The Iron Saints rode behind them, an elite force of steel, their warhorses pounding the earth as they thundered towards the shattered infantry lines. The foot soldiers, already wavering, broke apart further under the relentless assault of abyssal swarms. Towering titans wrestled amidst the chaos, every strike shaking the battlefield and crushing scores beneath their massive blows.

The skies above were a storm of death, arrows in black sheets, boulders hurled from twisted engines, and the hiss of gigantic bolts cutting the air, all raining destruction over Asher and his men as they pressed closer to the frontline.

His jaw tightened. Even though Saelix's corruption was held at bay by the Mythril crystal dust forged into their armour and the incorruptible nature of their spirit allies, the truth was plain: her legions dwarfed theirs many times over.

Still the heavy infantry stood their ground, despite some part of the line breaking. Stalwart warriors of the spirit realm, giants of muscle and resolve, locked their shields and pushed forward against the endless tide.

Alec and others like him braced the wall, their shields slick with gore, their boots dragging trenches in the ash as they were forced to yield ground. Tens of thousands of their comrades had already fallen in the span of moments, while over a million abyssal soldiers lay broken in heaps across the charred plain. Yet the dark horizon remained alive, packed with an ocean of shrieking, howling monsters.

The gray smoke veiled their numbers, but every roar from beyond made it clear: they had barely scraped the surface.

"Kill! Kill until the last one falls!" Asher bellowed, his voice tearing through the din as they crashed into the frontline. The roar of men was no longer a distant echo, it was all around them, deafening, mingled with the clash of steel biting into steel, the wet rending of flesh, the crunch of bones breaking, and the relentless shuffle of ironclad boots grinding against a river of blood that ran hot across the magma-hardened ground.

Asher leaped from Sirius' back, his body arcing across nearly a kilometer of battlefield before he came crashing down amidst a tide of snarling orcs. The ground split under his impact, the unfortunate creature beneath him reduced to pulp as a shockwave of frost erupted outward. Ice burst in circular waves from his landing point, each wave rising with jagged spikes longer and sharper than the last, tearing upward like the spears of an angry god.

In moments, the black tide around him froze in place, orcish throats locked mid-roar, goblin claws stiff in the air, ogres halted mid-swing. Corpses were impaled on crystalline pillars, their twisted bodies locked in death. When the wave finally stilled, Asher stood alone, framed in a wasteland of glittering frost and shattered enemies.

More than two thousand had perished in that single clash, yet Asher's expression remained hard. It was not enough. He could do better.

The kilometer-wide field of ice groaned, then detonated outward. Shards burst skyward, slicing the air with a shriek like a million blades drawn at once. The force of the eruption cracked the battlefield itself, sending geysers of ash and magma into the air. Asher shot upward through the frozen storm, his form vanishing into the gray sky.

The deadly rain of shards would have slaughtered friend and foe alike, but in the next instant, they stopped. Every jagged spike, every shard of glittering death, froze mid-flight as though suspended by invisible strings. Then, with a single command of his will, Asher unleashed them. They streaked forward at hypersonic speed, like a storm of daggers let loose. Throats were slit, skulls shattered, abdomens ripped apart, the abyss horde was shredded, their screams drowned beneath the howling blizzard of steel-hard ice.

The earth thundered as Asher plummeted back to the battlefield, his landing splitting the magma-hardened ground. Earthen spikes exploded outward, two meters long, stabbing upward in a forest of stone. Hundreds more abyssal soldiers were skewered where they stood.

But the sound of the spikes splintering reached his ears, massive cracks splitting through the stone. He turned just in time to see Sirius, his monstrous mount, tearing through the barrier like a living battering ram, blazing forward at impossible speed.

Asher caught the reins in mid-motion, flipped himself effortlessly onto Sirius' back, his cloak whipping upward in the storm of dust and blood. In one fluid motion he unleashed Ithamar.

The great sword roared as he swung, and from its edge burst a crescent beam of blinding crimson-silver light. It carved through the battlefield, cleaving dozens of charging orcs as though they were paper. Flesh, steel, and stone alike were split clean in its wake.

At the edge of the lines, Apollyon's helm tilted toward him, shock breaking his grim composure. The Warfather's heir, who was supposed to remain behind, was already surging past him, leaving ruin in his wake.

And then, another. A man and his wolf tearing through the abyssal horde with unstoppable ferocity. Zenas. His thrusts carried such force that entire ranks of abyss soldiers fell at once, each strike as devastating as a siege engine.

He was catching Asher with terrifying speed, every movement clean and deadly. Apollyon watched in awe and unease, it was the thrust that had once leveled city walls.

Seeing it unleashed here made him recall why Zenas had been feared in the mortal realm… and it was clear he had only grown more terrible. Nothing survived the arc of his blade. Nothing.

Ariel descended like a cyclone, her strikes whipping with a ferocity that split the air itself. Torah was fire unchained, his flames erupting outward and consuming orcs in writhing waves of molten death.

Atticus came with a surging tide, water honed to the sharpness of a thousand blades. His waves split hide and bone alike, carving through the thickest flesh as easily as cloth.

And then there was Zorah, the monster among them. A titan, forty-three feet tall, collapsed in ruin, revealing the young Ashbourne standing on its shattered skull. He leapt lightly from the corpse, soaring through the battlefield with his skin black as obsidian, a golden mask veiling half his face.

His claws, long, gleaming, and cruel, extended from both hands and feet. This was his talent, his birthright.

What the Ashbournes called the Devil.

Elements writhed around him like chained beasts. Lightning sparked from his claws, fire coiled around his frame, jagged ice shimmered from his shoulders, and the earth itself cracked beneath his stride. Each force bent to him, as though bound to obey his will.

Close behind him came his beast. El, his wolf, had grown to the size of a giant, its once-pure white fur soaked crimson with abyssal blood. The massive creature barreled through the swarm, tearing soldiers apart like brittle twigs, painting the ground in gore with every bound.

The morale of the Alliance army surged, a tide of hope crashing against despair, as their leaders carved bloody paths through the abyssal horde. Every strike of steel, every blaze of sorcery, drove their soldiers forward with renewed fury.

But then, just then, a sound unlike any other shattered the battlefield.

A colossal crash thundered across the plains, louder than boulders colliding, greater than any titan's fall. The very ground quaked, sending men stumbling, shields rattling, and banners snapping in the sulfurous wind. Dust and ash spiraled outward in a choking wave, veiling the sky in gray.

From that maelstrom of ruin, something flew, an object hurled high into the blackened air before tumbling down in a grotesque arc. Gasps spread like wildfire through the ranks as it landed with a sickening thud amidst the carnage.

It was a head.

The head of Athanatos – the immortal champion, the indomitable warlord, one of the first to hold a talent . One of the greatest men ever to walk the mortal plane, slain and cast aside like a butchered beast.

Silence rippled through the Alliance lines, as if the battlefield itself had drawn breath. For a heartbeat, even the clash of steel and the shrieks of the abyss abominations seemed muted, drowned by the weight of what had been revealed.

Then, as if mocking their despair, the abyssal tide roared louder than ever.

A three-headed dragon burst forth from the dust, its wings blotting the fractured light of the battlefield. Each head clamped down upon a different part of Athanatos's body, gnawing hungrily, while upon its scaled back sat its master, Malrath.

With a careless motion, he released what remained of the corpse, and in the same breath, the three heads lunged, rending flesh and bone until blood rained across the earth like a storm.

The abyss roared in triumph, their frenzy swelling to deafening heights, while a horrified silence rippled through the ranks of the races.

Spirit and mortal alike.

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