The sky split open.
Massive bolts of dark-blue lightning came crashing down from the storm clouds above—each strike sounding like the judgment of heaven itself.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
Lightning tore through the battlefield in blinding columns of power, vaporizing undead by the hundreds. The ground shattered, craters glowing with residual storm energy as more than half of the ten thousand undead were erased in seconds.
Kaelus whistled.
"Hey bro," he called out with a grin, rolling his shoulders.
"Leave some for me, will you?"
He vanished in a burst of wind.
The moment his feet touched the battlefield, Tempest Blade sang.
Kaelus moved like a living gale—slashes flowing into one another, blade tracing arcs of compressed wind that screamed as they cut. Every strike carried arcane wind energy that disrupted necromantic bindings.
Undead that should've regenerated… didn't.
Their movements slowed. Cracks spread across their bodies where the wind had passed, regeneration stalling as if the air itself rejected them.
Kaelus laughed as he spun through the horde.
"This thing's beautiful!"
Above the field—
Stellar flicked her wrist.
The suspended ice spears dropped.
Thousands of frozen lances fell like a glacial rainstorm, impaling and pinning undead in place. Frost exploded outward on impact, spreading rapidly—freezing legs, arms, entire bodies solid mid-charge.
Ice crept across the battlefield like a living tide.
Stellar stepped forward, calm and elegant, ice blooming with every step she took.
"Stay still," she murmured.
The frozen undead shattered under the pressure of their own halted motion.
Darius raised one hand.
Shadows stretched.
They poured from beneath the undead, wrapping around limbs, torsos—locking them in place like iron restraints.
"Shadow Blade."
He snapped his fingers.
Blades rose from the darkness itself—silent, precise, merciless. The shadows cut, retracted, and struck again, dismantling the undead formations with surgical efficiency.
And then—
Rein jumped in.
"That's what I'm talking about!"
He landed like a meteor, the ground cracking beneath his feet. His fists moved like artillery—one punch sending an undead flying apart, another caving in armor and bone alike.
He grabbed one by the head—
crush—
—and tossed the remains aside before spinning and kicking another so hard it exploded into fragments against the ground.
Rein laughed, eyes blazing.
"Man, I needed this!"
Storm.
Wind.
Ice.
Shadow.
Raw dominion.
The battlefield was no longer a battlefield—
—it was a slaughter.
Within minutes, the undead horde thinned… then broke… then vanished entirely.
Silence fell.
The storm clouds churned overhead.
At the far end of the field, Grim slowly clapped.
"Well done," he said, genuinely amused.
"That was a good performance."
The last traces of necromantic energy faded from the battlefield.
"But," Grim continued, standing from his throne,
"I know you can do better."
His smile sharpened.
"You didn't make it this far by fighting fodder."
He released his aura.
The pressure slammed down on the battlefield like a collapsing sky. Dark magic surged, twisting the air, pressing against their bodies, their souls.
Grim's voice echoed.
"So I won't underestimate you."
His eyes locked onto them.
"I'll take you all on—for real."
The team didn't falter.
They smiled.
Lightning crackled around Eryndor as he stepped forward, storm winds roaring behind him.
He grinned.
"Alright then," he said.
"Let's rock."
The storm answered.