Six months had passed since the new souls arrived in Nether.
Every day was the same.
The labor camps were a world of broken backs and broken spirits.
Weak souls were crushed. The strong were pushed beyond endurance.
Hope was a luxury no one could afford.
Every soul learned quickly: this world did not forgive mistakes.
It did not care for grief.
It only demanded survival.
But survival alone was no longer enough.
One morning, the sky above Nether darkened unnaturally.
A chill ran through the barren lands.
The air vibrated with a force unlike anything the laborers had ever felt.
Heaven had come.
The attack was not sudden.
It had been planned for months.
The previous major war, only a year ago, had left Nether broken.
Most of the veteran soldiers, tacticians, and border experts were dead or injured.
The surviving forces had barely recovered.
The border camps were understaffed and underprepared.
And Heaven knew it.
Hidden beneath the borderlands, three of Heaven's mages waited.
Buried deep underground, away from the army, they were a secret weapon.
When the signal came, the mages sacrificed themselves.
The explosions shook the earth like dying worlds.
The walls of Nether's three major border camps shattered.
The ground split open, and fire erupted from beneath.
Soldiers were thrown through the air, crushed under rubble, or burned alive.
Heaven's army surged through the breach.
The survivors tried to fight, but confusion and fear spread faster than strategy.
Nether's defenders were scattered, disorganized, and weak.
By the time the smoke cleared, nearly ten thousand souls of Nether lay dead.
Cries of the dying echoed across the ruined camps.
The blood soaked the ground.
The walls, once proud symbols of defense, were shattered and charred.
The surviving soldiers trembled, hearts heavy with despair.
No one could count all the dead.
No one could comfort the living.
And still, the Heaven army advanced.
Everywhere, the smell of smoke and blood lingered.
The borderlands had become a graveyard.
The war had claimed thousands of lives before a single sword had fully clashed.
No one knew who would survive the next hour.
No one knew if Nether could hold the line.
And in the endless sky above, Heaven's banners rippled with quiet pride.
Deep within the heart of Nether, the castle loomed like a shadow carved from stone.
Its towers pierced the dim sky, and its walls seemed to swallow all light.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy.
Smoke from distant fires seeped through the cracks.
The only light came from a single candle flickering at the center of a long, obsidian table.
Its flame danced, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone walls.
Around the table sat five generals, their faces hidden in darkness, eyes sharp and unyielding.
The candlelight reflected in the sharp edges of their armor, glinting like cold metal.
At the head of the table sat the Nether King.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
The mere presence of his shadow silenced the room.
Even the flickering candle seemed to dim under his gaze.
For long moments, the room was silent.
The only sound was the faint dripping of water from the ceiling.
The generals stared at each other, searching for signs of weakness.
But there were none.
Every soul in that room carried the same weight: fear, discipline, and relentless determination.
Finally, the Nether King leaned forward, his face half-hidden in shadows.
His voice was low, measured, and sharp, like steel scraping stone.
"Reports from the border… the damage is worse than we feared."
The candle flickered violently as if in response.
One of the generals spoke, voice steady but tense:
"Nearly ten thousand soldiers… lost. The three camps have fallen. Our defenses are shattered."
Another added, his tone colder than ice:
"And the survivors are scattered. Morale is broken. They cannot hold another assault."
The King remained silent, staring at the candle's flame as if measuring its strength.
Then, without turning his gaze to anyone, he said:
"Silence. Do not speak of failure here. Failure is a word for the weak… and we are not weak."
The room fell silent again.
Even the air seemed to shiver.
Outside the castle walls, the wind howled over the shattered lands.
The fires of battle burned in the distance.
But within the stone fortress, the King and his generals prepared themselves.
Silently.
Patiently.
For in Nether, even in the darkest night… power belonged to those who could wait.
Far away, in the labor camp, a strange hush fell over the rows of exhausted souls.
Every pair of eyes turned toward the horizon.
Every head tilted, every breath frozen.
Something was coming.
Something heavy.
Something that made even the most broken souls stop in place.
The distant rumble of countless footsteps reached their ears.
The faint glint of armor caught the dying light.
The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the approach of an army marching toward them.
And for the first time in months… the laborers did not move.
They could only watch.
And wait.