The second layer of the Abyss, Vigil's Point.

"Gray," Makareth muttered, his voice a low growl against the unnatural silence. "Nothing but gray."

He, Orion, and Delilah stood on the battlements, their eyes fixed on the colorless void that had swallowed the horizon. With the Unhallowed refusing to show themselves, the thought of rest—or doing anything else, for that matter—was impossible.

"Get your people on high alert," Orion said, his gaze never wavering from the oppressive emptiness. "Leonidas made contact. It's only a matter of time before they hit our territory."

When the Graying had descended, Makareth had consolidated all his forces, his people, and his resources at Vigil's Point. With Orion's mirrored avatar present, it was the only true safe zone in this sector of the Abyss.

"They're ready," Makareth replied. "I don't need to check on them. The old guard, the ones who've seen this before… they won't so much as blink."

Orion glanced at him. Behind that casual remark was a truth they all understood: a deep, visceral horror.

"We keep watch," Orion stated, his voice a final command. "This is our first time against this thing. We need to see it through from start to finish. That's the only way we learn."

He closed his eyes, his senses once again extending to every corner of Vigil's Point, searching for the slightest tear in the fabric of the gray.

***

The sixth layer of the Abyss, Foundry Citadel.

A wind began to stir.

It carried a subtle chill, and with it, a silent snowfall of colorless motes. They drifted down into the Foundry Citadel, delicate and weightless.

Orion looked up, surprise and confusion flickering in his eyes. The motes carried no life signature, no aura of danger. At least, none that he could perceive. They danced from the sky like spectral sprites, a soft, soundless flurry that soon coated the ground in a thin, downy layer. When people walked on it, it made a soft, crunching sound.

Even Orion found himself compelled to act, guiding his Deathly Soul-Reaper to reach out and catch one of the ethereal flakes. As a warrior at the peak of the archlord rank, his personal aura repelled such things by default. Rain, snow, dust—nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.

The moment the mote settled into his palm, a strange, intoxicating sensation washed over him.

In the next instant, his expression twisted into one of pure horror.

"ALL FORCES, DEFENSIVE STATIONS!"

As his roar echoed across the citadel, Orion shot to his feet, the immense pressure of his power erupting outwards. In that same second, the layer of motes covering the entire fortress was violently ripped from the ground, drawn upwards as if by an unseen force. A defensive ward, its lines long ago carved into the citadel's four great walls, blazed to life, throwing up a shimmering dome of energy centered on Orion himself.

The barrier repelled the swirling cloud of motes, casting them out.

But it was a second too late.

Across the Foundry Citadel, thousands of the abyssal creatures who called this place home simply… stopped. In the brief moments they had been exposed, their lives had been silently extinguished. The intoxicating feeling the motes brought was not a gentle rapture, but a final, absolute anesthetic. In that quiet numbness, they had simply died.

"My lord!"

"Master!"

Standard-bearer Vex and the Wraith Knight Ashreign, both archlords in their own right, materialized at his side. But their senses, when compared to Orion's, were worlds apart.

"Prepare for battle," Orion commanded, his gaze locked on the sky, his expression grim. "The Unhallowed are here."

"What? They've arrived?" Vex stammered, still trying to process the sudden alarm. "Could it be…"

It was Ashreign who understood first. As a warrior who had clawed his own way to the rank of archlord, his experience far surpassed Vex's. Vex, for all his power, still possessed the battlefield awareness of a Legendary-level fighter. He was completely lost.

"Those motes," Ashreign breathed, his voice tight with dread. "They're a manifestation of a hostile power."

Orion nodded, his focus absolute. "A rule of engagement. I felt it the moment I touched it."

"My lord, we have a situation!"

At that moment, Eparus of the Scourge Wardens emerged from the heart of the citadel's volcano. The defensive ward had two power cores: one was Orion himself, the other was the volcano. Orion's manual activation had triggered every alarm. More importantly, as the barrier went up, Eparus's own senses had registered the thousands of new corpses littering the fortress.

They had been killed by what looked like nothing more than dust. It was a method of slaughter so insidious, so terrifying, that even a Scourge Warden had never witnessed its like.

"Report," Orion said, his voice carrying to Eparus even as he continued to study the storm of motes raging outside the shield.

"My lord, that initial wave of… flakes… has killed one hundred and thirty thousand of the civilian populace we shelter here," Eparus reported, his voice devoid of emotion. "The first armies also sustained minor casualties. Commander Bidalun is running a full diagnostic and will report with exact numbers shortly."

The losses were acceptable. Manageable. If the Foundry Citadel could weather this storm, it would cement its right to stand in the sixth layer. Survivors from other regions would flock to them, seeking the protection of the Conquest Legion. The next time the Graying descended, the Foundry Citadel would be known as a sanctuary. It would be their greatest recruitment tool.

But Orion wasn't thinking about that now. He was focused on the shimmering dome above them.

"Eparus, how long can the ward hold?"

"Three months at maximum power, my lord," Eparus answered, the gravity of the situation clear in his tone. If the storm didn't break in three months, the Foundry Citadel would be buried.

"Are there ways to extend its duration?" Orion finally tore his gaze from the sky, fixing Eparus with an intense, unyielding stare.

"Yes. Three methods," Eparus stated without hesitation. The ward was a creation of the Scourge Wardens; no one knew its workings better. "First, we can feed more Abyssal Crystals directly into the formation. A constant energy supply will prolong its life. Second, we can station Alpha-level warriors and above at the volcano core. They can channel their own refined Abyssal energy into the system, reducing the drain on the crystals. Third," he paused, "we can sacrifice a portion of the populace to the formation itself."

"Relay this to Commander Bidalun of the first armies," Orion commanded, his voice cold and steady. In a crisis, a leader's calm was his greatest weapon. "He is to coordinate with you. Implement the first two methods immediately. The third is a contingency plan. Have it ready to go at a moment's notice."

"As you command, my lord." Eparus bowed and vanished to carry out his orders.

Orion returned his attention to the sky. The Unhallowed had arrived, and it had opened with an AoE attack on a scale he had never imagined. The most frustrating part? He still had no idea where it was, or what it even was. He had no target to fight, no enemy to face. The battle lust he had been honing for days felt like a punch thrown at smoke.

Leonidas said his was a giant shadow, he thought, his mind racing, cycling through possibilities. What form has mine taken? Or is this it? Are the motes themselves the Unhallowed?

He had no experience with the Graying, and neither did anyone else in the Champions Alliance. His only points of reference were Leonidas's last message and the silent watch at Vigil's Point.

Based on what little we know, the Unhallowed can manifest in countless forms. Mine is clearly not a shadow. When facing an unknown, with no target in sight, the only viable strategy is to hold the line. We rely on the shield, and we endure.

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