Two days pass in relentless motion.
Inside Plison City, there is no celebration, no speeches, no hesitation.
Everything moves.
Supply routes run day and night. Monsters carry stone, metal, mana crystals—never stopping, never arguing. Mages carve fresh runes into streets and rooftops, their hands steady despite exhaustion. Barrier pylons rise at key intersections, ugly but efficient, humming with restrained power.
At the city gates, trenches deepen. Spikes are driven in. Kill zones are measured down to the step.
Above it all, watchtowers remain manned without rest.
The humans are coming.
And then—
They arrive.
On the third dawn, the horizon darkens.
Not with clouds.
With banners.
Human forces stretch across the plains like a living tide. Armor glints in the early light. Spear forests sway as ranks adjust. Spell formations glow faintly behind the front lines, layers upon layers of prepared magic.
Adventurers cluster along the flanks, restless, eager, greedy.
