Chapter 154: Power Conversion - The 'Great Wine Pot” Prepares

The night was pitch black, a silence blanketing the sleeping Dragon Tusk Tribe. That silence was shattered as two blazing streaks of light cut through the sky, descending rapidly until they hovered above the unsuspecting lizardman settlement. The light from the arrivals momentarily bathed the village in an eerie glow, but the hour was late, and the tribe slumbered deeply. Only two guards were on duty, and they didn't remain conscious for long. Sukyu Juju dispatched them cleanly, their bodies falling without so much as a cry of alarm. The entire village remained oblivious. In midair, Lyle adjusted the half-framed magic monocle over his left eye, a tool enchanted with night vision. Peering downward, he observed the layout of the village with a critical gaze. According to Sukyu Juju, while the chieftain was the highest-ranking figure in the tribe, the real power and reverence lay with the elder-priests. These priests, cloaked in ritual authority, were more deeply respected than any warrior. And they tended to live near the village's heart. Using the light from the two summoned Flame Archangels, coupled with his monocle's magical enhancement, Lyle soon spotted a cluster of distinctively larger and more ornate wooden huts. Clearly homes to the tribal elite. With a subtle thought, Lyle issued a command. The Flame Archangels beat their wings and surged toward a group of wooden homes. Not the priestly ones, of course. These were deliberate distractions, decoys meant to stir chaos. Their massive forms crashed down with stunning speed and force, smashing two huts to splinters with thunderous explosions. Boom! Boom! The noise jolted the slumbering lizardmen awake. Those unlucky enough to reside in the demolished huts never even understood what was happening before they were cut down by radiant swords ablaze with holy fire. The Archangels didn't pause. They swooped into adjacent huts, continuing their righteous, flaming massacre. A textbook blitz. And it was working even better than expected. Within minutes, the damage was done. Several key huts were annihilated, and the tribe was thrown into panic. Shouts, wails, and confusion rang through the night. "Pathetic," Lyle muttered as he watched the chaos unfold. "Seems those who fled from the Small Fang Tribe didn't seek refuge here after all. They must have gone to the stronger Green Claw Tribe." He wasn't disappointed. If anything, this was cleaner. Less baggage. Of all the lizardmen, only the elder-priests presented any real challenge. The warriors, while competent, were simply not on the same level as his conjured Flame Archangels, especially with their level and innate defenses. Take that so-called strongest warrior of the tribes, for example. Zaryusu Shasha, bearer of the blade Frost Pain, was a mere level 20. Most of the rank-and-file lizardman warriors didn't even hit level 13. At best, they were about as dangerous as a bunch of ogres with spears. Cries rose from below. "Intruders!" "What are those creatures?!" "Run!" "Kill them!" Lizardmen poured from their huts, disorganized and terrified. And as they'd hoped, the presence of the Flame Archangels drew most of the warriors away from the village center. In the shadows, Sukyu Juju and the barghest slipped through the perimeter, undetected. Their goal? Capture one elder-priest alive. The other could be eliminated as needed. Back in the fray, one burly lizardman with a giant cleaver roared and charged a Flame Archangel. Clang! The archangel blocked with ease, its fiery sword flashing. The impact sent the lizardman sprawling. He rolled to the ground, winded and dazed, while the angel raised its blade to finish him. Then- Whap! A heavy net launched from the crowd wrapped around the angel. Multiple ropes yanked tight, dragging it down from the air. "Pull harder!" came the cries. The angel slashed the net apart with a burst of fire, killing the nearest warrior in the process. But it was quickly swarmed and overwhelmed by a hail of blades and spears. After a brief, brutal struggle, it dissipated in a burst of light. The lizardmen roared in triumph... until a new streak of light descended from the sky. Another Flame Archangel appeared. Their celebration died in their throats. Lyle, still observing from above, glanced at his pocket watch. "Ten minutes from start to finish... No, the real combat was over in five." He sighed. A Flame Archangel was formidable one-on-one. But against overwhelming numbers, they were still limited. Ultimately, each one was just a flying level 21 warrior with a celestial paint job. The lizardmen below? Think of them like a squad of elite human soldiers. Actually, no. According to Lyle's memory, even the Warrior Group formed by Gazef Stronoff only averaged around level 7. These lizardmen, on the other hand, clocked in above level 10 on average. Add racial traits like thick scales, and they were practically armored tanks by comparison. "Yeah, beastfolk really do have unfair advantages," Lyle murmured as he did a few quick mental calculations. "Only about ten lizardmen can fight a single Flame Archangel at any one time. If one lizardman equals two human elite soldiers, then it'd take around twenty trained humans to bring one archangel down... with casualties." As he finished the thought- Boom! Another Flame Archangel fell. Lyle crushed another scroll in his hand, and a fresh