[The First Day of Destruction, 20:28]
[The Inner Wall — The Kill Zone]
From his elevated vantage point, Commander Vane watched the sky die.
A Blood-milk Hulk reached into the chaotic, swirling melee above the ramparts. Its pale, massive hands closed around the wings of a lesser Archangel. The Hulk tore its arms outward. The celestial construct detonated into a shower of harmless, fading sparks.
During the grapple, the angel had driven a spear of concentrated light directly through the monster's chest. It left a charred, smoking hole the size of a cannonball.
Vane watched the wound. A hollow, freezing weight settled in his chest.
Thick, glowing white sludge surged beneath the Hulk's translucent skin. The liquid rushed toward the massive injury. The alchemical fluid aggressively knitted the ruined flesh back together. It pushed out the scorched, blackened edges of dead meat. It sealed the gap. It left no scar.
We are not stopping them, Vane realized. The tactical center of his mind turned as cold as winter ice. We are not winning. We are just throwing meat into a grinding wheel to slow the blade.
He tore his gaze away from the regenerating giant. He assessed the wider geometry of the battlefield. It was a failing equation.
The heavy iron-wood arrow reserves stockpiled in the flanking towers were depleted. The disciplined volley fire had degraded into scattered, desperate potshots. The caster corps ran entirely on raw adrenaline and cannibalized life force.
Down on the parapet, three junior priests lay unconscious on the blood-slicked flagstones. They convulsed violently. White foam and blood bubbled from their lips. They suffered from terminal mana shock.
Sister Milla grabbed them by their collars. She hauled their seizing bodies backward, desperately dragging them out of the acidic splash zones of the dying ghouls.
Above the wall, the protective canopy of angels was failing. The blinding, pure white light had dimmed to a sickly, jaundiced yellow. Feathers of dying mana drifted downward like dirty snow.
Through the endless green fog, the heavy silhouettes continued to march. More Death Knights. More Death Warriors. More Soul Eaters. It was a mechanized, flawless factory line. It existed solely to manufacture nightmares and break the world.
Vane looked over his shoulder. And stared at the massive, rune-carved oak doors of the Inner Gate.
That was the primary evacuation route. Deep beneath the city streets, tens of thousands of civilians were currently fleeing into the subterranean vaults. The surviving clergy guided them into the dark.
Ten minutes, Vane calculated.
He clenched his jaw. His molars ground together until the roots of his teeth ached.
I just need ten more minutes for the vault doors to seal. Then this wall can fall. Then we can all die.
He turned back to the slaughter. He gripped the stone edge of the firing step.
"Hold!" Vane roared down into the courtyard.
His magically amplified voice cracked. It sounded raw, desperate, and terribly human.
"They bleed! I saw them bleed! Hold the brace line!"
Down in the plaza, the psychological pressure was snapping mortal minds.
A young signalman knelt in a puddle of gore. His uniform was soaked in the arterial blood of his sergeant. The boy wept silently. He mechanically waved the red retreat flags back and forth. His eyes were wide, glassy, and unseeing. His mind had already fled the battlefield.
A few yards away, the tactical retreat was collapsing. A squad of wounded militiamen bottlenecked at the inner courtyard archway. A Death Warrior blurred toward them. It raised its dual jagged blades for slaughter.
A veteran Paladin stepped out of the retreat line.
His shield arm hung uselessly at his side. The bones were shattered into powder. He did not run. He whispered a quiet, final vow to his dead wife's memory.
The Paladin dropped his broken shield. He stepped directly into the lethal path of the advancing Death Warrior. He did not swing his sword. He opened his arms.
He intentionally took both jagged blades directly through his own stomach.
The rusted iron punched cleanly through his backplate. The Paladin screamed. He coughed a spray of hot blood into the monster's unarmored face. He grabbed the creature's wrists with his one good hand. He drove his full body weight forward. He bound the Death Warrior's weapons inside his own ruined torso.
He bought his retreating comrades a single, precious second.
A heavy ballista bolt slammed into the immobilized Death Warrior's skull. The iron-wood shaft shattered the undead bone into fragments. The Paladin collapsed. He was dead before his knees hit the cobblestones.
The enemy vanguard advanced with the inevitability of a glacier.
The lead Death Knight crushed the helmeted skull of a fallen, twitching spearman beneath its sabaton. It did not break its stride. The sickening pop of the skull went unheard over the roaring flames. Its burning red eyes remained fixed entirely on the heavy oak of the Inner Gate.
Vane slowly drew his secondary weapon. It was a short, heavy parrying dagger. He gripped it tightly in his off-hand. His broadsword felt impossibly heavy in his right grip. The muscles in his forearm burned with lactic acid.
He was a tactician. He was a commander of the Theocracy. Right now, he was just meat meant to clog the throat of a monster.
"Hold with teeth," Vane whispered to himself.
It was a private oath sworn to the cold stone beneath his boots. The grand strategies had failed. The holy miracles were dying. The artillery was empty. Now, there was only the raw, brutal physics of bodies blocking a doorway.
If your sword breaks, hold it with your hands, Vane recited the old infantry mantra. His breathing was shallow and fast. If your hands break, hold with your teeth.
He looked back at the oncoming storm of black iron and screaming resin. He drew a deep, ragged breath of sulfurous air.
"AGAIN!" Vane roared.
He hurled his voice over the deafening clash of steel and dying magic. He willed his broken men to stand tall one last time. He demanded their final drop of blood.
"HIT THEM AGAIN!"
The ancient wall shook violently beneath his boots. Another wave of blinding holy fire illuminated the killing field. It cast long, terrible shadows across the stone as the end of the world marched closer.
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Author's Note ✍️
Hey everyone!
If this arc feels slower than usual or a bit different from the Overlord vibe, that's on me 😅 This was my first time seriously trying to write from the Theocracy's perspective: characters trapped in an overwhelming undead apocalypse with almost no hope. I got a little carried away exploring that struggle.
The Wall Arc is more about tension, atmosphere, and the cost of resistance rather than nonstop action. I know the tone may feel different, but this is my first writing project, and at the end of the day, it's just a passion fanfiction ❤️
Thanks for reading and sticking with the story -- Your comments, reviews, and support mean everything ❤️🔥
✨ Want cinematic visuals for each chapter? Check them out here: 😎