And so the three day countdiwn had begun.

Six domains expanded, eclipsing the entire battlefield, it was a scene that most mortals would never see in their lifetime

Under this sudden change battlefield had ceased to look like a desert. It was a canvas of apocalypse, painted in colors that shouldn't exist.

High above, the sky was a swirling vortex of black shadow and void purple, where Zero and the Second Prince clashed with enough force to shatter the sound barrier every few seconds.

But on the ground, the war was arguably more terrifying.

The soldiers Dwarven Ironclads and Elven Rangers had pulled back, forming a wide perimeter.

They couldn't interfere. To step into the clash of Domains was to die instantly.

In the center of the cratered earth, two kings fought for the survival of their people.

And they were losing.

"Is this it?" a wet, gurgling voice mocked.

"Is this the legendary power of the 'King of Weapons'?"

With undisguised mockery, the void priest who clashed with Durin laughed

He couldn't wait to kill the dwarf in front of him and go help his prince

However, Durin, hearing this just roared, swinging his warhammer with enough force to level a mountain.

"Shut up and burn!"

The ground beneath him exploded. From his [Domain: Forge of the Craftsman God], a geyser of molten gold and iron erupted, taking the shape of a massive, searing dragon. It lunged at the floating figure before him.

The High Priest of Rot, seeing this, just smiled as he sat cross-legged on a cloud of buzzing, necrotic flies.

He wore robes made of flayed skin, and his face was a mask of festering sores.

In response to this attack, he also summoned the power of his own domain with a single, withered finger.

"[Domain: Ocean of Rot]."

The air rippled with a sickening green hue.

The molten dragon slammed into the Priest's barrier. But instead of incinerating him, the lava hissed.

The bright orange glow turned a sickly grey. The heat vanished instantly.

In a split second, the construct of divine fire rusted, crumbled, and dissolved into grey sludge.

Durin's eyes widened. "What?"

"You still don't understand, Dwarf," the Priest sighed, descending slowly.

"You are stuck in the 7th Order, no matter what king you maybe."

"in front of me you are still an ant"

The Priest pointed at Durin's chest.

"At the 8th Order... we do not wield power. We become it!"

A tendril of green slime lashed out faster than an arrow.

Durin raised his shield, a masterpiece of Dwarven engineering forged from pure Mithril and Enchanted Adamantite.

SZZZT.

The slime hit the shield liquefiying it on the spot. The rot ate through the enchantments, through the steel, and splashed onto Durin's shoulder.

"ARGH!"

Durin dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder. Smoke rose from his flesh.

His armor, which had withstood dragon fire in the past, was melting like wax on a hot stove.

"My rot is absolute," the Priest whispered, drifting closer.

"It eats metal. It eats mana. It eats hope. You are nothing but scrap metal waiting to be recycled."

Durin tried to summon a fresh hammer from the ground, but the magma pool turned grey and solidified into ash before it could take shape.

He was powerless.

Fifty meters away, the battle there was equally depressing, silent, and deadly.

Queen Aelinor stood in the center of her [Domain: World Tree's Embrace].

A forest of white, spectral treants surrounded her, their leaves glowing with purifying life mana meant to burn away the Void.

But her opponent wasn't burning.

The High Priest of Whispers was a silhouette. He had no physical form, just a cloak of shifting shadows and a mask with no mouth.

[Domain Expansion: Whispering Void].

"You failed him, Aelinor," a voice whispered directly into her right ear.

Aelinor hearing this spun around, her Staff of Life flaring. She fired a beam of life mana.

ZWOOM.

It passed harmlessly through the shadow.

"You were captured back then because you were too weak" the voice whispered in her left ear.

"You call yourself a Queen? You let the Empire slaughter your friends and family."

"Silence!" Aelinor shouted, her composure cracking. Vines lashed out, tearing at the air, but catching nothing.

The shadows grew thicker, pressing against the white light of her domain. The leaves of her World Tree began to turn black and wither.

The whispering domain constantly erroding her psyche

"And look at you now," the Priest's voice echoed from everywhere at once.

"Sixteen years. For sixteen years, you have sat on your throne, stagnant. You haven't advanced a single step."

Aelinor froze. Her breath hitched.

It was true. While Durin had aged and the world had moved on, she had hit a wall.

A "Block" in her soul that no amount of meditation could break.

"You sacrificed half your lifespan to cast that forbidden spell," the Priest hissed. "And for what? To save a kingdom that forgot you? To raise a daughter who will die on this battlefield today?"

"Elena..." Aelinor whispered, her eyes widening.

"The Era of the Five Kings is dead," the shadow manifested directly in front of her, looming like a giant.

"You are just relics. Ghosts haunting a world that belongs to the Void."

CRACK.

Aelinor's staff flickered. The white forest dissolved into mist.

She fell to her knees, clutching her head, drowning in a cage of silence and regret.

"Durin!" Aelinor gasped, looking across the battlefield.

She saw the Dwarf King on his knees. His legendary warhammer lay in a puddle of grey sludge, the handle dissolved.

The Priest of Rot hovered over him, a scythe of green acid forming in his hand.

"Aelinor..." Durin wheezed, blood dripping from his chin.

He looked at her. They both saw the same realization in each other's eyes.

They were the Old Guard. They were legends.

But legends were stories from the past. And right now, the future was crushing them.

"Goodbye, relics," the Priests spoke in unison.

The Scythe of Rot raised. The Cage of Whispers tightened.

It was the end.

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