A dim orb of light had risen high on the horizon. If not for the fact that there was nothing else in the sky, no one would believe that the small flickering light, which resembled a candle ready to go out, was the same sun that once scorched anyone who dared to look directly at it.
It was cold—so cold that the desert without the sun felt no warmer than an ice field. And this cold was a dry, lifeless cold. A dead, ashen-gray sky hung overhead like a giant pot lid, not a single cloud in sight, let alone any birds. The sun, like a ghostly flame, hung motionlessly in the sky. What had once been the blazing, hellish Fly Dragon desert now seemed like a vast, silent graveyard. Even though the most elite army from all over the continent stood in formation, the air still carried the chill of death.
Not only was this based on predictions and assessments made from magical maps, but constant scouts were also keeping an eye on the movements of the Undead King and his army. The frontline arrangements were precise and meticulous, matching the plan exactly. All the troops that could be mustered had already gathered. They stood there in silence, awaiting the imminent arrival of their shared enemy.
The army of tens of thousands remained eerily quiet, with only the occasional sound of orders being shouted, their words crisp and commanding. The atmosphere was so tense that it seemed as though the weight of the situation had stolen their voices.
Two massive blue portals to another dimension flickered as they opened. From them emerged wave after wave of orc forces, warrior mages, and other soldiers, all filing out in perfect formation. This was the final batch, the most elite group of warriors. Behind them walked Roland, Lancelote, and the tower masters Edwina and Granden.
The last to step through the portals were two individuals: Grutt and Asa.
Grutt was still bare-chested, wearing no armor or protective gear—he never seemed to need such things. However, this time, he held that black longbow in his hand.
It was completely different from when the elven patrol had carried it. No longer a plain, unremarkable black, the Phantom Divine Bow now shimmered with a flowing radiance. Within that shifting glow, countless intricate and indecipherable runes flickered in and out of existence.
"What a grand spectacle…" Asa sighed as he gazed at the tens of thousands of soldiers before him, while behind him, the dimensional gates slowly closed.
Everywhere he looked, there were people. But these were not just ordinary men; they were the finest warriors, gathered here for one purpose—to fight and sacrifice themselves to escort him.
Turning around, he saw the towering, endless expanse of the black mountain range behind them. This was the place he had heard of countless times but was only now seeing with his own eyes—the Shadow Spiral Mountains. Beyond these mountains lay Dehya Valley, the Necromancer's Guild, and the Black Star.
A thick, ominous darkness was already creeping from that direction, shrouding the land in impenetrable blackness. It was almost impossible to distinguish where the sky ended and the mountains began. The mountain range stood like an immense, all-encompassing tombstone—not just for him, but for everyone.
This was his first time setting foot in the place that had entangled his fate for so long. Asa's hand tightened around the hilt of the sword at his waist—his own knife. The same hand also bore the Ring of Kings, now drained of all its power.
That knife had originally been confiscated back when he was captured at the Glory Fortress. Later, he had Lancelote send people to retrieve it from the ruins of that very place. Whether it had been tainted by the aura of the Undead King or purified by the overwhelming holy power of the Archangel, the magic once imbued within the blade had completely vanished. Now, it was just an ordinary weapon once more—the plain, unremarkable blade forged by his father's own hands, from materials he himself had gathered.
He could have easily chosen a far more powerful enchanted weapon from the Church or the Magic Academy, but he had still chosen this sword. It wasn't the weapon he sought, but rather the feeling it gave him. Holding it in his grasp, feeling its simple and familiar texture, brought him a small measure of calm—just as it did now.
Asa was clad in the Ghost King's Robe. The deep, distant tremors emanating from the heart of the Shadow Spiral Mountains seemed to stir it to life. The robe pulsed in harmony with his own aura, yet it also breathed in sync with the dark energies seeping from the mountains. The air around him had turned so thick and heavy it felt like death itself, yet his robe trembled ever so slightly, as if it were alive.
"That thing is still sixty miles away…" Asa closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. Through the connection with the Ghost King's Robe, he could sense the massive presence moving toward them.
"No, only twenty miles now," Lancelote corrected from a short distance away. A red flag waved in a specific pattern on the horizon—the signal from their forward scouts.
"Twenty miles?" Asa was certain of what he had felt, yet he also knew Lancelote's men wouldn't make such an error.
"You're only sensing the core—the central figure," Grutt remarked indifferently.
"In other words, this undead army stretches across a forty-mile radius," Aidrid's voice carried a faint chill.
Lancelote added, "Three days ago, the reports said it only covered twenty miles."
"The closer they get, the stronger the influence of the Black Star," Asa said. Behind him, deep in the Shadow Spiral Mountains, an even darker, more ominous force raged, howling to break free and engulf everything in its path. "Most likely, before our forces even finished assembling, all the undead within the mountains had already started converging toward him. And if he reaches Dehya Valley, even without fully unleashing the Black Star… no one will be able to stop him."
"Forty miles…" Captain Roland exhaled softly.
"It doesn't matter how many miles." Grutt's tone was calm, almost dismissive. "We just have to fight our way in."
"Well said." Lancelote nodded, then took a deep breath. His voice roared out like rolling thunder, shattering the suffocating silence around them. "All troops, hear my command! Battle begins—move out!"
His shout tore through the dead air like a thunderclap, its echoes booming in every soldier's ears.
"Move out... move out... move out..." The order was repeated from every corner of the battlefield, rippling outward like a wave. The tens of thousands of warriors, who had stood still like statues, now surged forward, awakening like a colossal beast roused from slumber, marching toward the encroaching blackness ahead.
Not knowing who started it, the marching warriors all began to shout and roar. No one deliberately rallied their spirits—this was a battle cry long suppressed, a fighting will choked by the oppressive silence of this vast, gray graveyard. It was a primal surge, a deep, instinctual desire to survive. Even the priests and mages, usually composed, found themselves unable to resist joining in.
The roars of tens of thousands of soldiers converged into a single, thunderous roar, like a dragon of sound raging through the lifeless air. At last, this world of death seemed to tremble.