The King marched at the center of the formation. Around him, four corrupted races advanced, each led by a Boss-class Fade. They were not scattered. They were positioned with purpose, each race placed where it could do the most damage.
At the King's left, the Warbred Orcs thundered forward in formation. Each step landed in rhythm with the pounding of war drums.
DOOM. DOOM. DOOM.
The sound rolled through the broken terrain, slow and deep, shaking the ground like an old god breathing.
Leading them was Warchief Thorgul, one of the four Boss-class Fades and the brutal leader of the Warbred. He stood tall on a raised platform carried by his warriors, half-naked, his body covered in thick muscles, old fight wounds, and blood-smeared ritual paint. Two massive tusks curved upward from his jaw, yellowed and cracked with age.
He raised one arm and pointed forward.
"March. Let them hear us coming."
The orcs roared in reply, loud and proud.
"Break the walls!"
"Burn the ground!"
"Blood for the King!"
"Meat for the drums!"
DOOM. DOOM. DOOM.
The drums hit harder. The orcs moved in sync, boots hammering the earth, weapons slamming into shields.
"Forward line," Thorgul growled. "Shatter everything in our path."
The vanguard surged with a howl, charging ahead with wild eyes and stomping feet. Their voices carried far into the fog.
"Come out, cowards!"
"We're hungry!"
"The King walks. Kneel or die!"
The drums rolled louder, the chants rising over the march.
At the front of the march moved the Forgotten, a relentless tide of the undead. Their hollow eyes stared ahead, their rotting bodies dragging across cracked stone with mindless resolve.
Leading them was Lady Veyra, a lich and one of the King's four chosen commanders. She sat upon an open wagon throne crafted from ribs and rusted swords. It was carried by two towering skeletal giants, one in front and one at the back, moving in perfect silence.
Her long black hair drifted behind her like a curtain. Her skin was pale, her face still and unreadable. In one hand she held a thin silver scepter, the tip carved like a cracked fang. She did not shout her orders. She spoke them softly, and the dead obeyed.
"Wake the buried," she whispered. "Let the earth remember its dead."
She raised her scepter and pointed forward.
The skeletons slammed their one-handed swords against round shields.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The sound rang out like the tolling of war bells in a ruined cathedral.
The horde moved. Bones clacked. Jaws snapped open and shut. From decayed throats came faint groans, muttered names, broken words long forgotten.
"Break the silence," Veyra murmured. "And drown them in memory."
They did not charge. They advanced. Slow. Steady. Endless.
Flanking the right side of the march moved the Hollowborne, the Dark Elves. Sleek and silent, they advanced with unnerving grace, their formation untouched by the chaos around them. Where others thundered and howled, the Hollowborne flowed like a living shadow.
Leading them was Prince Aelar, another of the King's chosen commanders. He drifted above the ground without sound, his black cloak trailing behind him like smoke. His features were sharp and perfect, with pointed ears and smooth pale skin. His long hair was dark as night, and his eyes were pure black, without whites or pupils.
He gave no orders. He didn't need to.
His soldiers marched behind him like dancers in a silent procession. They wore smooth white masks carved in calm, unreadable expressions. Their armor was minimal and flawless, designed for speed and silence.
Bows made from bone and darkwood rested in their hands. No string creaked. No footstep echoed. When they fired, the arrows came without warning.
No words. No cries. No hesitation.
And when they struck, entire platoons fell before they even knew they were being hunted.
Behind the Dark Elves came the roots.
The ground twisted and groaned as the Blackroot Treants advanced. Towering figures of dead willow and oak, they walked with the weight of ancient trees long since rotted. Their limbs were gnarled and brittle. Their bark was dry and blackened. No leaves clung to their branches. No life stirred in their frames.
At the center marched Elder Vurn, the last and oldest among the King's chosen commanders. His body was shaped from the remains of a colossal oak, his trunk split and hollow in places, with deep cracks running through his bark like wounds. Pale fungus clung to his joints. Pink rot oozed in patches across his back.
