[The First Day of Destruction, 21:32] [Cathedral of the Earth God — The Great Steps]
The worst of the horror was yet to come.
Grand Marshal Beren lowered his gaze from the churning, viridian clouds. He looked out over the burning rooftops of the Inner City. The ambient noise of the battlefield was changing. Underneath the chaotic screams of the dying and the crackle of burning timber, a new frequency emerged.
He felt a deep, rhythmic tremor vibrating through the ancient marble of the cathedral steps. It was the synchronized, mechanical thud-thud-thud of tens of thousands of heavy iron boots marching over the paved streets.
The green fog spilled over the distant, shattered ramparts of the Inner Wall like toxic water from an overflowing cup. It rushed down the grand avenues. It flooded the lower districts in a rising tide of localized necrosis.
"Reassign the wards," Beren ordered.
He turned swiftly to a group of trembling, soot-stained senior clerics huddled behind his command element.
"Seal the side chapels permanently. Focus every ounce of remaining mana exclusively on the main nave doors. Reinforce the primary threshold."
"Marshal, the wards are already fracturing!" an elderly cleric wept.
The holy man fell to his knees. His frail hands clutched a crumbling, blackened silver talisman. White foam gathered at the corners of his mouth.
"The death... There is too much death out there. The rot poisons the ambient mana of the city. We cannot draw from the earth anymore! We have nothing left to give!"
Beren stepped down. The heavy plates of his gold-filigreed armor ground together. He crouched slightly, bringing his scarred face level with the weeping priest. There was no pity in the Grand Marshal's eyes. There was only a terrifying, absolute resolve.
"Then use your own life," Beren commanded. His voice was as hard and cold as unworked granite. "Bleed for it if you have to. Carve the runes into your own flesh. Burn your own souls to fuel the barrier, but you will hold the sanctum. Do you understand me, Priest? We do not yield the house of God."
The cleric swallowed hard. The raw terror in his eyes slowly hardened. A fanatical, fatalistic acceptance replaced the panic. He nodded once. He rose to his feet and sprinted back toward the great bronze doors, shouting frantic, blood-magic incantations to the surviving acolytes.
Beren stood to his full height. He turned back to face the burning ruin of his beloved city. He gripped the extended hilt of his massive greatsword. His armored thumb slowly, methodically traced the worn leather wrapping.
Vane held, Beren thought.
A sharp pang of profound grief hit him like a blacksmith's hammer. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His throat ached.
He held the door. He bought us the time. Now, we spend it.
"Signal the rear-guard," Beren ordered his personal bodyguard, a towering man clutching a heavy tower shield. "Tell them to collapse the plaza barricades immediately. Abandon the outer perimeter. Fall back to the stairs. We make our final stand on holy ground."
The bodyguard nodded solemnly. He drew a heavy, brass flare gun from his hip. He aimed the wide barrel straight up into the churning, emerald sky, and pulled the trigger.
A single, brilliant red flare shot upward. It tore a temporary, screaming crimson streak through the suffocating green fog.
Beren drew his greatsword. The steel sang a mournful, ringing note as it cleared the scabbard. It felt incredibly heavy in his grip. He was exhausted. It was not the physical tiredness of exertion or the ache of bruised muscles. It was the crushing, marrow-deep weariness of a man actively watching his entire world come to an end.
He planted the point of the greatsword against the marble step. He rested both gauntlets on the heavy pommel. He looked up at the towering stone statues of the Earth God flanking the grand entrance.
Just a little longer, Beren vowed in the silent sanctuary of his own mind. It was a final prayer offered to the stone beneath his boots. Let the Ark sail. Just let the children get deep enough into the earth. We will pay the toll in blood.
[The Inner Sanctum — Aerial View]
From high above, the single red flare arced over the Cathedral of the Earth God.
It was a tiny, insignificant spark of defiance against the overwhelming dark. As the flare peaked and began its slow, descending burn, it bathed the city in a harsh, bloody light. It illuminated the horrifying reality of the ground below.
The breach in the Inner Wall was no longer a choke point. It was a ruptured dam.
The Sorcerer Kingdom's vanguard had fully penetrated the final ring of the city. The green, necrotic fog flowed through the streets like a physical liquid. It rapidly filled the geometric grid of Kami Miyako.
The undead did not run. They did not break formation to chase fleeing stragglers. They marched.
Tens of thousands of skeletal warriors, armored zombies, and towering Death Knights moved with perfect, terrifying synchronization. They advanced block by block, avenue by avenue. It was a slow, methodical tide swallowing everything in its path. Wherever the green fog touched, the scattered fires of the burning city were instantly snuffed out, replaced by a cold, suffocating blackness.
From the aerial view, the Six Grand Cathedrals looked like tiny, glowing islands of gold in a rapidly expanding ocean of dark.
And the ocean was closing in.
The vanguard of the undead horde reached the edge of the great plaza before the Cathedral of the Earth God. They did not charge the marble steps. They halted. They formed a perfect, silent, unbroken wall of rusted iron and rotting bone that stretched from one side of the vast square to the other.
In the center of the undead line, the fog parted.
Three Doom Lords stepped forward to the very edge of the plaza. Their entropic auras warped the air around them. The remaining ornamental trees lining the square died instantly. The vibrant green leaves withered into gray ash and blew away before hitting the cobblestones. The wrought-iron fences enclosing the gardens rusted into red powder.
The three behemoths raised their heavy, black halberds in perfect unison. They pointed the jagged blades directly at the small, battered man standing alone at the top of the white marble stairs.
The marching had stopped. The slaughter of the civilians in the lower city was complete.
Now, there was only the Cathedral, the Grand Marshal, and the absolute, inevitable silence before the final wave broke.
High above, the red flare sputtered out. It plunged the sky back into suffocating darkness.
In the dark, the dead stepped onto holy ground.