The relentless advance of the undead legion, undeterred by the fierce onslaught from Aralos's defenders, underscored a grim reality—their enemy was not merely a force to be reckoned with but a meticulously orchestrated army of a nefarious god, seemingly infinite in number.
This relentless tide of death was designed to wear down the living, to break their spirit before their defenses.
It was a tactic born of dark magic, a relentless siege that knew no fatigue, no fear, and no end.
The wizards, the defenders of Aralos were despairing, their spirits like a dying bonfire in bleak mid-winter.
Noticing their despair, the Holy King of Aralos, who stood tall atop the Wall of Hestia with his back straight, his head held high, and not an ounce of despair and dread in his gaze, knew it was up to him to pull them out of it.
"Wizards of Aralos, hear me!"
