Cresting the horizon, just beyond the scorched remains of the first wave annihilated by Ayo and Annika's combined might, came the second line of the undead. Lithe, decayed felines bounded ahead of steadier, hulking brutes whose grotesque forms oozed malevolent energy. Shrouded in thick fog, looming giant silhouettes followed behind, their immense stature betraying their level—at least a hundred. Idris tightened his grip on Root Cleaver, the weight of responsibility pressing heavily on his shoulders as the vanguard awaited the next assault.
Behind him stood the first line of aura users, bearing heavy rectangular shields hammered out in Boyle's forge. These warriors were the bulwark of Bastion's thousand-strong defenders, a force forged from necessity and sheer determination. Idris felt a pang of disdain for the so-called Vanguard—the intergalactic peacekeepers—whose absence left Earth to fend for itself against horrors that should have been their responsibility. Yet, there was no room for bitterness now; Bastion would protect its own.
Josh, ever restless, approached the front lines. Despite Martha's insistence, he begrudgingly carried a shield, though his towering frame and raw aura suggested he hardly needed one. His aura attracted a close circle of followers, ascenders who saw him as the next strongest after the titan blade himself.
"They come, General," Josh said, his voice calm but laced with unmistakable anticipation.
Idris nodded, sparing him a glance. He made a mental note to have a talk with the younger warrior. Josh was powerful, no doubt, but his eagerness for battle was both his strength and potential downfall. Power without control was a liability, and while Moyo had earned his strength through trials and unimaginable hardship, Josh's path had been comparatively easier. Still, he had potential—if only he could be tempered.
Raising Root Cleaver, Idris signaled to Ayo. At his command, a volley of elemental attacks streaked through the sky like meteors, slamming into the advancing hounds. Fire, ice, and lightning wrought havoc, reducing several to ashes before they could reach the walls. Earth mages among the defenders raised hulking figures of stone, which lumbered forward into the fray, adding to the defensive line. Another layer of earthen walls rose as well, providing additional protection.
"Josh, maintain the lines!" Idris ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Intent users, focus single targets. Crush the shards when you're running low—no hoarding. We have plenty."
Josh nodded, his hammer Gravemaw glowing faintly with silver mana. He hefted it with ease, as though it were a mere twig, and moved to join the frontline aura users at the newly formed earthen bulwarks. The tension thickened as the first wave of creatures crashed into the defenses.
[All commanders have been added to Bastion's Stewards Utility Skill: Battle Nexus.]
[Idris, do not stray far from the earthen bulwarks. My transmission can only go so far.]
It was Martha's voice in his mind, calm yet urgent. Idris nodded silently, turning his focus to the battle.
The undead slammed into their ranks like a tide of decay and death. Idris swung Root Cleaver, its edge gleaming with intent as it parted rotten bone and sinew effortlessly. The power in the weapon surprised him—each strike felt heavier, more precise, as though the axe guided him. He stumbled momentarily at the first kill but quickly regained his footing, driving his axe through a snarling monstrosity without hesitation.
Overhead, Annika's lightning bolts struck with deadly accuracy, targeting the hulking level-100 aberrants who loomed ominously but refused to advance beyond the fog. The battlefield was a cacophony of shrieks, roars, and the unrelenting crash of steel against bone. Idris gritted his teeth, ignoring the constant pinging of his HUD as kills stacked one after another.
At the forefront, Josh and his team of aura users fought like men possessed. The earthen wall crumbled under the onslaught, but Josh held firm, his hammer shattering undead with each swing. The young commander's technique was raw and unrefined, but his sheer power more than compensated for his lack of finesse. Gravemaw pulsed with energy, detonating aberrants in sprays of decay with every strike.
Idris couldn't help but notice the cracks in their formation—the lack of coordination, the moments of hesitation. They weren't a cohesive unit yet, but that could change. They had to change. Bastion was no longer a ragtag group of survivors; they were an army now, and armies required discipline.
