The night in Idlib turned into a living nightmare.
The Night Lords descended like living phantoms, wreathed in darkness. Clad in midnight-blue ceramite adorned with leering skulls and jagged bat wings, they moved with the silence of tombs—death incarnate, wrapped in shadow.
Every blow was a cruel offering to terror—chainswords and lightning claws carved through flesh and armor, blood painting the walls like grotesque murals. But it wasn't just the slaughter—they weaponized agony.
The screams of the rebels, raw and soul-wrenching, howled through the city. It echoed from alley to rooftop, from home to home, waking children and driving hardened men to weep in fear.
At the heart of the massacre stood the tallest Night Lord, his armor soaked in gore. He raised a dismembered head high and spoke in a voice colder than a grave:
"You thought you could resist? Fear is our crown. Every scream—your unanswered death prayer."
He slowly crushed the skull in his gauntlet, savoring the crunch.
"You won't merely die… You will be forgotten, as if drowned in eternal blackness."
Elsewhere in the shadows, other Night Lords whispered directly into the minds of their prey—visions of hell, lies of betrayal, and the screams of already-dead comrades. Many died before the blade ever touched them, broken by fear alone.
Across Idlib, civilians held their breath as inhuman wails painted the sky with horror. They didn't know what had happened—only that the city itself seemed to scream.
The next morning, when UEG forces arrived, hardened veterans staggered back from the scene with hollow, glassy eyes. Not a single soldier returned unscathed — every last one was ordered into psychological care. Even the fiercest among them refused to speak of what they had witnessed.
The city was eerily silent, no sounds of battle or resistance—only a silence that screamed louder than any gunfire.
Inside the hall that once served as the rebel command center, a nightmare unfolded.
The skins of the rebel leaders hung from the ceiling like grotesque trophies, flayed with terrifying precision. Blood was smeared across the walls in erratic, ritualistic patterns, dripping like dark warnings.
In the center of the room, the meeting table had become a macabre canvas.
Corpses were arranged with meticulous cruelty—body parts fused together with tongues, fingers, and severed faces, spelling out massive words visible from above:
"GLORY TO THE NIGHT LORDS."
Beneath it, another chilling message was spelled out:
"THIS MASTERPIECE WAS MADE TO BE SEEN."
The very air seemed to pulse with dread as if the hall itself whispered the madness that had occurred.
Even the most hardened UEG special forces turned pale at the sight. Some vomited. Others trembled uncontrollably. Every soldier who entered that hall was later committed to military psychiatric care—no exceptions. And many of them had once prided themselves as monsters.
This was not just a massacre. It was a signature, a brutal declaration from the Night Lords—a warning that fear is their weapon, and terror their art.