The betrayal of the Giants and numerous core races struck like a fatal blow. Dragvar Fortress—the heart and pride of the Elder Legion—was laid bare. Secret maps, defense lines, even the backup teleport gates—all were unveiled to the enemy.
The defense of Dragvar was no longer a battle. It had become a mass execution: a communal tomb dug with blood and betrayal.
Yet amid the scorched earth, blood-red sky, and the echoes of despair rattling through cracked stone, some refused to kneel.
The Dragon Lords.
Their pride—an inheritance of a supreme race—would not allow retreat. Not out of duty, but out of dignity.
They understood well: once this fortress fell, no further line of defense would hold.
So they stood and fought. Not to win—but to delay. To buy precious seconds for their allies to escape.
After the bloody siege of Dragvar, the warriors' spirits shattered.
They had lost the will to fight—not out of fear of death, but because their enemy now felt like the embodiment of hopelessness—beings that no blade could pierce, no prayer could save them.
Their faith collapsed—not due to defeat, but betrayal.
The Giants—their oldest allies—had turned, and they were not alone.
Many once-brother races had crumbled under survival's lure.
They knelt before the Outer God, selling out their comrades for a hollow life, cowering beneath the cold gaze of the cosmos.
The world felt suffocated—crushed by unseen hands of betrayal and fear.
Among the 47 Primordial Giants—ancient beings born of stone, ice, and wind—one knelt at the dwarves' forge.
He shed the armor of flesh from his body, and with his own hands tore out his blazing heart—a final apology to the world.
He handed it to the dwarves, that they might forge a weapon capable of shifting fate's course.
But the invaders closed in fast.
The veteran warriors—the last bastions of resistance—were not ready.
When this dreadful news spread, panic erupted. No one reached for their weapons; they ran. Drowning in despair. Fear snuffed out every remaining spark of hope.
In that moment of chaos… a grand Saintess stepped forth into the central plaza, where tears and anguish hovered in the air.
She began to sing— Her voice was clear and warm as morning dew, tender yet stirring—touching the very soul of every warrior.
Like a flame igniting in the darkness, her song rekindled their will to fight.
One by one, they regained calm.
Hands trembling, they reached for those forgotten swords.
Their eyes reignited with purpose.
Her song did not end at the camp—it soared across dusty skies, through forests and high mountains—
Reaching the ears of the remaining Primordial Giants.
They listened.
They understood.
They clasped hands and began to dance— An ancient rite observers called: The Dance of Mountains.
From deep within the earth, the bedrock quaked.
Mountains rose—proud and towering—forming a colossal fortress that sheltered the sky.
A bastion born from despair… But more so, a testament to the world's final defiance.
And this beacon did not only call to the Primordial Giants… It spread throughout the world.
Like a cry from the deepest soul, it resonated everywhere— The coldest caves where forgotten creatures cowered,
The darkest lands untouched by light,
Even atop ancient peaks that had slept since creation.
Those who once trembled and hid from war now emerged. They ran no more.
They marched toward the new fortress of the Elder Legion. They came to fight.
Warriors—the descendants of leaders butchered by the enemy—gathered together, vowing to purge their land's blood with flames of vengeance.
The Celestials—wielding divine might, joined by the Saints—created thirty-nine Masterpieces: weapons and artifacts of sacred power.
They passed them to the young heroes—embers that still burned.
And the Monarchs, tired of watching their people slaughtered,
offered their bodies and souls.
Together they invoked the Ancient Ones—entities born from the primal upheavals of the world.
Hell, in its fiery rage and proud refusal of defeat, played its last hand.
This time, it unleashed everything.
From the Abyss's deepest chasms, gates tore open— As if the flesh of reality itself had been ripped apart.
Demons flooded out: From lowly beasts of fang and roar,
To monstrous beings of terrifying might— All summoned.
They rallied to the Elder Legion—not for honor, not for loyalty—
But for bloodlust.
Hell chose to fight—not to save the world,
But to avoid being consumed by it.
Across the battlefields, the Reapers moved. No voices. No footsteps. Only the creeping chill of life being drained from each breath.
They didn't fight. They harvested.
Every fallen soul was chained—
Invisible links stretching to death's door.
Then—the Soul Gate reopened.
From the other side marched another army. No flesh. No hearts. Only pure hatred, forged into warriors.
Each fallen being… Became a spark. Fueling an unceasing legion.