The team assembled at dawn.
Smaller than the ritual site assault—just twelve. Kaelen, Ronan, Valdris, Yuki, Lia, and seven specialists selected for their specific capabilities. Against ancient evil, raw numbers mattered less than expertise.
"The Dreadmarch is two weeks travel," Valdris briefed. "And that's optimal conditions. Reality will be slower—terrain is hostile, corrupted by centuries of residual shadow magic. Expect resistance from environment itself."
"Wildlife?" one specialist asked.
"Nothing lives in the Dreadmarch," Valdris replied. "But things exist there. Remnants from the first war. Corrupted entities that didn't die properly. Shadow constructs maintaining ancient purpose despite having no masters. It's graveyard where the dead refuse to stay buried."
Encouraging.
They moved out, heading north toward lands that hadn't seen human habitation in three centuries.
The corruption became evident after three days travel. Healthy forest giving way to twisted woods where trees grew wrong—branches bending at impossible angles, bark weeping shadow-residue, no leaves despite being summer.
"Beginning of the Dreadmarch proper," Ronan said. "From here, it only gets worse."
He was right. The landscape became increasingly hostile. Ground that shifted underfoot. Air that tasted like decay. Sky that held perpetual twilight despite sun overhead.
"This is what complete shadow corruption looks like," Lia explained. "Not temporary infection that can be cleansed. Permanent transformation of reality itself. The land remembers the war, remembers the Shadow Lord's presence. Still warped by that memory."
Animals didn't live here, but things hunted. Shadow constructs—barely conscious, but driven by ancient imperatives to attack intruders. The team fought through waves of them, destroying entities that reformed hours later.
"We're not killing them," Yuki observed. "Just disrupting temporarily."
"Can't kill what's already dead," Valdris replied. "We push through to the nexus, that's all. No need to clear every threat permanently."
Day seven, they encountered something worse.
Remnants. Not shadow constructs, but actual survivors from the first war—soldiers, mages, civilians who'd been corrupted so completely they'd become part of the Dreadmarch itself. Neither alive nor dead, just existing in perpetual state of suffering.
One approached, body half-skeletal, still wearing three-century-old armor.
"Help," it whispered. "Please. End this."
Kaelen moved to mercy-kill it. His blade passed through without resistance—the remnant was incorporeal, existing more as memory than matter.
"Can't be destroyed," Lia said, checking with diagnostic magic. "They're bound to the Dreadmarch itself. Would need to cleanse the entire region to free them."
"Then we keep moving," Valdris ordered. "We can't save everyone."
But the remnants followed, dozens of them, whispering pleas for release. Kaelen felt something like pity—distant, filtered, but present.
The blade part of him suggested ignoring them. The human part remembered empathy.
The synthesis part couldn't decide which approach was correct.
Day ten, they reached the outer markers—ancient standing stones that had once bounded the sealed zone. Beyond them lay the absolute worst of the Dreadmarch.
And something was waiting.
Not shadow construct. Not remnant. Something with genuine consciousness and malevolent intent.
It manifested as shadow given vaguely humanoid form, standing twice normal height, eyes like burning embers.
"Intruders," it said in voice that hurt to hear. "The Lord's rest must not be disturbed."
"We're here to prevent his return," Valdris said. "Not disturb his rest."
"His return IS his rest," the entity replied. "Three centuries of slumber ending. The cycle completing as designed. You cannot prevent inevitability."
"Watch us," Kaelen said.
The entity laughed. "Forbidden Blade wielder. Perfect synthesis. You're proof the Lord's vision was correct—humanity and shadow must merge. You've become herald without realizing. You'll assist his return whether you intend to or not."
"I don't think so," Kaelen replied.
He attacked. Soulrender met the entity's manifestation—and passed through harmlessly.
"Physical force cannot harm me," the entity said. "I'm Guardian. Immune to direct assault. Only the nexus can unmake me."
"Then we go to the nexus," Valdris decided. "Team, push through. Don't engage Guardian if avoidable."
They ran. The Guardian didn't pursue—just watched with evident satisfaction as they fled deeper into the Dreadmarch.