The tide began to slow. The pressure on the defenders eased as the undead ranks thinned, and the injured were quickly ferried to the rear. Samantha and her team of healers worked tirelessly, their green-glowing hands mending wounds as fast as the injured arrived. Idris, drenched in bile and blood, stood amidst the carnage, panting as he raised Root Cleaver high.
A roar erupted from the defenders, a sound that shook the very walls of Bastion. The undead bodies dissolved into motes of black aether, signalling the end of the second wave.
[Second wave defeated!]
But there was no time to celebrate. The fog parted once more, revealing the towering silhouettes of the level-100 abominations that had stood idle until now. Their grotesque forms were covered in jagged armor-like growths, and their glowing red eyes radiated malice. Behind them, the faint outline of a massive figure emerged—a creature whose very presence exuded death and despair.
Idris's heart sank.
"They were holding back," he muttered.
"What's the plan, General?" Josh asked, stepping to his side, his hammer resting on his shoulder.
Idris looked back at the walls of Bastion, where Moyo stood, Ida glowing faintly in his hand. He nodded toward the titan, who had yet to enter the fray but radiated calm authority.
"We hold the line," Idris said firmly. "Until the titan decides it's time to strike."
The defenders roared in unison; their resolve unshaken even as the true terror of the necromancer's horde revealed itself.
It was an undead creature born of despair—a Wyrm, a level 100 monstrosity towering over the battlefield. Moyo raised an eyebrow as he stood atop the walls, glancing at Annika and Ayo beside him. The ground trembled beneath the weight of the creature's massive form and the giant undead trolls marching ahead of it. The sight of the advancing horde left little doubt—this was a force meant to crush all in its path.
As Moyo prepared to raise Ida, gathering the full might of Titan's Edge to wipe them out in a single blow, Annika spoke.
"We go together," she said, her voice resolute despite the enroaching horrors.
He glanced at her, his tone sharp. "They will crush you."
Annika winced at his words, and Moyo immediately berated himself for the harshness. She wasn't wrong—she and Ayo had proven themselves time and time again. They didn't need coddling; they needed to grow stronger.
"I know," Annika replied, her gaze steady. "But if we don't face it, we won't get better."
Moyo sighed, wishing Martha were beside him to temper the moment. Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, a message from her appeared before him:
[Lead them, my lord.]
The words hung in the air, a quiet reminder. He nodded to himself, resigned but understanding.
"Come along," he said, softening his tone.
Annika's expression brightened ever so slightly, and Ayo nodded with quiet determination. Together, they descended. Moyo activated Void Step, appearing below the walls and into the gathering lines of ascenders. Knees bent in reverence as he passed, but Moyo paid them no mind. This wasn't the time for ceremony—they needed resolve, not idolization.
"Josh, Idris, with me," he commanded over the distant rumbling of the hulking undead.
Without hesitation, the two joined him. The ground trembled as the massive figures drew closer. A pulse of power surged outward from Moyo as his title took hold.
[Titan's Presence: All enemies below your level lose half the strength of their attacks and are struck with fear.]
The immediate effect was palpable. The creatures halted, their grotesque forms frozen mid-march as the fog rolled back to reveal their full horror. The Wyrm loomed behind the trolls, its decayed wings spread wide, while its glowing eyes burned with malevolent rage.
For a moment, Moyo's allies staggered under the sheer weight of his aura, swaying as though struck by an invisible force. But Idris steadied himself first, his grip tightening on Root Cleaver, a determined nod passing between him and his lord. Moyo's presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying—a force that even the undead couldn't ignore.
Then, a sinister shift. The trolls and Wyrm suddenly grew still, their crimson eyes flickering to a venomous green. Moyo's expression darkened.
The necromancer was here.
"So," the grotesque creatures said in unison, their malformed mouths uttering words they shouldn't have been able to speak, "you're the thing that seeks to oppose me."
Annika shuddered visibly, revulsion rippling through her form.
