The grand army, led by Alrasia, had nearly been annihilated. The tens of thousands of elite warriors—each one chosen from a hundred—had already been reduced to nothing more than a blood-soaked battlefield, their bodies shredded into unrecognizable carnage during the brutal twenty-mile advance.
Yet, despite this staggering loss, the army's charge did not slow. In fact, it suddenly accelerated.
Because now, the ones leading the assault were no longer human warriors—they were Orford's orcs.
Even after running on foot alongside the cavalry for over twenty miles, not a single orc showed the slightest sign of exhaustion. On the contrary, the blood-drenched battlefield had only fueled their battlelust to a boiling point, and now, it was ready to erupt.
No longer did they wield swords, spears, or shields like human soldiers. Instead, they brandished massive weapons of brutal destruction—flails, meteor hammers, spiked maces, and great axes so large they could be mistaken for siege weapons.
Moreover, this was not a force of frail lizardfolk or half-orcs. No, those who now surged forward were the strongest of their kind—towering werewolves, hulking ogres, and even a few minotaurs who recently came from Nigen.
The priests among the army and the orc shamans simultaneously unleashed their supportive magic. Amid the sacred white glow of divine magic, there was also the distinct crimson hue of the orcs' Bloodlust spell. The raging beasts roared, swinging their colossal weapons with reckless abandon as they surged forward.
No matter how massive or reinforced, bones were still just bones. Even the towering skeletal behemoths, nearly ten meters tall, crumbled under the orcs' frenzied assault. They were hacked down and shattered into pieces before they could even resist. Zombies and skeletons were even more fragile, they were broken apart like dried charcoal at the slightest impact.
Only a handful of liches managed to retaliate, their magic flaring from all directions, striking the orcs in bursts of elemental destruction. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and volleys of ice shards rained down upon them. Yet the orcs neither dodged nor flinched. With the priests' protective spells bolstering them and their sheer brute strength, they charged through the magical bombardment, smashing both the skeletal corpses and the spells cast against them into dust.
Under their furious roars and relentless carnage, the army's advance regained momentum, carving an even larger, more violent, and more dazzling wake of undead debris.
But as they pressed forward for several more miles, the darkness in the air thickened. At this point of the sea of darkness, the undead were no longer the mindless, puppet-like creatures of the outer perimeters. They moved with greater agility, resilience, and—most disturbingly—some level of intelligence.
From all directions, countless liches began to converge. The number of magical projectiles multiplied instantly, filling the sky with a relentless storm of fireballs and lightning, cascading down like a deadly rain upon the charging orcs.
Dozens of air elementals finally rose from within the allied army, carrying with them a group of archmages. As they ascended, an incredibly dazzling wave of magical energy burst forth from their hands.
Unlike the liches' magic, the archmages numbered only in the dozens, and thus, they cast only a few dozen spells. However, these were not mere lightning bolts, ice shards, or fireballs like those of the liches. Instead, they unleashed dozens of Blazing Fireball.
Blazing spheres, each as radiant as a miniature sun, shot out in all directions in a circular pattern. In that instant, even the boundless darkness was torn apart. Not even the oppressive aura of the Black Star could suppress the sheer heat of these top-tier fire spells. The desolate wasteland, which had felt as cold as the polar ice caps, was instantly transformed into a scorching inferno—hot enough to cook an egg in mere moments. And in the next instant, it became a searing hell.
Any undead caught near the explosions were instantly reduced to ashes, while everything in the vicinity warped and cracked under the extreme temperatures. The sheer destructive force of these combined fire spells was nearly on par with a Forbidden Spell.
Even at a distance of more than half a mile, the Blazing Fireball gradually dissipated, consumed by the lingering darkness in the air. Yet within a radius of half a mile around the army, nothing remained. The ground beneath them was no longer sand but a glassy crystalline surface, forged by the intense heat.
The allied forces, however, remained completely unharmed. At the very moment the fire mages unleashed their devastating magic, an immense curtain of water had formed around the army's perimeter, shielding them from the inferno's wrath.
Edwina, standing beside Lancelote, was pale. Her Heavenly Water Veil was a grandmaster-level spell, considered one of the finest defensive magics. However, even though it had only lasted a brief moment and had not been cast at full strength, the sheer scale of the spell had nearly exceeded the limits of human capability.
She did not pause. Without hesitation, she mounted an air elemental, which lifted her into the sky as she flew alone toward the frontlines.
"Now is the time—no need to hold back any reserves. Full assault!"
With Lancelote and Roland's command, the Holy Knights, who had been conserving their strength in the rear, surged forward, joining forces with the now-exhausted orc legions. The empty space scorched clean by the Blazing Fireball was filled within mere breaths, as undead poured in from all directions to replace the fallen.
