The betrayal of the Giants and a host of races once deemed the core of the world fell like a mortal blow.
Dragvar Fortress — the stronghold and pride of the Elder Legion — was utterly exposed. Secret maps, defensive lines, and even backup teleportation gates were laid bare before the enemy.
The battle to defend Dragvar… was no longer a battle.
It was a mass execution.
A grave dug with blood and betrayal.
And yet, amidst the scorched earth, crimson skies, and the howls of despair echoing through every cracked stone — there were still beings who refused to kneel.
The Dragon Lords.
The pride of a supreme species did not allow them to turn away.
Not because of any order — but because of who they were.
They understood: if this fortress fell, there would be no other line left to hold the enemy back.
And so, they stood.
Not to win — but to delay.
To buy every last second… for their allies to escape.
After the blood-soaked siege of Dragvar, the spirits of the warriors were nearly broken.
They no longer wished to fight.
Not because they feared death, but because in their eyes, the enemy had become despair incarnate — beings invincible to any blade, immune to all prayers.
Faith shattered not from failure… but from betrayal.
The Giant race — their oldest allies — had turned. And they were not alone.
Many races once called brethren succumbed to the temptation of survival.
They bent the knee to the Outer Gods.
They offered up their allies in exchange for a wretched existence — cowering beneath the cold gaze of the cosmos.
The world felt strangled beneath the invisible grip of betrayal and fear.
Among the 47 Primordial Giants — ancient beings born from stone, ice, and wind —
One knelt before the Dwarves' forge, removed the armor of flesh that wrapped his form, and tore out his blazing heart with his own hands — an apology offered to the world.
And before he closed his eyes, he left behind a final plea:
"Use this heart… to forge a weapon. One mighty enough to change the tide, to give the living a chance to defy the end."
But the invaders were already near.
The aged warriors — the final pillars of resistance — were not yet ready.
When the grim news arrived, panic surged.
None sought weapons. They fled, consumed by hopelessness.
Fear smothered the last flickers of hope.
It was in that moment of chaos… that a great Saintess stepped into the square, where cries and despair hung heavy in the air.
She began to sing —
A voice clear and warm as morning dew, soft yet stirring, reaching into the depths of every warrior's heart.
A flame in the night, her song rekindled the will to rise.
One by one, they calmed.
Trembling hands reached once more for forgotten blades.
Their eyes began to burn with light.
Her song didn't just echo through the camp —
It soared across ashen skies, through forests and over peaks —
And it reached the hearts of the remaining Primordial Giants.
They heard.
And they understood.
They took each other's hands and began to dance —
An ancient dance known to the watchers as: The Dance of the Mountains.
From deep within the earth, stone trembled.
Mountains rose — tall, proud, forming a colossal fortress that shielded the skies.
A bulwark born of despair…
But also a testament to the world's final courage.
And it spread not only to the Primordial Giants…
…but across the world.
Like a call from the soul's deepest place, it echoed into every corner —
The coldest caves where forgotten creatures hid,
The darkest lands where light had never touched,
And even the ancient peaks asleep since time's dawn.
Those who once cowered, who once fled from war, now stepped from the shadows.
They no longer ran.
They marched toward the Elder Legion's new bastion.
They came to fight.
Warriors — descendants of chieftains once slaughtered beneath the enemy's claws — now gathered, vowing to cleanse their kin's blood with flame and vengeance.
The Celestials
— with their divine powers, joined by the Saintly Ones — forged 39 masterpieces: weapons and creations of sacred might.
They bestowed them upon young leaders — unyielding flames yet to flicker.
And the Kings —
Weary of watching their kin perish,
— offered both flesh and soul.
They cried out in unison, awakening the Elder Gods —
Entities born from the first tremors of the world.
Hell, in its frenzied pride and refusal to accept defeat, played its final card.
This time, it unleashed everything.
From the deepest layers of the Abyss, every gate was torn open —
As if flesh were being ripped from space itself.
Demons poured forth:
From lowly beasts of screams and teeth
To terrible entities of monstrous power.
All were summoned.
They did not fight for ideals.
Nor loyalty.
They fought for the lust of slaughter.
Hell chose to battle — not to save the world, but to avoid being devoured with it.
Across the battlefields, Death began to move.
No voice. No footsteps.
Only the creeping chill —
As if life itself were being drawn from every breath.
They did not fight.
They collected.
Each fallen soul was chained —
Invisible links stretching into the realm of the dead.
And then —
The Soul Gate opened once more.
From the beyond, an army stepped forth.
No flesh. No heartbeat.
Only hatred, shaped into warriors.
Each fallen being…
Became a flame,
Feeding the eternal legion.