"Do I have the honor of speaking to the coward that is the necromancer?" Moyo asked, his voice calm but biting.
Laughter—an unsettling, bone-chilling sound—echoed from the creatures.
"Goading me will do you no good. You will die, in time. You and your pitiful forces."
"If these are your strongest forces, then I'm afraid you've already failed," Moyo retorted.
The necromancer chuckled darkly. "Oh, little insect, you truly have no concept of what you face. These are merely an example, a taste of what is to come. When your Bastion lies in ruin and you have known despair, I will add you to my collection. Perhaps then, you will see the stars with me, to understand how insignificant you truly are."
"You talk a lot," Moyo interrupted, his voice cutting through the necromancer's monologue.
There was silence, though Moyo could imagine the necromancer bristling with indignation.
"All they will serve is as points and levels for my people," Moyo continued, gesturing toward Annika, Ayo, Josh, and Idris with his blade.
"You, with all your bravado, can't hope to take on four trolls and a Wyrm," the necromancer sneered.
Moyo's blade flashed, a blur of motion that severed all four trolls at the knees. They collapsed to the ground with a resounding crash, roaring in pain as their limbs twisted unnaturally.
"Pick them off one by one. Be careful. Leave the Wyrm to me," Moyo ordered.
The others nodded; determination etched into their faces. Annika's Stormpiercer crackled with lightning as she darted toward her target. Ayo raised her staff, flames coalescing into a devastating inferno. Josh and Idris moved with measured precision, their weapons a blur of power and intent.
Moyo turned his full attention to the Wyrm as it roared in defiance, its skeletal form shuddering with rage. The creature lunged, its decayed wings propelling it forward with terrifying speed.
"Poor thing," Moyo murmured, raising Ida to meet the charge.
Ushotan observed the battle through the eyes of his creatures, the sensation of dread bleeding through their shared connection. He clenched his bony fingers around the armrests of his obsidian throne, his decayed features twisting into a grimace. The titan wasn't normal. That much was clear.
No being, not even him in his unique position as an advocate of the abyssal powers, should have this much power on a mere tier 2 world. The titan's ability to cripple level 100 creatures with such an overwhelming aura and presence was proof enough. There was no doubt now: this so-called titan wasn't just an ascender.
He had help.
And not just any help—someone had positioned this titan to counter him perfectly. The orchestration was too precise, the variables too aligned. This wasn't a coincidence; it was a carefully laid plan.
"So," Ushotan murmured to himself, his voice like a rasp over dry bone, "I am but a pawn in this game."
The revelation did not surprise him. Everyone was a pawn to something greater, especially in the labyrinthine machinations of the cosmos. But it was infuriating to discover that he wasn't the only piece on the board. This titan, with his overwhelming power, was just another pawn, another instrument in this depraved game.
A game whose stage was this world.
Still, Ushotan mused, pawns could win wars. His own circumstances were unique; his connection to the abyssal powers granted him advantages even in this dire situation. He could feel the titan's strength—intimidating but not insurmountable. No higher than level 150.
"Manageable," he whispered with a cold smile.
Below, the titan crippled his trolls with unnerving ease. The creatures were reduced to writhing hulks, their immense strength halved by the titan's oppressive aura. Ushotan growled in frustration as the smaller ascenders rushed forward to exploit the trolls' weakened state, evening the odds with precision strikes and deadly coordination.
Ushotan's frustration deepened as he reached for his communication construct, a shimmering device crafted to allow direct contact with his masters. It was to be used only upon the completion of his mission, a lifeline to the abyssal powers.
[Communication has been sealed off from this world.]
He leaned back on his throne, nodding in grim acceptance. Of course. The vanguards were watching.
[Fight your battle, tainted.]
The message rang through his mind with a tone of condescension. Ushotan sneered. The vanguards were eager to witness his downfall. How many of their vessels hovered just outside this world, cloaked and waiting for an excuse to obliterate everything below? They were vultures, circling for the first sign of victory, ready to reduce this place to nothing but ash and glass.