Each step landed with a heavy thud, cracking the stone beneath him.
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
From within their ranks came the deep creaking of wood straining under its own weight, as if the forest itself was crying out. The sound was slow and drawn, like branches breaking in a windless night.
Creeeaaaaak.
Wherever Elder Vurn stepped, the ground blackened. Trails of corruption bloomed in his wake. Mushrooms pulsed and grew within seconds. Grass shriveled. Soil turned soft and wet, as if soaked in decay.
The other Treants followed slowly behind him. Their movements were sluggish, but unstoppable. They did not roar. They did not chant.
They creaked.
And everything behind them withered.
Each part of the King's army moved with purpose, positioned for total destruction. The Forgotten undeads led at the front, advancing in endless numbers to wear down any resistance. Behind them came the Warbred Orcs, crashing through weakened defenses with brute strength and wild aggression.
The Hollowborne Dark Elves flanked both sides. Their masked archers struck from a distance, silent and precise, cutting down anything that moved. At the rear, the Blackroot Treants marched like siege weapons, hurling branches, stones, and twisted growths torn from their own bodies.
At the center, the Crystal Golem King advanced slowly. His maul swung wide, crushing whatever remained.
Their progress was slow only because they destroyed everything they passed. No wall stood. No shelter remained. The King was not marching to conquer. He was marching to erase.
Behind them, the Pink Fog thickened, spreading over the land like a closing curtain.
-----
The two scouts, codenamed Sentry and Shade, were forced to circle wide to avoid being seen by the King's army. Fortunately, the march was slow. The King seemed more focused on destroying everything in his path than reaching his destination.
Using that delay, the scouts pushed themselves hard, sprinting back toward Greystone at full speed.
When they arrived, they ran straight to Elra's office, but it was empty. A nearby guard told them the Mayor might be at the plaza. Without a word, Sentry and Shade took off again. There was no time to explain. Every second counted.
Luck was on their side. The plaza was crowded, but Bob stood out easily. Even in human form, he was impossible to miss. Beside him stood Mayor Elra and General Vance.
The two scouts rushed up to them.
"General. Mayor. We have something to report. It's urgent," Sentry gasped, still catching his breath.
"Catch your breath, soldier," Vance said calmly.
Shade stepped in, voice strained. "Sir. Mayor. The thing that destroyed Rosewood Safe Zone is heading this way."
"What are you saying?" Elra asked, her voice sharp.
"A horde is coming to Greystone," Sentry said, still catching his breath. "A King-class Fade is leading them."
Bob stayed silent, eyes narrowed. Elra and Vance exchanged a quick glance. Bob had already warned them. Now it was confirmed.
"Explain," Vance said.
"A thousand Fades, maybe more," Sentry replied. "Four Boss-class leading different groups. Four more guarding the King. The King himself called them Royal Guards. They're as strong as Bosses."
Shade stepped forward. "They move in formation. The undead lead the front. Orcs take the left. Elves hold the right. Behind the elves are tree-like Fades. The big ones. They throw boulders and branches like siege weapons. The King stays in the center."
Sentry nodded. "They destroy everything. Buildings. Roads. Even the ground. Rosewood is gone. Erased."
Shade finished the report. "And they're heading straight here."
Vance went silent. They had nearly lost their last battle against a single Boss Fade. If Bob hadn't stepped in, the outcome would have been much worse. And now, four Bosses were coming. Four more just as strong. And above them all, the King.
A thousand Fades.
There was no strategy for that.
Elra stood frozen beside him. As the leader, she was supposed to act, but her mind was blank.
"What can we even do against that?" she asked quietly.
She glanced at Vance, searching for answers. He had none.
"This isn't a fight we're prepared for," Vance said. "This is a purge."
Then Vance looked at Bob.
He knew Bob was strong. Stronger than anyone here. If this giant decided to fight, maybe they had a chance.
"You heard the report," Vance said, facing him directly. "If you're with us, say it now. Will you fight?"
Bob looked at the horizon, then back at Vance.
"There's only one thing we can do," he said.