Behind the elves, at the third defensive line.
The Artillery Platoon leader knelt on one knee, gripping a Tactical Tablet.
Live footage transmitted by the drone clearly displayed the battle at the front on its screen.
"Coordinates one-zero-one, one-zero-three! Four rounds, rapid fire! Fire!"
The order went out through his Throat-Vibration Microphone.
At the position, ten elite gunners crouched on the ground, holding the barrels of their 60mm Mortars with their left hands, dispensing with the mounts entirely.
At the command, their right hands blurred as they kept sliding shells into the muzzles.
Thump!
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The muffled reports of shells leaving the barrels merged together.
"Keep firing! Shift a hundred meters west! Four rounds, rapid fire! Fire!"
"Adjust coordinates! Fire!"
"Fire!"
Beside them, the ammunition bearers mechanically repeated the motions of opening crates and passing shells.
Of the forty men in the Artillery Platoon, ten fired and thirty supplied ammunition, pushing their fire delivery efficiency to its limit.
Often, before the previous four-round volley had landed, the next round of shells was already whistling out of the barrels into the sky.
Every few seconds, dozens of faint red streaks traced arcs across the night sky, landing precisely in the most densely packed sections of the Demon Clan army.
Boom, boom, boom, boom-!
The explosions blazed together, raising a wave of flesh, earth, and shattered bone amid the Demon Clan army.
Shellfire plowed the ground over and over.
The valley mouth was only two kilometers wide. The vanguard of the hundred-thousand-strong Demon Clan army was packed together, with nowhere to dodge.
"Aaaargh-!"
Screams rang out without end, and severed Demon Clan limbs lay everywhere.
On Gorut the Treant's shoulder.
Lin Mo watched the "meteor shower" continually lighting up the distant sky.
The sight, which could only be described as