The world had crumbled beneath their feet, reduced to nothing but ashes and echoes of the past.

  Humans, once the proud rulers of the land, were now mere cattle—helpless, their lives stolen away, their screams swallowed by the abyss.

  They were nothing more than fuel for a purpose far greater than conquest.

  Because power had never been the goal.

  This was always the true purpose.

  The reason for the wars.

  The reason for the bloodshed.

  The reason they had become something no longer human.

  To bring back the ones they had lost.

  To defy fate itself.

  Grion, the Demon King, stood at the heart of the chamber, the dim glow of arcane symbols flickering against his scarred face.

  His hands—hands that had once cradled his family, hands that had torn through armies, hands that had shaped the destiny of the world—were trembling as he reached forward.

  Before him, glass tubes lined the obsidian walls, filled with a swirling, unnatural light.

  Within them, bodies were forming, suspended in an eerie stillness.

  A process that had taken years of failure.

  Years of trial and error.

  Years of sacrificing countless human souls to force the impossible into reality.

  But now, at long last—

  “It’s working…” Grion’s voice broke into a whisper, heavy with awe and desperation.

  His fingers pressed against the cold surface of one particular tube. Inside, she was there.

  His wife.

  Her form was delicate, her pale skin smooth yet lifeless.

  And beside her, smaller, fragile—his daughter.

  Their bodies were almost complete. But their eyes remained closed.

  Their souls had not yet returned.

  But they were so close.

  Just a little more.

  Behind him, Tores continued the incantations, his raspy voice weaving through the darkness like a thread binding the abyss to their world.

  The ancient words of the forgotten gods pulsed through the chamber, thick with power, seeping into the very stones beneath their feet.

  The floor was painted in blood—ritual symbols carved into the flesh of the latest sacrifice, a young human man writhing in agony.

  His screams choked into nothing as his body withered, his flesh peeling away as he was reduced to raw, pulsing energy.

  That energy slithered like a living thing, stretching toward the nearest tube, merging with the body inside.

  The once still figure twitched, its color deepening, its muscles strengthening.

  Every death brought them closer.

  Every sacrifice was another step toward rebirth.

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  Grion was not the only one with something to reclaim.

  Each of them had lost something irreplaceable. Each of them had a reason to seek this miracle.

  Korran, the Beastkin General, stood at the edge of the chamber, his claws digging into his palms. He had no home, no tribe, no future.

  The only family he had ever known had been his older brother—the one who had shielded him, fought for him, laughed with him.

  The one who had been executed like an animal before his very eyes.

  His name had long since been erased from history.

  But Korran would not allow it to be forgotten.

  He had waited years to bring him back.

  Tores, the Master of Forbidden Arts, bore the scars of a childhood steeped in torment.

  He had been born into suffering, raised in rejection, marked for slaughter.

  His mother had died bringing him into this world, his father had been burned alive, and his village had been erased under the weight of human hatred.

  If he could bring them back, if he could rewrite the past—perhaps his existence would finally hold meaning.

  Movok, the Swamp Tyrant, had once been a prince of a thriving kingdom.

  Now, the lizardmen were little more than a memory, their once-proud empire reduced to ruins.

  His kind had been hunted, enslaved, erased from history.

  He had fought and bled to change that.

  And if this ritual succeeded, he would restore them to their rightful place.

  Their dreams wove themselves into the ritual, binding them to the magic pulsing through the chamber.

  And as the energy surged, as the bodies within the tubes grew ever closer to completion, something long buried within them stirred.

  Hope.

  A fragile, desperate thing.

  For the first time in years, they could almost feel human again.

  The chamber doors groaned open, sending a cold gust through the stale air.

  A group of gnolls entered, their clawed feet barely making a sound against the stone floor.

  Their heads were bowed low, ears flattened against their skulls.

  One stepped forward, his voice rough with unease.

  “My Lord… the Hero and his party have entered our territory.”

  The words were a dagger through the silence.

  The air shifted, heavy with something unspoken.

  For a moment, even the shamans faltered in their chants. The glow of the symbols flickered.

  Tores' fingers twitched, his jaw tightening.

  Grion inhaled slowly, suppressing the urge to curse.

  It was inevitable.

  The so-called Hero. The one chosen by the gods. The last flickering ember of resistance in a world already drowned in darkness.

  “Is the army prepared?” Grion asked, his voice measured, steady.

  The gnoll hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Yes, my Lord.”

  Grion turned to Tores, his expression unreadable.

  “You know what must be done.”

