapped in ghastly pale skin—this was the true visage of the faceless.

Owen, having previously studied demons, was aware of this type of disguise-capable demon.

Faceless change their appearance by consuming their victim’s blood; the more blood they consume, the longer they can maintain their disguise.

However, once they harbor the intent to kill, their own blood reasserts dominance in their head, dissolving the illusion.

Thus, Owen and his three hundred men were now facing nearly a thousand ghastly white faces.

As the sun prepared to set, a brief silence fell over the military camp.

The faceless leader, gazing towards the setting sun, finally swung his curved blade.

The faceless revealed their own curved blades, which moments before had masqueraded as sticks, canes, and carrying poles.

Owen retreated behind the phalanx, and the three hundred guards used long spears to block the camp’s entrance.

A battalion of faceless charged forward, and when they were about ten meters away, fifty crossbowmen hidden within the spear formation unleashed a volley, cutting down the majority of the battalion.

The remaining faceless, who managed to get closer, were pierced through chillingly just as they raised their blades.

Against the spear wall, such an assault was suicidal.

The first charging battalion was reduced to seventy or eighty corpses.

Unmoved, the faceless leader simply waved his curved blade again.

Dozens of fire arrows soared towards the spear wall, which stood unshaken.

The spearmen, clad in plate armor and steel helmets, with crossbowmen sheltered behind them, suffered little damage from the few arrows.

Most of the arrows either glanced off the spearmen’s armor or ignited the corpses in front of the formation.

However, within seconds, the front row of spearmen began to cry out in agony, clutching their throats, frothing at the mouth as they collapsed.

"Damn, the corpses are poisoned, and the wind is blowing towards the camp entrance."

"Spread out to the sides! Charge into the camp!" Owen shouted.

The formation immediately dispersed to avoid the poison gas.

The faceless leader seized this moment, launching a full-scale charge.

The dispersed formation couldn’t regroup in time, leading to a chaotic melee that deviated from Owen’s expectations.

In terms of individual combat capability, the northern city guards were no match for the faceless, and they were also at a numerical disadvantage.

Only their superior equipment prevented a complete rout.

Owen moved through the fray, his trident felling faceless adversaries in its wake.

The battle had devolved into a war of attrition.

"Stop!"

After about fifteen minutes of combat, the faceless leader commanded his forces to fall back behind him.

He pointed at Owen, challenging, "Dare you face me in combat?"

Owen glanced at his remaining men, now fewer than fifty, with all the crossbowmen fallen, while about six hundred faceless still opposed them.

Surely the reinforcements Kistan called for were close by?

For Owen, a duel at this moment was exactly what he needed.

The two armies stood twenty meters apart as Owen and the faceless leader stepped forward, trident against curved blade.

Owen positioned himself, focusing intently on the leader’s blade.

The faceless leader, not rushing to attack, swayed his blade leisurely, revealing, "You should know, unlike my underlings, I can still use illusions in battle."

As he spoke, his appearance shifted back to that of a villager, startling Owen, who braced for a tough fight.

Seizing the initiative, Owen’s trident glinted sharply, pressing towards the leader, who dodged with remarkable agility, unscathed.

Despite Owen’s relentless assault, he couldn’t gain the upper hand.

The faceless leader exploited a brief opening, counterattacking with his blade.

Owen blocked, ready to press on, only to see the leader leap backward, throwing his blade towards him.

With a clang, the curved blade hit the ground.

Owen’s expression darkened; the faceless leader still held another blade.

It seemed he caught a smirk on the leader’s lips before another blade flew at him.

Clang, clang, clang!

More than ten blades now littered the ground, yet the leader still wielded one more.

Owen couldn’t help but break into a cold sweat.

The faceless leader burst into laughter: "Can you tell which is real and which is an illusion?"

Then, tossing his curved blade into the air, it morphed into five, hovering beside him.

The blades on the ground also rose, pointing towards Owen.

Closing his eyes, the faceless leader controlled the blades with his mind, launching an assault on Owen.

Five blades circled defensively around him, while the rest formed a blade formation encircling Owen, who struggled to parry and dodge.

"Even if you could conjure thousands of blades, you only have one life!"

Owen, ignoring the leader’s attack, charged fiercely with his trident.

The faceless leader’s complexion soured as he frantically dodged.

Soon, he was impaled by Owen’s thrown trident, collapsing, evidently not long for this world.

Just then, with a loud boom, the stone wall directly opposite the camp’s gate was blown open.

Reinforcements had finally arrived.

Over three thousand heavy infantry quickly encircled the faceless, who, realizing their dire situation, bared their teeth, ready for a desperate fight.

The surrounding heavy infantry stood still, awaiting orders.

"Who is your leader?" a commanding voice rang out.

Owen looked up to see it was the lord, Lord Dawson.

"Here," Owen called out loudly.

Dawson quickly approached Owen, asking, "How did you get so injured?"

Though victorious, Owen was covered in minor cuts.

While not severely wounded, the sight was alarming.

Under normal circumstances, the faceless leader alone couldn’t have injured him so.

But now, Owen’s strength was far from what it once was.

"In a duel with the enemy’s leader..." Dawson glanced at the faceless leader, barely clinging to life, and sighed at Owen, "Why resort to such a risky strategy just to buy time? Even if the north gate had fallen, we could have retaken it at the cost of a few hundred men. But if something had happened to you..."

Dawson shuddered at the thought, resolving to keep a closer eye on Owen in the future.

"With a formidable enemy at our gates, there was no room for hesitation," Owen managed a weak smile, "Besides, it was his proposal."

Dawson turned, glaring at the faceless leader: "Hmph, to suggest a duel when your forces are in such peril shows your folly. A duel? You like duels? Let’s show you a duel between us and you."

The lord commanded loudly, "Heavy infantry! Form a shield wall and advance!"

This second "duel" was a unilateral slaughter.

The first row of heavy infantry, shields nearly as tall as a man, formed a tight formation that left no openings for the faceless to exploit.

The soldiers behind held their spears at the ready, tips extending a meter beyond the shields.

The encirclement slowly tightened, the faceless pushed into a mass by fear.

Then came the sounds of spears piercing flesh, screams and struggles, futile clangs of curved blades against shields, and desperate roars.

When silence finally returned, the sun had completely set, and Kistan lit a torch beside the lord.

Holding one of the faceless leader’s curved blades in his right hand, he said to the lord, "This is a very sinister weapon. Seventeen incredibly thin blades held together by magnetism, functioning as a hidden weapon."

Only then did Owen understand that the so-called illusions were all real.

Yet, one question lingered, and he looked towards the faceless leader.

With effort, the leader spoke, "You wonder why I could still change my appearance in battle, don’t you? It’s because I harbored no intent to kill. My only wish was for my people to secure a land where they could continue to live. Killing was merely a last resort. So... I’ll be waiting for you in hell."

Leaving behind a meaningful smile, he passed away.

Owen suddenly remembered the poison concealed on the faceless, which ignited upon contact with fire.

He stood up and shouted urgently, "Beware of the fire arrows."

Kistan quickly steadied Owen, saying, "Lord Saint, please calm yourself. Following the lord’s command, I’ve already eliminated a dozen young faceless hidden within the camp, and their bows and arrows have been confiscated."

Owen let out a long sigh of relief, "That’s good to hear. They all carried poison powder that ignites upon contact with fire. Several guards have already fallen victim to this poison."