The black doors opened—
—and the world broke open.
Room Six was not a room.
It was a battlefield.
A vast, war-scarred plain stretched beyond sight, the ground cracked and soaked with old death. Broken weapons jutted from the earth like grave markers. Tens of thousands of corpses lay scattered—some ancient, some disturbingly fresh—eyes glowing faintly as dark energy stitched them together.
Undead.
More than ten thousand.
A throne of bone and black iron sat at the far end of the field. Upon it lounged a man draped in shadowed robes, one leg crossed casually over the other, chin resting on his hand. His presence was heavy—not just a low deity, but a high low-deity, hovering at the brink of something greater.
He smiled slowly.
"Oh?" he said, amused.
"Interesting… a weird yet aligned group. Don't you think?"
Eryndor stepped forward, hands relaxed at his sides, storm energy humming quietly beneath his skin.
"At least you get it," Eryndor replied with a grin.
"But don't worry about us—we'll be aiite."
The man chuckled.
Eryndor glanced back briefly at his team, then spoke calmly—almost casually.
"Quick reminder," he said.
"Divine ranks go Low Deity, Mid Deity, High Deity, then True God. Anything past that… isn't relevant today."
His gaze returned to the throne.
Then his smile sharpened.
"So do what Atlas does best," Eryndor said.
"Send your minions to their deaths."
The man on the throne laughed—a deep, pleased sound.
"I'm Grim," he said, standing at last.
"Number Six of Atlas."
Dark magic rolled off him like smoke.
"A master of necromancy, curses, and death itself."
He lifted one hand lazily, then sat back down.
"Fine. I'll give you what you asked for."
He waved.
The battlefield answered.
Thousands of undead surged forward in a tidal wave of rotting armor, broken blades, and glowing eyes—howling with unnatural hunger as the earth shook beneath their charge.
Behind them, Grim watched with a smile.
The team didn't retreat.
They smiled.
Kaelus stepped forward, drawing the sword Aldric had given him. He raised it upright, hilt pressed to his chest, blade pointed skyward as the wind gathered around him.
"I name you," he said calmly,
"Tempest Blade."
The wind howled in response.
Rein cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders.
"Aiite," he said simply.
"Let's get it."
Stellar's smile turned sharp and dangerous as frost crept across the ground. Ice began forming in the air itself—dozens of spears, suspended above the charging undead, waiting for her command.
Darius stepped forward once.
Just once.
His shadow stretched impossibly long, slithering across the battlefield toward the dead like a living thing.
And Eryndor—
Eryndor inhaled deeply.
The sky darkened.
Massive storm clouds rolled overhead, winds screaming as dark-blue lightning cracked violently within them. The pressure of the storm bore down on the battlefield like judgment itself.
Grim leaned forward on his throne, eyes gleaming.
"Oh?" he murmured.
"This should be fun."
The undead army closed in.
And the storm descended.