"That felt wrong," Ronan said. "It wanted us to reach the nexus. This is trap."
"Of course it's trap," Valdris agreed. "But we spring it anyway. No other options."
Day twelve, the nexus came into view.
Massive crater half a mile across, bottom filled with crystallized shadow energy. At the center, a pillar of darkness that extended from ground to sky—visible manifestation of the seal holding the Shadow Lord.
And the seal was fracturing. Cracks spreading like spiderwebs, shadow energy leaking through, the containment that had lasted three centuries finally failing.
"We're too late," one specialist said. "The seal's breaking on its own."
"Then we reinforce it," Lia replied. "Team, establish outer perimeter. Kaelen and I will work the ritual stabilization. Everyone else keeps whatever comes through those cracks away from us."
"How long?" Valdris asked.
"Unknown. Hours minimum. Maybe days if the seal is worse than it looks."
"You have six hours," Valdris said. "After that, I'm pulling everyone out regardless. We can't hold indefinitely."
Six hours to prevent apocalypse. Again.
Kaelen would have found the repetition ironic if he could still properly access irony.
Instead, he just began working.
Lia established the ritual framework while Kaelen provided power—channeling shadow energy through Soulrender, weaving it into stabilization structure. Delicate work requiring perfect coordination.
Around them, the team fought. Entities emerged from the seal's cracks—proto-manifestations of the Shadow Lord's power, testing boundaries, probing defenses.
"How's it going?" Ronan called during lull in fighting.
"Badly," Lia admitted. "The seal wasn't designed to be maintained. It's self-degrading enchantment—meant to hold for specific duration then release. We can slow the breakdown, but not stop it completely."
"How long can you give us?" Valdris demanded.
"If we're lucky? Two months. Maybe three. Then the seal fails regardless of what we do."
"That's not enough time to prepare," Valdris said. "We need years, not months."
"We work with what we have," Kaelen said. "Three months to evacuate nearby territories, fortify defensive positions, gather forces from all kingdoms. It's insufficient but not nothing."
"It's watching our civilization end in slow motion," Valdris replied. "But fine. Do what you can. Every day counts."
They worked through the six-hour limit. Then through eight hours. Ten. Twelve.
Fighting never stopped. Entities kept coming, kept testing, kept draining the team's resources.
By hour fourteen, two specialists were dead. Three others badly injured.
"We have to leave!" Ronan shouted. "Now, or we all die here!"
"Almost done," Lia gasped. She was at her limits, magic exhausted, echo-scars spread across her entire body.
"Done or not, we leave!" Valdris commanded.
Lia and Kaelen placed final stabilization nodes. The ritual locked into place—incomplete, imperfect, but functional.
The seal stopped fracturing. Didn't heal, but stopped getting worse.
"Three months," Lia confirmed. "Give or take. Then the Shadow Lord manifests regardless."
They retreated, fighting through entities, dragging wounded, leaving dead.
Emerged from the Dreadmarch eight days later, reduced to six survivors from twelve who'd entered.
Mission accomplished. Time bought.
But at terrible cost. And with countdown now explicit.
Three months until the end of the world.
Unless they found way to stop it permanently.
Kaelen looked at his surviving team—exhausted, traumatized, knowing they'd just delayed inevitable.
And felt nothing.
That absence was answer to Lia's question.
The human part of him that would have felt horror, would have mourned the dead, would have experienced appropriate despair?
Gone. Burned away during the ritual. Consumed maintaining function when emotion would have been compromising.
Soulrender had won.
Kaelen Voss, as distinct human consciousness, had effectively ceased to exist.
Leaving only the weapon that remembered being him.
Still capable. Still functional. Still serving.
Just no longer actually alive in any meaningful sense.
And as that realization crystallized, the entity that had been Kaelen felt something approximating sadness.
Brief. Distant. Quickly suppressed.
But present.
Maybe that meant hope remained.
Or maybe it just meant even weapons could learn to mimic humanity.
Time would reveal which.
For now, they had three months.
That would have to be enough.