The maid squad is too strong, what use is there for me, the Demon King?

"Boom!!!"

Debris flew out in all directions like an explosion. A deep crater was smashed into the ground, and spiderweb-like cracks instantly spread outwards.

The powerful shockwave and flying debris knocked over and injured several of the leading cultists, interrupting their spellcasting. One cultist, who was gathering ash fire, was pierced in the shoulder by a flying sharp rock and fell to the ground screaming.

The pits and fissures themselves became temporary obstacles, slowing down the subsequent charge of the believers.

High on the rock face, orc spearmen used the shadows and mist as cover to hurl their spears, their tips encased in thick rock, down with tremendous force.

The spearheads whistled through the air, striking precisely the cultists who were channeling powerful ashes. Though the spear shafts might be instantly incinerated by the flames, the heavy stone tips, propelled by inertia, still managed to inflict horrific penetrating wounds.

A cultist who had just placed his palm on the rock wall was pierced through the back of his heart by a stone spear that fell from the sky, pinning him to the ground, the pale flame in his palm dying weakly.

The battle was fierce and bloody. While the orc warriors' martial skills were formidable, capable of temporarily blocking or inflicting casualties, they could not completely extinguish the scorching ashes that consumed everything. The defensive line teetered on the brink of collapse under the relentless onslaught of the pale flames.

A grey-robed bishop stood at the back, his hands raised high, chanting fervent prayers. The sun symbol on his chest shone brightly, seemingly infusing the believers with even greater power.

Just as a cultist broke through the defenses, his pale hand, carrying the aura of incineration, grinned as he charged toward the churning fountain of blood...

Several pure, flowing black shadows, as if emerging from the boiling blood spring's mist itself, or flowing out from the deepest crevices of the rock wall, appeared without warning between the cultist and the blood spring.

A dark shadow instantly coiled around the cultist's outstretched arm. There was no clash of flames, only a profound chill that seemed to freeze the soul.

The pale flames burning on the cultist's arm, upon contact with the shadowy figure, hissed and dimmed rapidly, shrinking until they were completely extinguished the moment they touched the dark figure.

Immediately afterwards, the shadowy figure coiled and tightened like a venomous snake, and the cultist's arm snapped with a chilling crack as it was instantly broken by an invisible force.

Another dark figure moved like a ghost among the cultists who were casting spells. It seemed to have no physical form, and each time it appeared, it left a cold, sharp, dark trail.

The cultists who were swept by the trajectory froze abruptly, and the ashes that had gathered on their bodies vanished instantly, like candle flames being extinguished.

The next second, their gray robes silently tore open, and blood gushed from the deep, bone-revealing wounds as their bodies collapsed to the ground.

These men in black robes moved with lightning speed and landed silently.

They were completely wrapped in large, pure black fabric that seemed to absorb light, their faces hidden in even deeper shadows beneath their hoods, making it impossible to see any details.

They do not engage in direct confrontation or communicate with the orcs. Instead, they appear like sharp blades at the most critical moments and in the most crucial positions, dismantling the cultists' ashes in unpredictable ways, severing their spellcasting nodes, and hunting down the most threatening targets.

The grey-robed bishop's fervent prayer abruptly ceased as he stared in shock and fury at the ghostly black figures.

"You nuisances!" he screamed hoarsely. "The sun will burn you all!"

The intervention of the man in black robes instantly reversed the tide of the battle. The cultists' offensive, interrupted by the interruption of their spellcasting and precise hunting, came to a halt.

The orc warriors, however, were not surprised by these suddenly appearing "allies".

Taking advantage of this opportunity, their unwavering determination to fight to the bitter end allowed them to seize this precious respite!

"For Blood Spring! For Shad Manting!" Gotan roared again, his massive shield slamming into a cultist who had been stunned by the appearance of the black-robed man.

"Crush them!" Brock roared, swinging his stone hammer again, smashing it down on the cultists' densely packed area with the force of shattering the earth.

The spearmen were greatly encouraged, and stone spears rained down like raindrops.

The fountain of blood churned ceaselessly amidst the fierce battle, its crimson mist growing thicker, as if the earth itself were boiling over with the intensity of this brutal defense. The battlefield transformed into a death vortex, a tapestry of roaring rocks, hissing ashes, and chilling shadows.

The cult's incineration wave was shattered by the unwavering will of the orc warriors and the combined efforts of the black-robed figures.

The grey-robed bishop looked at the falling cultists and the several black shadows that clung to him like maggots, his face darkening. But then he raised his head, revealing a maniacal smile.

"We've been waiting for you!!!!"

The grey-robed bishop's roar echoed across the chaotic battlefield.

Just as the orc warriors' morale soared due to the black-robed man's divine intervention, and Gotan's tower shield smashed through yet another cultist, and Brok's stone hammer was about to crush an enemy's head—

A heat far deeper and more ancient than any previous embers, like molten lava from the earth's core suddenly awakening, erupted violently from the flank of the battlefield.

"Enough!" A deep, hoarse voice, yet imbued with undeniable authority, pierced through the sounds of battle.

A figure slowly emerged from the distorted heatwave. He too wore a sun-kissed gray robe, but the robe's material was more refined, with a metallic sheen. The sun symbol on it was larger and more complex, with a central black dot resembling an abyss.

His hood did not completely cover his face, revealing an aged face that looked as if it had been sculpted by wind, sand and fire. His skin was charred and cracked, but his eyes burned with two clusters of solidified, dazzling pale flames—it was another gray-robed bishop, known as "The Emberburner," Morris.

Morris didn't even glance at the darting shadows. He simply raised a withered hand, also covered in charred cracks, palm facing upwards.

Instantly, a circle of pale, almost transparent flame ripples silently spread out from the center of his palm.

Wherever the ripples passed, the space seemed to be distorted and blurred by the heat.

Ripples swept across the battlefield, and the black-robed figures that moved like ghosts seemed to be struck by an invisible force. Their high-speed movements suddenly stopped, and a suppressed groan seemed to come from under their hoods.

Faced with this pure and immense will to incinerate, the shadowy chill that restrained ordinary ashes seemed so fragile.

Without the slightest hesitation, the men in black robes retreated instantly, like snowflakes hit by direct sunlight, in a highly organized manner, avoiding the flame ripples from the gray-robed bishop.

This is not fear, but a tactical avoidance to prevent excessive casualties when facing destructive energy that cannot be directly confronted.