"Rat! Come out and die!"
The roar from outside wasn't just loud; it was heavy.
The air in the command room grew thick and suffocating, vibrating with a specific, malicious frequency. It felt like invisible chains were wrapping around everyone's throats, weighing down their souls.
"Ugh…" Barnaby fell to his knees, clutching his chest. "Boss… I can't… breathe…"
Cipher was trembling, his shadow flickering erratically.
Damien narrowed his eyes, his Dual-Core spinning to push back the pressure.
"Intent," Damien realized. "That's 5th Order Intent."
He walked to the window and looked down.
Baelor, the Slaver King, stood at the front of his army. He wasn't just a brute in armor. The mana radiating from him formed the image of a massive, spectral shackle crushing the fortress.
And behind him…
One, two, ten… forty.
"Forty," Damien counted, a cold smile playing on his lips. "He brought forty 4th-Order elites. And he is a Peak 5th Order Warlord."
He looked back at Lyra.