  Tores exhaled through clenched teeth, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Then, without another word, he stepped forward, his dark robes sweeping behind him as he followed the gnolls out of the chamber.

  Silence settled once more.

  Grion turned back to the glass tubes, resting his forehead against the cold surface.

  The ritual was working.

  His wife and daughter… they were almost back.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the steady hum of the arcane energy.

  Just a little more.

  ------

  The night stretched on, silent—too silent.

  The sky, an endless abyss, bore witness to the impending storm, its vast darkness pierced only by the pale glow of the moon and the faint glimmer of distant stars.

  Shadows stretched across the ruined earth, jagged and broken, as if the land itself had suffered alongside those who had fought upon it.

  And there they stood.

  Warriors of different races—humans, orcs, elves, and dwarves—brought together not by shared blood, but by a singular, unshakable resolve.

  Some bore the weight of heavy armor, the metal dull from past battles.

  Others were clad in leathers, their bodies built for speed, for precision.

  They gripped their weapons with steady hands, each blade and bowstring a silent promise.

  Each step forward was heavy, yet unyielding.

  Each breath carried the weight of fate itself.

  And then—

  They arrived.

  The battlefield stretched before them, but it was no longer just earth and stone.

  It was a writhing mass of darkness, shifting and pulsing like a living nightmare.

  A monstrous horde, stretching as far as the eye could see.

  A sea of fangs and claws.

  Glowing red eyes flickered within the abyss, watching, waiting.

  Ogres loomed with spiked clubs, their grotesque forms hunched yet filled with unnatural strength.

  Trolls grinned with rotten teeth, their flesh hanging in sickly folds.

  Goblins scurried, jagged blades clutched in gnarled fingers, their sharp laughter a mocking taunt.

  Gnolls, with their twisted hyena grins, prowled, their claws scraping against the stone.

  Lizardmen stood in tight formations, their obsidian scales catching the dim light, spears ready to pierce flesh.

  And beyond them, creatures with no names—abominations of chitin and shadow—skittered, clicking, writhing, waiting to tear the rebels apart.

  The earth trembled beneath them.

  The air was thick with the scent of blood, of iron, of death.

  The enemy did not speak.

  They did not need to.

  They were waiting for the slaughter to begin.

  ---

  Asael stepped forward, his boots pressing into the cracked ground.

  His sharp eyes swept over the warriors beside him—men and women who had bled, who had suffered, who had lost more than they could ever reclaim.

  They had buried their friends.

  They had seen hope shatter before their eyes.

  And yet—

  They stood.

  "Asael," a voice called.

  He turned.

  Sam, his second-in-command, stood beside him, his sword glinting with the reflections of distant flames.

  Asael took a slow breath, filling his lungs with the cold night air.

  Then he spoke.

  "Are you ready?"

  There was no hesitation.

  "Yes!"

  Their voices rang as one, a chorus of unwavering determination.

  A fire burned behind their eyes—not desperation, not fear, but something deeper. Something stronger.

  Asael nodded.

  "Good." His voice was steady. "Remember this—this is our last battle."

  Silence fell, thick with meaning.

  "After this… we are free."

  No more running.

  No more hiding.

  No more waking in the night to the sound of screams.

  Only freedom.

  A warrior gritted his teeth, his knuckles white against his hilt.

  Another let out a slow, measured breath, steadying herself.

  A young elf muttered a silent prayer, pressing a hand to his heart.

  None of them wavered.

  They had already made their choice.

  Then—

  A low, guttural growl rippled through the enemy ranks.

  The air vibrated with the weight of impending violence.

  The ground trembled beneath them, a steady, unrelenting drumbeat as the monstrous army surged forward.

  Asael turned to Sam, his expression sharp, decisive.

  "You and the others hold them off. We’ll move ahead."

  Sam met his gaze, eyes hard with understanding.

  "We’ll handle it," he said. "Go."

  There was no time for doubt.

  No time for hesitation.

  Asael nodded once, then turned.

  Anne, Steven, Sirius, Magnum, and Lily fell in beside him, their steps synchronized, their focus unshaken.

  Behind them, Sam raised his sword high.

  "Charge!"

  The world erupted.

  Blades met flesh.

  Magic crackled through the air, illuminating the battlefield with bursts of fire and lightning.

  Steel clashed, bones shattered, and screams—human and inhuman alike—pierced the night.

  Blood splattered against the earth, seeping into the cracks, joining the remnants of past battles.

  But Asael did not look back.

  His grip tightened.

  His breath was steady.

  His eyes were set ahead.

  There was no turning back now.

  The final battle had begun.