The vanguards didn't care for the world's inhabitants. Hundreds of thousands of worlds dotted the cosmos. What was one more, insignificant and expendable, in the grand scheme of things?
But the laws of the Archailect were absolute.
If Ushotan survived—if he somehow endured their silent judgment and emerged victorious—he would achieve what no advocate before him had done: bring an entire world into the abyssal fold.
A dark thrill coursed through him at the thought. He imagined the rewards awaiting him if he succeeded. The adulation of his masters. The jeers of the vanguards turned to reluctant acknowledgment. The knowledge that he had rewritten history.
He tightened his grip on the staff in his hand, its dark energy pulsing in time with his thoughts.
"I will make this battle one to remember," he vowed softly, his voice carrying through the cold, obsidian chamber.
His wyvern below roared, eager and restless, sensing its master's growing resolve. Its decayed wings spread wide, and its blackened scales glimmered in the dim, sickly light of the stronghold.
Ushotan smiled.
Yes, he would make this battle a spectacle—one to be etched into the annals of both the vanguards and the abyssal powers. He would give them a performance befitting his stature, a final act that would leave them in awe.
The world would watch.
And it would burn.
Moyo stood before the undead Wyrm, watching its decayed form writhe with the remnants of corrupted aether. It loomed tall, its glowing, soulless eyes promising destruction. Yet to Moyo, it was nothing more than an annoyance—a delay. He wasn't here to test his limits; he was here to buy time, a favor for his companions. They needed this fight to measure themselves, to understand the vast gulf of strength between them and the necromancer.
The Wyrm's massive jaws snapped shut on empty air as Moyo moved with a calm precision, his figure vanishing and reappearing a few feet away, Ida already sheathed at his side. He didn't even glance at the creature as it roared in frustration.
"This is beneath me," he muttered, shaking his head as he sidestepped its thrashing tail.
The Wyrm spewed forth a torrent of fire, the heat washing over him. Moyo didn't flinch. The flames danced harmlessly across his Crimson Aegis, the armor absorbing the attack effortlessly. With a casual motion, he caught the creature's tail mid-swing, the force barely registering in his grip.
The ground trembled as Moyo slammed the Wyrm into the earth with a bone-rattling crash. Its massive body groaned, the impact cracking the earth beneath it. Amused by the sight of an undead creature appearing concussed, he chuckled and seated himself on the creature's skull, legs crossed as if taking a break.
Drawing Ida, he stabbed the blade through the Wyrm's snout of decayed flesh and weathered bone. The creature thrashed but couldn't move, pinned under Moyo's weight and the unrelenting pressure of the soulbound weapon. Moyo leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed as he observed the battlefield.
In the distance, another wave of the necromancer's forces approached. Trolls—dozens of them—marched in grim unison, their massive frames tearing through the charred landscape. Behind them slithered three more Wyrms, their hulking bodies undulating with grotesque energy.
Moyo's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. The necromancer was trying to wear them down, sending waves of increasingly powerful creatures to test Bastion's defenders. It was a sound strategy—against most people.
"Not me, though," he muttered with a faint smirk.
The distant horde was still far from Bastion's walls, and his companions were in the middle of their respective fights. He could sense the tides turning; they were adapting, finding their rhythm against their foes. This was their moment, a chance to prove themselves against overwhelming odds.
Moyo shifted his weight, the Wyrm under him hissing weakly, trying to break free. He didn't even glance at it. His attention was on the others now.
The trolls his friends faced wouldn't last much longer. He saw Josh's hammer shattering bones with every swing, Ayo's inferno tearing through ranks of undead, Annika's lightning bolts weaving destruction with precision, and Idris carving a path through their enemies with brutal efficiency.
"Good," Moyo murmured to himself, a hint of pride in his voice.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watched their battles unfold. His blade remained firmly lodged in the Wyrm's skull, holding it down with ease. If needed, he would step in. But he doubted he'd have to.
For now, he waited.