[The First Day of Destruction, 20:00]
[The Inner Wall — The Kill Zone]
The crushing pressure ceased. It did not taper off. It vanished.
The tide of rotting flesh receded. The climbing dead lost their frantic momentum. They stopped tearing at the stone. They slid backward down the slick, butchered ramp of their own kin.
It was a terrifying display of necrotic absolute control. Living armies routed. Living men broke rank in a chaotic frenzy of self-preservation. The undead did not panic.
As if a dark master had sharply yanked an invisible tether, the shambling legions turned in perfect unison. They dragged their crippled limbs back toward the ruins. They marched exactly three hundred meters. Not only that, but they halted, fading back into the glowing green gloom.
A suffocating silence fell over the Inner Wall. It was heavier, far more oppressive than the deafening roar of the slaughter.
The air on the ramparts tasted of copper, ozone, and burnt meat.
"They're... they're retreating?" a young militiaman gasped.
His knees finally buckled. He leaned his entire body weight against the wooden shaft of his spear. His chest heaved. Sweat cut clean tracks through the thick layer of ash and dried blood caking his face. He stared blindly into the dark, a desperate, hysterical hope blooming in his eyes.
"We beat them? By the Gods, did we beat them?"
Beside him, a veteran archer dropped his longbow. He leaned over the edge of the parapet and violently emptied his stomach. The adrenaline left his bloodstream in a sickening, dizzying rush. His hands shook so badly he could not wipe the bile from his chin. He knew better than to hope.
"Quiet in the ranks!" Commander Vane barked.
His voice was raw. It tore like sandpaper against his ruined throat as he aggressively paced the blood-slicked line.
"Do not break formation! Check your armor! Reload the ballistas, heavy iron-wood bolts only!"
Vane's harsh commands cut through the collective daze. He forced the surviving defenders to anchor themselves in the mechanical routine of military discipline. Water skins were passed with trembling, slippery hands. Whetstones rasped against notched blades.
"Medics!" Vane roared, kicking a severed zombie arm off the walkway.
"Pull the dead back! Triage the wounded! If a man is bitten, isolate him immediately! Move!"
The brutal reality of the order hung in the air. Sister Milla and her surviving clerics moved swiftly through the groaning wounded. Their pristine white robes were now saturated, heavy, and crimson. They dragged screaming men away from the main line.
Those with lacerations from rusted blades were treated. Those with human teeth marks deep in their flesh were dragged to a designated, heavily guarded corner of the bastion. There was no cure for the necrotic plague. They were isolated to await a swift blade to the heart before they turned.
Vane turned away from the grim triage and walked up to the elevated command tier.
Grand Marshal Beren had not moved. He stood like a monument carved from iron and scarred leather. His hands gripped the stone parapet. His gauntlets creaked under the immense pressure. He stared intensely into the glowing, viridian fog.
"It's a trap, isn't it, Marshal?" Vane asked quietly. He stepped up to stand beside his commander.
"They had the weight to overrun the eastern stairwell. They were inches from taking the merlons. Why pull back?"
"It is not a trap, Vane," Beren replied.
"A test."
Beren pointed a heavy, armored finger down at the base of the wall.
The moat of corpses was staggering. It was a grotesque hill of true-dead, shattered bone, and cauterized flesh. The ramp of bodies stood twenty feet high in some places.
"They sent the trash," Beren explained. The cold arithmetic of the enemy general became sickeningly clear in his mind.
"The mindless swarm. The peasants. The bakers. They didn't send that wave to breach the wall. They sent it to see exactly how much mana we would spend to stop it."
Beren looked up. Vane followed his gaze toward the heavens.
The suspended legion of Principality Peace angels hovered in the bruised sky. Only ten minutes ago, they had bathed the wall in blinding, purifying brilliance. Now, they were flickering. Their celestial wings were ragged, shedding feathers made of dying light. Their holy aura was reduced to a pale, sickly glow.
Down in the protected alcoves below the angels, the reality of the magical cost was horrific.
The high priests and arcane casters acting as the anchors for the celestial summons were slumped against the stonework. Blood poured freely from their noses, tear ducts, and ears. Several had already suffered fatal aneurysms, their brains boiling in their skulls from the sheer strain of maintaining the divine connection. They were utterly drained of their magical reserves.
"They are bleeding us," Beren whispered. His eyes narrowed, burning with a helpless, tactical fury.
"They are systematically draining the battery before they step forward to smash the casing."
He turned his gaze down to the reserve courtyard behind the gatehouse.
The Paladin Elites stood in rigid, perfect formation. Five hundred heavily armored men in pristine, enchanted plate. Their silver armor caught the flickering light of the dying angels. They were completely fresh. They were zealous. The steel fist of the Theocracy, and they had been forced to stand in the rear, listening to the militia get butchered without lifting a sword.
The tension radiating from the courtyard was palpable. It tasted like static electricity.
"Marshal!" Captain Gideon of the Vanguard called out.
His voice echoed off the ancient stone, ringing clearly above the groans of the dying. Gideon stepped forward from the pristine ranks. He raised his polished visor. His face was twisted in righteous frustration.
"Let us sortie!" Gideon demanded. He pointed his gauntlet toward the heavy iron-wood gates.
"The enemy is scattered in the fog! We can ride out, clear the killing field, and burn the corpse ramp before they regroup! Give us the order to purge them!"
Beren stared down at the Paladin. He saw the fire in the man's eyes. It was a beautiful, foolish fire. Gideon did not understand the scale of the nightmare hiding in the mist.
"Hold your ground, Captain!" Beren roared. His voice echoed with uncompromising authority, striking the courtyard like a physical blow.
Gideon flinched. "But Marshal"
"You do not open the gates!" Beren interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate.
"You are the final seal! You do not move a single inch until I give the order!"
Gideon gritted his teeth. His hand twitched instinctively toward the hilt of his broadsword. The urge to exact holy vengeance burned in his veins. But the chain of command was absolute. He rigidly bowed his head, fighting his own martial pride.
"Yes, Marshal," Gideon ground out.
Beren turned his back on the courtyard. He looked back out over the wall, his eyes piercing the viridian gloom.
They want us to open the gates, Beren thought. The chilling realization settled in his chest like a block of ice. They are waiting for our pride to outstrip our discipline.
The first wave was over. The city had spent its celestial magic, its boiling oil, and its brave, foolish militia. The battery was drained. Now, the true monsters of the Sorcerer Kingdom would come to smash the casing.
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Author's Note
Hello everyone!
I want to give a small update regarding the recent slow uploads. Due to some personal matters and ongoing work behind the scenes, my schedule has been a little messy lately.
Right now, I'm rewriting the first 30 chapters to improve the language, narration, and overall quality so they better match the current writing style of the novel. Alongside that, I'm also learning audiobook production and preparing future releases on YouTube and other platforms -- which is a new experience for me.
Once the revisions are complete, I'll focus fully on writing the next arc, followed by a detailed schedule update for the series.
Thank you all for your patience and continued support. Your comments and feedback truly motivate me, so feel free to share your thoughts and ideas for upcoming chapters!
-- Horizon2burns ❤️🔥
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