one replaced it instantly in the sky. From his perspective, this fight was actually a valuable test. Unlike the Small Fang Tribe, this one was putting up a solid, coordinated resistance. There were no shortcuts like disabling their leaders early. In the Small Fang case, the tribe collapsed because the chieftain was killed and the priest fell under control. Most of the warriors lost morale instantly. The old priest back then had even anticipated defeat. He secretly arranged for a third of the tribe to evacuate, mostly non-combatants. Lyle hadn't chased them. They weren't worth it. Just future fodder for the grave. The Dragon Tusk fight dragged into a slog. Despite their fierce spirit, a creeping dread was seeping into the defenders. Flame Archangels didn't tire. They didn't hesitate. They didn't care about death. The lizardmen did. Every time they succeeded in killing one, another would descend from the heavens like divine punishment. The repeated cycle was eating away at their courage. "Don't give up!" a lizardman warrior suddenly shouted. "Our ancestors watch over us! Fight!" Cheers erupted. Briefly. Then another archangel came. A lizardman wheezed after his kill, barely standing, only to stare in horror as another divine soldier arrived with gleaming blade and wings spread. The glimmer of hope turned to terror. Lizardman eyes widened. Their hands shook. They weren't afraid of a tough enemy. But something they couldn't understand, couldn't kill, and couldn't stop? That was nightmare fuel. Then the real death knell came. "The chieftain is dead!" "The priest... the priest is dead too!" The cries echoed from the village center. Panic exploded. The front line, already strained, crumbled as the lizardmen began to retreat. One broke ranks, then another. The retreat turned into a stampede. Up above, Lyle exhaled through his nose and rubbed his temples. "It's over." He tucked the last scroll away. No need to waste another. The resistance was broken. Eight Flame Archangels had been used. The entire battle lasted an hour. Early on, the lizardmen coordinated beautifully and took down the archangels with grit and teamwork. But sustained losses, fatigue, and the angelic reinforcements had worn them down. The tipping point came when the leaders fell. By morning, it was all over. Deep within the Dragon Tusk Tribe, a lone surviving elder-priest guided Lyle to a rather nondescript vat. It was over a meter tall, about 80 centimeters across, and filled with a cloudy liquid that smelled vaguely of fermented fruit. Lyle's brow rose as he examined the object. So this was it. One of the legendary Four Sacred Relics of the lizardmen. The Great Wine Pot. To be honest, it looked... underwhelming. Like oversized pottery. Ceramic, maybe? Definitely not magical at first glance. "Item Appraisal." Lyle cast the spell and watched as the truth appeared before his eyes. [Item: Magical Tool - The Great Wine Pot] Grade: Superior (Level 31–40) Restriction: None Effect: Produces an endless supply of alcohol. Description: A mysterious vessel that continuously generates what some races consider fine liquor. "Huh. A high-tier magic item, really?" Lyle squinted at the pot. No offensive powers. No healing. Just eternal booze. And yet it was ranked this high? Curious, he dipped a cup into the pot and took a sniff. Fruity aroma. He took a sip. Bitter. A bit sharp. Low alcohol content. Honestly? "Not great," he muttered. Beside him, the hound perked up, sniffing at the cup. "You want a taste?" He held it out, and the hound lapped at it enthusiastically, its bone-like chains clinking softly as its tail wagged. "Well, you've got weird taste," Lyle smirked. He placed a hand on the pot and absorbed it into his inventory. The item wasn't going to win any wars, but in a desert? A never-ending supply of drinkable liquid could save lives. He turned toward the surviving priest. "Alright. Time to talk. Start explaining everything your tribe knows about magic." He hadn't spared this one out of mercy. Knowledge was power. As the priest spoke, Lyle's expression shifted. He hadn't expected this much magical lore. Apparently, after a tribal war years ago, Dragon Tusk absorbed not just refugees but entire libraries of knowledge. They hadn't participated in the fighting, but they'd taken in the survivors of two defeated tribes. It showed. "Looks like I'll be staying here a while," Lyle said, a small grin tugging at his lips. His gaze flicked to his status. [Experience: 225,775 / 70000] At his current growth curve, leveling up required about 10,000 more XP per level. To max out his Magic Swordsman class at Level 5, he needed roughly 340,000 total. He was already at 225,000. Just over 100,000 left. Elsewhere, on the twelfth of the Month of Upper Earth... In the heart of the Green Claw Tribe, a solemn meeting took place. Inside a large wooden hall, all five elder-priests sat gathered, expressions grim. With them were the hunt captain, Zaryusu Shasha, wielder of Frost Pain and his elder brother, the current chieftain, Shasuryu Shasha. The room was heavy with tension. Even now, they struggled to believe it. The Small and Dragon Tusk Tribes... destroyed? Sure, Small Fang had been weak. Still recovering from their last war. But Dragon Tusk? They had over 120 trained warriors. Nearly equal to Green Claw's own. "This can't be real," someone muttered. "Have the survivors been settled?" asked the eldest priest at last.