Twenty miles was not a great distance. Even now, on the desert horizon, the oppressive sight of the undead army had come into view. The thick, pitch-black aura stretched nearly a hundred miles in all directions, swallowing everything in its reach. That place was like a realm of death, severed from the world of the living. Amidst the darkness, faint glimmers of ghostly white figures flickered—countless skeletons, zombies, and wraiths.
The closer this undead army charged, the more Asa could feel the sheer magnitude of this death—vast, boundless, suffocating. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but an endless tide of skeletal figures and rotting corpses. The tens of thousands of soldiers in the allied army seemed no more than a fragile leaf before this sea of death.
Then, at last, that fragile leaf crashed into the abyss. And the sea was torn open.
These warriors were not mere leaves—they were a searing, molten blade, burning red-hot as they cut through the darkness. They were not swallowed; they carved through.
The blade struck deep, sending a tidal wave of undead remains surging into the air. Bones and rotting flesh scattered, whirling through the sky like a storm of decay.
The outermost ranks of the undead were composed of brittle, decayed skeletons and dried-out corpses—zombies whose tattered clothing still bore remnants of their former lives. These were the people who had perished in the cities destroyed by the undead army before they had a chance to escape. Under the influence of the Necromancer King's presence, no bodies remained unclaimed.
Now, these lowly undead were nothing but kindling before the charging cavalry. Beneath the thunderous hooves of warhorses, they crumbled to dust.
The priests' chants merged into a grand sacred hymn, blending with the thunderous gallop of hooves and the warriors' battle cries. This solemn wave of sound surged forward with the allied forces, cutting through the sea of death and reducing every undead in its path to nothingness.
All the remaining bishops of the Glory Fortress were among the ranks, along with priests, clerics, and nearly every member of the clergy. Within this boundless darkness of death, the power of white magic was suppressed to its weakest state. Yet, their presence was essential—not only to bolster the warriors' morale but also to protect the warhorses from the soul-crushing dread radiating from the enemy's aura.
This mighty flood of steel, bathed in holy light, charged straight into the heart of the undead horde like a razor-sharp blade tearing through the black abyss.
Asa had yet to make a move. He rode at the very rear of the army, galloping alongside the tide of warriors, watching from a distance as waves of shattered bone and rotting flesh rose higher and higher under the relentless charge.
It wasn't just him—Grutt, Lancelote, Captain Roland, and the two masters of Tooth Tower had yet to act. Surrounding them were the elite ranks of the Holy Knights and the grand mages. A little ahead, the orc forces under Orford had also yet to engage. These were the forces held in reserve—the strongest warriors, waiting for the decisive moment to strike.
At the rear of the formation, countless skeletons and zombies were regrouping once more. No matter how forceful or relentless the allied assault was, the undead remained eerily silent, flowing like water to quietly refill every gap that had been torn open. The stillness of death was also its solemnity.
Regardless of whether victory or defeat awaited them in the end, the warriors on the outermost lines had no chance of escape. A faint sheen of sweat appeared on Asa's forehead, but his grip on the hilt of his knife remained as steady as ever. The familiar, dry texture of the handle felt reassuring—solid, warm, and as natural as flesh fitting against flesh.
The charge continued. The killing never stopped. The air was filled with shouts, the clash of weapons against bone, and the sharp crack of splintering skeletons. Together with the priests' sacred hymns, these sounds wove into a strange yet grand symphony. Shattered fragments of undead fell like snow, like rain. Time seemed to freeze within this relentless slaughter—nothing remained but the charge and the killing.
It felt as though a hundred years had passed. Then, suddenly, the scent of blood tinged the air. At the same time, the army's advance seemed to falter, just slightly.
The shouts, the pounding hooves, and the clash of steel against bone continued as before. Bathed in holy light, the charge seemed unstoppable. Yet, Asa felt a faint resistance—like a fish swimming swiftly through water, only to suddenly hit a thick patch of oil.
"It has begun." It wasn't just his imagination. Lancelote and Roland sensed it too. "Earlier than expected," Lancelote noted.
"Which position are we at now? Twenty-three or twenty-four?" Roland asked.
"Around twenty-five miles. Fifteen more to go," Lancelote answered simply.
"Do we strike now?"
"Wait a moment." This time, it was Grutt. Since the charge had begun, he had remained silent, gripping the black Phantom Devine Bow while galloping forward. "Let Orford's men handle this for now. Trust them."
A scream echoed from the front lines, followed by a burst of magical explosions. Lancelote, Roland, and Grutt remained expressionless, continuing forward on horseback. But Asa knew—the real battle had begun.
The scream had come from the vanguard of the allied forces. A soldier, along with his horse, was blasted into the air by an explosive fireball. When he landed, a massive skeletal beast impaled him through the torso with the horn on its head.
He wasn't the first to die—he was simply the only one who had the chance to scream before death took him.
The sky remained a vast, devouring darkness. The outer edges of the battlefield were still swarmed with endless undead, stretching as far as the eye could see. But these were no longer just brittle skeletons and slow-moving zombies. Now, they wielded weapons—skeletal warriors and armored zombies. Towering bone monstrosities charged forward like living war machines, while translucent specters hovered ominously in the air.
The allied army's advance slowed. Their unstoppable charge had turned into a brutal, grinding push. The front-line warriors were no longer fighting to survive—they were hurling themselves into the enemy ranks with suicidal determination. They no longer cared about the swords and axes in the hands of the undead. They only cared about one thing—swinging their weapons as many times as possible before they fell, pushing themselves and their mounts one step further into the abyss.
The waves of battle no longer consisted solely of shattered undead remains. Now, streaks of crimson joined the fray—once they appeared, there was no stopping them, no turning back. The cries of dying soldiers and the shrieks of their steeds intertwined with the war chants and hymns. Flesh and blood were torn asunder.
The frontline warriors spilled their own lifeblood over the skeletal and zombified bodies of their foes. Yet, the moment they fell, their corpses were instantly tainted by the black miasma of undeath. However, before the dark energy could fully corrupt and reanimate them, the relentless charge of their comrades trampled them underfoot—along with the undead—reducing them all to dust beneath the storm of divine light and thundering hooves. Not even their remains were left behind.
Ahead, in the distance, a mass of absolute darkness loomed. Even amidst this already lightless sea of death, that blackness stood out—so deep, so stark, so absolute. It was a shadow that stretched from the earth to the sky, towering over the battlefield.
Fifteen more miles.
Yet, the charge had begun to slow. The once fluid momentum of the cavalry was now hindered by the sheer density of the enemy forces. The undead no longer stood idle like lifeless puppets, awaiting destruction. The battlefield churned with motion—giant skeletal monstrosities and liches gathered, their eerie figures converging upon the advancing army. No longer were they merely facing ordinary skeletons and zombies. Now, the air exploded with death magic, as liches cast their spells, unfurling blooming flowers of destruction across the battlefield.
The army pushed forward for a few more miles, but the cost was devastating. Their numbers had already been cut in half.