(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit, Commander Anderson Silva’s POV)
Anderson Silva glanced down at the chronometer embedded into his vambrace, the faint glow of its runes cutting through smoke and drifting ash, and the moment the numbers registered properly in his mind, a tightness formed in his chest that had nothing to do with fatigue.
They were four minutes behind schedule.
The realization settled heavily as he continued moving, spear flashing as he cut down another Righteous soldier without breaking stride, his mind already projecting forward, calculating consequences even as his body fought on instinct.
’We have already fallen behind schedule, and things are only going to get tougher from here on out.
If we don’t make up for lost time soon, then the whole plan may fall apart....’
Anderson thought, as he knew better than anyone else, just how time sensitive and precise Leo’s plan was.
Every movement of the Cult Army had been calculated against resistance curves, casualty tolerance, stamina decay, and reaction windows within the Chakravyuh, and falling behind now meant that later, when the pressure truly mounted, there would be nothing left to compensate with.
’We’re pushing as hard as we can,’ Anderson thought as his grip tightened around his spear, muscles burning beneath his armor.
’But without the Lord at the front, this pace is never going to hold.’
He realized, as without Leo spearheading the advance as planned, the Cult army simply did not have the firepower it needed to clear enemy lines fast enough.
Although himself, Dumpy and the other Commanders were trying their hardest to stay on track, as time went on, they only fell behind schedule, unable to keep up with Leo’s high demands.
*Sigh*
Anderson exhaled sharply before stepping into open ground, aura flaring as he planted his foot and twisted his torso, mana surging violently through the length of his weapon, as the spear screamed in response—
"[Heaven-Cleaving Arc]."
*SWOOSH*
The technique tore outward in a brutal sweep, compressed force screaming through air and stone alike as a vast crescent of destruction ripped across nearly three kilometers of enemy formations, disciplined lines buckling and breaking as bodies were hurled aside under the sudden violence.
"Advance!" Anderson roared, his voice cutting cleanly through the battlefield as Cult soldiers surged forward in unison, pouring into the opening with practiced efficiency and reclaiming ground that had felt impossibly distant only moments earlier.
For a brief window, momentum returned.
The army pushed forward in earnest, meters stacking into hundreds as the breach widened, and Anderson drove the advance personally, his spear never slowing as he struck again and again, forcing the opening to hold through sheer pressure and presence.
He already knew it would not last.
It never did.
Within minutes, resistance surged back from multiple angles as Grandmaster units redeployed with brutal efficiency, flanking forces collapsing inward and sealing gaps with fresh formations that locked into place like interlocking blades.
The corridor tightened.
The advance lost its urgency.
The grind returned.
By the time the momentum finally bled away completely, the army had gained less than a kilometer.
Anderson tore his spear free from a fallen enemy and turned back toward the line, surveying the battlefield once more as the weight of the delay settled heavily on his shoulders, pressing down with the quiet certainty that time, once lost, would demand its price.
’This is only the second ring,’ he thought grimly. ’And it already feels like this.’
His mind projected ahead.
A third ring held by Transcendents.
A fourth guarded by Monarchs.
The difficulty would rise sharply with every layer, as concern crept into the edges of his resolve.
’Lord... where are you?’
The question lingered as he raised his spear again and stepped back into the fray, continuing to play his part because stopping meant collapse, because retreat meant annihilation, and because until Leo returned, the Cult Army had only its Commanders to rely on.
’This is my moment to prove my worth.... I cannot back down now–’
He thought, as he understood very well that until the Lord returned, he had to go above and beyond to fill the void that his absence created at the front.
—-----------
(Meanwhile Su Pei)
As a Su Clan descendent, Su Pei never thought that the most important battle he would ever fight in his life would be for the Cult.
Yet such was his fate as he found himself standing on The Pit today, fighting under the Cult banner, not merely because he was bound to Leo Skyshard through a slave contract, but because years spent beside these soldiers had reshaped his sense of belonging.
He had trained them, bled with them, watched them grow from scattered survivors into a disciplined force, and somewhere along that path, the line separating obligation from conviction had quietly vanished.
He believed these people were his.
He believed he was a part of the Cult of Ascension.
And hence his fighting also reflected that belief.
Unlike Anderson Silva, who carved paths at the vanguard, Su Pei stood where battles were decided without glory, commanding the shield legions that guarded the army’s flanks and rear.
His responsibility was containment, continuity, and survival, ensuring that no enemy force slipped around the edges to collapse the advance from behind.
In war, encirclement meant extinction, and hence, he protected the Cult Army from being choked out.
"First unit, cover the left!"
"Third unit, rotate the second unit out!"
The defensive lines shifted constantly under his direction, rotating shield walls, tightening spacing, redistributing exhausted units before fractures could form.
’If the flank breaks, the vanguard dies,’ Su Pei thought, the calculation cold and immediate.
’If the vanguard dies, the war ends here.’
Orders left his mouth in clipped bursts, carried by authority rather than volume, each command shaving disaster back by inches.
"Tighten formation."
"Rear line, rotate."
"Hold position."
The shield warriors responded without hesitation, interlocking barriers moving as a single body, absorbing shock after shock as Grandmaster units pressed in from multiple angles, testing endurance rather than strength, seeking fatigue instead of weakness.
Su Pei felt the pressure building with every passing minute.
As while, Anderson fought time with momentum, Su Pei fought time with restraint.
Every second he held the line allowed the vanguard to advance further into the Chakravyuh, yet every delay compounded strain elsewhere, as he too realized that they were behind schedule.
’We’re behind,’ he acknowledged grimly.
’And I don’t have the luxury of clearing distance.’
His arms burned beneath his armor as he reinforced his strength again, channeling more mana into the shield walls despite the warning ache spreading through his muscles.
*Slash*
*Push*
Enemy blades slammed against the wall in a steady rhythm, the impact rattling through his bones as he stepped forward to anchor a wavering segment personally, shield locking with those beside him as he absorbed the brunt of the assault.
He did not think about personal survival.
He thought about cohesion.
He thought about the men who trusted him to keep them alive long enough for victory to matter.
’This is what the Lord entrusted me with,’ Su Pei thought as another wave crashed against his line.
’Holding.’
There was no spectacle in it.
No decisive strike.
Only discipline applied again and again, minute after minute, as he maintained the fragile shape of the Cult Army through sheer control and refusal to yield.
If the army endured, it would be because the line never folded.
And Su Pei had no intention of letting it fold.
Not today.
Not while his people still stood behind him.