Suddenly, the sky above erupted in dazzling arcs of electricity, followed by a downpour of lightning spheres and bolts cascading like torrential rain. High above, Edwina unleashed two powerful magic scrolls, artifacts passed down from the great Air Magic Master, Aiden. Each jade pendant she carried contained the distilled essence of that legendary mage's power.
In that moment, the sky—once swallowed by the darkness of the Black Star—seemed to awaken. It roared. It raged.
The deafening crashes of thunder shook the battlefield as hundreds of lightning bolts and spheres rained down in a relentless barrage. The very ground ahead was torn asunder, launching earth and sand skyward, reducing countless zombies and skeletons into mere fragments, scattering their remains like dust upon the wind.
Seizing the moment, the allied forces charged forward, pushing ahead through the swirling storm of ash and undead remnants, pressing ever closer to their final target.
After advancing several more miles, the allied forces finally found themselves slowing to a halt.
Their weapons never ceased swinging—each strike was faster, fiercer, and more desperate than the last—but their legs could no longer carry them forward.
The black miasma in the air had grown so thick it felt almost tangible. Every warhorse had already collapsed, shuddering and wailing in agony. Even the priests' holy magic could no longer withstand the oppressive deathly aura. Each breath felt as if they were inhaling a mass of rotten, poisoned needles that tore at their insides. The deathly energy worked from both within and without, consuming every shred of life with ruthless efficiency.
The undead tide was no longer the eerie, silent force it had been before. The sea of death had begun to boil. Skeletons and zombies no longer lumbered forward aimlessly—they sprinted, they leapt, they surged forth with agility and precision rivaling that of elite warriors. These were no longer mindless corpses. These were former knights, swordsmen, and warriors of great skill, now transformed into high-level undead. Some had even slumbered in the cursed depths of Dehya Valley for a thousand years, their power festering and growing. No longer could the orcs' charge crush them as easily as before.
Kill. Cut. Slash. Smash. Charge. Crash. Kill again.
The orcs howled in rage, their massive weapons swinging with frenzied force. For every limb the undead tore from them—every chunk of flesh bitten or hacked away—they paid back tenfold, pulverizing the enemy into shattered bones and crimson mist.
They were beyond reason now. The battle had driven them into a frenzy where logic no longer existed—only fury, bloodlust, and the desperate instinct to fight until nothing remained.
They roared. They hacked. They charged—toward a path that no longer had an exit.
The ground trembled with a slow, ominous rumble. A row of colossal undead creatures was charging toward them. Unlike before, when such monstrosities only appeared sporadically, these behemoths now advanced in a disciplined formation.
Among them were skeletal behemoths, draconic remains, and towering humanoid zombies over ten meters tall—legendary Titan Giants. These were ancient beings long lost to history, their corpses having turned to dust and stone, buried deep beneath the earth for millennia. But now, their spirits—imprisoned within the Black Star's abyss—had been released, reanimating the remnants of their bodies from the depths.
In the sky, the scattered ghosts that once hesitated at the army's holy light had shed their fear. Now, they swarmed in overwhelming numbers, blotting out the heavens like a raging blizzard. But instead of white snowflakes, the storm was made of endless, translucent gray faces twisted in spectral agony.
The army's archmages unleashed massive waves of elemental magic, blasting apart the phantasmal horde. Entire swaths of ghosts were incinerated in elemental infernos—yet for every specter destroyed, more surged forward to take its place.
The mages could not hold out much longer. Their bodies were only slightly stronger than ordinary humans, and without the priests' protective holy magic, the sheer corruption in the air would have already transformed them into new recruits for the liches' army. Now, as the holy light flickered and waned beneath the oppressive presence of the Black Star, the mages' faces grew as pallid and lifeless as the undead they fought.
Only a few miles remained. Just a few miles to that densest, deepest darkness. But those few miles felt farther than eternity itself.
Then, a piercing whistle rang through the sky. A lone figure slowly rose from the coalition forces, shining as brilliantly as the rising sun—not with light, but with sword energy.
Within the ranks of the holy knights, every swordsman raised their blade to the heavens. Above them stood their captain—Roland.
Over a hundred sword auras shot skyward, uneven yet fierce. At their center, Roland gathered them into a single, immense sword light, a force beyond comprehension. And then, like the celestial river cascading from the ninth heaven, he descended—sword first—into the ocean of undead.
He landed. He struck.
A crisp, deafening crack echoed through the battlefield.
It was as if the entire undead tide had been split in two. There was no dramatic explosion—just a clean, silent severing. Every undead in his path was sliced neatly in half, the cleaved line stretching all the way into the deepest heart of the darkness.
At that moment, a massive white light sword shot from the coalition's formation, streaking down the path Roland had carved. Behind the sword, several figures charged forward.
The last— and strongest—warriors of the army had finally moved, advancing toward the blackest of the black.