Chug-chug-chug-chug—whoooooo—
Through the smoke-choked forest, a battered steam locomotive covered in scorch marks rattled over the uneven woodland ground. Every so often, amid its shuddering sway, it belched out a ring of black smoke and shed a few damaged gears or steel components.
If this wreck dared drive onto the Northlands' intercity highway, the patrol guards would absolutely stop it as a roadkiller, plaster it with a dozen tickets, then have a recovery vehicle forcibly tow it to a repair shop for immediate scrapping.
Yet it still ran steadily enough. Aside from having already run down at least several hundred scattered demons—its wheels and sharp-edged components now hung with minced flesh and torn membranes—it showed no sign of breaking down. Instead, it was the conversation between the two Metal Dragons that left the Black Dragon prince cowering atop the rear of the vehicle unable to sit still.
"Something is very wrong here. Cough, cough."
Leviathan voiced the obvious thought everyone already knew.
For things to be normal under these circumstances, pigs would have to fly.
Under ordinary circumstances, even when incursions from the Lower Plane occasionally occurred, they were no more than small bands of wandering demons. Dispatching an elite force was generally enough to suppress them smoothly. The major churches had always been enthusiastic about such opportunities to bolster the prestige of their churches and gods.
At first, Leviathan and the others had assumed this was merely one such demon legion, which was why they had thrown everything they had into a fight to the death with that Balor officer at the first opportunity.
Demons were inherently a disorderly, undisciplined species of chaos. As long as they beheaded their leader, without the Balor officer driving them on, even if their numbers were greater, the damage they inflicted would drop