The East.
Inside the central camp of the royal clans, located 2,500 kilometers from the checkpoint.
News of the First Legion's crushing defeat immediately dealt another heavy blow to the morale the alien race had desperately rallied after committing themselves to a final struggle, sending it plunging back down to a level only slightly higher than before.
The enormous and shocking casualty figures cast a pall over the entire alien race's camp. The camp, which had originally been bustling with noise, now seemed increasingly silent and oppressive.
Around the camp's perimeter, heavily armored patrolmen listlessly made their rounds, their eyes filled with confusion and fear.
No matter how hard they racked their brains, they could not understand it. Even if humanity's development had gone smoothly this time, how could they have gained such a huge advantage in just four years?
Take the First Legion, for example. It clearly had nearly a tenfold numerical advantage, yet it had not even managed to touch the hem of the enemy's clothes. At least four-fifths of the alien race's casualties had fallen along the path of the charge, unable to break through the dense bullet lines.
In such a situation, what use was having more people? It would only make the casualty figures look even worse.
Thinking about it this way, the patrolmen even felt that there was no hope of victory in this war. Unless they received the Ancestor Gods' help, they would probably be crushed across the board by humanity's New Star Legion before they could even surround and kill Su Mo.
Inside a tent bearing the marks of the Five Great Royal Clans in the central camp.
Curse Tiger Lord stood before a huge sand table, his expression shifting between dark and uncertain moods. A detailed battle report floated before him.