The Strongest War God

Chapter 1340: Braydon Pretends to be the Little Fool

Editor: EndlessFantasy Translation

Channing Lestrange, the deputy commander of the Northern Army, had fallen in battle, his remains still unburied within the city walls.

Before his demise, he left behind a valiant message, expressing his unwavering dedication to his homeland.

Channing’s dying wish was to be interred in Hansworth, not in a foreign land—a testament to the deep-rooted tradition of honoring one’s origins among the Hansworth people.

Each of them harbored ties to their homeland, yearning to rest in the embrace of their native soil upon their passing.

In the somber atmosphere outside the living room, a solemn voice announced the arrival of Maddox Johnstone from the Northern Army.

Luther Carden promptly welcomed him inside, recognizing Maddox’s elevated status as a lieutenant commander within the army following his tutelage under Braydon Neal in saber techniques.

Once an amputee, Maddox now stood before them with both arms intact, thanks to the miraculous regeneration induced by a special spirit herb.

Holding a void pouch, Maddox said in a low voice, “The commander came to the city ten minutes ago and asked me to bring these things. He also told me that the news of him coming here must not be leaked.”

Everyone present was a core member of the Northern Army.

Naturally, the news would not leak out.

Jonah Shaw’s eyes lit up at the mention of the commander’s presence.

“Big brother is here?” he asked.

“He won’t show himself. If he does, it will only bring peril upon us,” Luther responded.

For months, Braydon remained within the 16th ruin, refraining from visiting Zunde Royal City.

The reason was widely known—Braydon was engaged in a fierce standoff with 35 divines at the bronze door.

Were he to venture into Zunde Royal City, it would undoubtedly attract the attention of these divine-level figures.

Such a scenario would likely result in Braydon’s swift departure, but at the cost of the lives of the Northern Army men within the city, who would fall victim to the wrath of these formidable opponents.

Thus, Braydon’s absence was a strategic necessity.

Upon receiving the void pouch, Westley Hader remarked, “Something big brother risked his life to send over must be very important. He can’t come, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about this place. The things inside might be able to help us!”

With a sense of anticipation, Westley opened the pouch, revealing its contents to be a thousand tons of potent spirit liquid of plants and vegetation.

This invaluable resource held immense potential to aid pinnacle martial artists in their recovery.

As the Northern Army soldiers beheld the abundance of plant essences, a wave of joy washed over them.

Luther wasted no time in distributing the precious elixirs among Frediano Jadanza, Jonah, and numerous others.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Frediano eagerly consumed a bottle of the green essence, feeling the rejuvenating life force coursing through his veins, revitalizing his weary body with each potent drop.

All of Frediano’s injuries vanished, restoring him to the peak of health.

His newfound vitality prompted him to release a triumphant howl to the heavens, his expression glowing with elation.

Following his lead, Yuri Qualls and the others eagerly consumed the plant essences to mend their own wounds.

“Ensure that this spirit liquid reaches all the injured,” Luther instructed calmly.

“Understood, sir!”

Without delay, personnel entered the room and began transporting large quantities of plant spirit liquid.

Although there was only a total of 1,000 tons of plant spirit liquid, 170,000 pounds of plant essence remained—a valuable resource offering hope to many.

Despite the struggle to maintain a sufficient supply of medicine for the Northern Army in recent months, not a single soldier complained.

Each had willingly enlisted under the command of Braydon, prepared to sacrifice their lives for the glory of the Northern Army.

This unwavering dedication was evident in their willingness to face death on the battlefield without hesitation.

Throughout Zunde Royal City, the streets teemed with resilient soldiers, their fair skin tone a testament to their shared heritage as children of Hansworth.

A young man cloaked in black and wearing a mask strolled through the bustling street, his lips moving faintly.

“Channing and Khalil fell in battle. Their deaths will be avenged,” he murmured, his words seemingly casual but tinged with an unmistakable air of deadly intent that couldn’t be concealed.

This mysterious figure was none other than Braydon; he couldn’t afford to reveal himself or disclose his whereabouts.

Despite this, his thoughts lingered on his comrades in the Northern Army, for whom he felt a profound sense of obligation.

In the past months, Braydon’s absence from the battlefield against the aborigines had left him feeling indebted to his fellow soldiers.

Yet, they knew him as the unparalleled talent who had single-handedly subdued 35 divines—a feat that had earned him renown throughout Hansworth and beyond.

As he traversed the street, a petite seven-year-old girl dashed toward him, her features delicate and earnest.

Colliding with Braydon, she asked innocently, “Why are you wearing a mask, big brother?”

“I look quite dashing in it!” he replied with a gentle smile, ruffling her hair affectionately.

These encounters with the children of Hansworth reminded Braydon of the weighty responsibility he bore as the new leader of Hansworth—a duty to protect his people.

With a firm resolve to safeguard his homeland, Braydon vanished into the bustling crowd, leaving behind only the echo of his presence.

He materialized at the eastern gate of the palace, amidst the harrowing scene of battle.

Corpses of savage beasts lay strewn across the ground like mountains, while insects buzzed in the air, and the stench of blood hung heavy in the sky.

Amidst the carnage lay shattered black-gold daggers and broken armor, marking the radius of several hundred miles as a battleground.

In this blood-soaked arena, the specter of war loomed, with the ever-present threat of violence.

Beyond the city walls, hordes of ferocious beasts rested, obedient to the commands of three colossal spirit beasts.

Among them, a silver-scaled dragon, with wings sprouting from its back, reclined like a colossal lizard—a terrifying sight to behold.

The silver-scaled dragon was quasi-divine.

Today, however, this silver-scaled dragon faced its demise at the hands of Braydon.

Braydon couldn’t reveal his true appearance, but he could disguise himself.

The sons of the Northern Army grew up together and were more familiar with each other than anyone else.

Braydon donned a mask, making it easy for him to imitate someone.

Who was Braydon trying to imitate?

It was none other than the little fool, whose aura was emanating from Braydon’s body.

Standing at the eastern gate, a masked youth exuded an aura of untamed dominance.

His jet-black hair cascaded over broad shoulders, while streaks of white adorned his temples like willow catkins, lending him an air of nonchalant recklessness.

This was the “little fool,” whose outward appearance belied a hidden handsomeness, paired with a wild and imposing demeanor, albeit tinged with a hint of foolishness.