"Too late," the Necromancer's triumphant rasp echoed across the momentary lull, his eyes blazing with manic glee as the complex summoning circle etched before him pulsed with sickening violet light. The ground trembled, not from Jacobs' earlier attacks, but from something deep beneath, something vast and ancient stirring in response to the profane call. The air grew thick, heavy, tasting of ozone and grave dirt.
Even as the victorious Zephyros commanders - Jacobs, Harold, Nathan, and Henry - prepared to deliver the final, killing blows upon the exposed Necromancer, the ritual reached its horrifying culmination. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The violet light of the summoning circle flickered erratically, spasming, the intricate lines warping as if under immense strain.
A wave of uncontrolled, chaotic energy surged upwards, engulfing the Necromancer. His triumphant grin twisted into a mask of shocked disbelief, then agony, as his own dark magic turned upon him. His withered body convulsed violently, flesh blackening, bones snapping with audible cracks. He didn't even have time to scream before his form imploded inwards, collapsing into a grotesque, steaming slurry of corrupted tissue and raw, unstable necromantic power pooled within the now violently fluctuating circle.
From this profane epicenter, this obscene 'womb' born of the summoner's own self-destruction, something began to emerge. Not summoned, but birthed. It rose slowly, pushing through the viscous remnants of the Necromancer, unfolding itself with a series of wet, tearing sounds that turned the stomach.
Before the stunned eyes of the Zephyros soldiers stood an abomination, a blasphemy against the very concepts of life and death. It towered six meters tall, a chaotic amalgamation of bone, decaying flesh, and patches of slick, grey-green skin stretched taut over an impossible frame. Its arms, grotesquely long, each easily spanning four meters, ended in massive, malformed hands composed of fused skeletal fingers and weeping tissue. Its legs were thick, pillar-like columns of compressed corpses, wider than a warhorse, leaving deep, unsettling impressions in the corrupted earth with every ponderous shift of its weight.
But the head… or rather, the obscene lump of pulsating flesh that served as one… defied sanity. It possessed no discernible eyes, nose, or mouth in the conventional sense. Instead, its surface writhed, covered in dozens, perhaps hundreds, of smaller, nightmarish faces trapped within the decaying mass. Faces locked in perpetual screams of agony, contorted in silent rage, weeping tears of blood and ichor. Some faces were recognizable fragments - human, perhaps elven - stretched taut, skin splitting. Others were bare skulls embedded in the putrescence, maggots writhing in empty sockets. Still others were half-formed things of muscle and sinew. Each unique in its specific horror, yet unified in their collective expression of eternal torment and utter despair.
The Necromancer's final, desperate act had not summoned a controllable servant, but unleashed a primal horror, an Undead Host, a collective nightmare given monstrous form.
The creature straightened to its full, terrifying height, the air shimmering around it with waves of palpable cold and negative energy. It brought its colossal, multi-faced arms crashing down onto the earth on either side of its bulk, the impact shaking the ground, sending tremors through the ranks of the frozen soldiers. The flesh on its hands and fingers seemed barely cohesive, viscous and dripping, revealing glimpses of the fused, blackened human bone beneath - a charnel construction assembled from the desecrated remains of thousands.
Then, the faces - all of them, on its head, its arms, perhaps even hidden within its torso - opened their myriad mouths and screamed. Not a single roar, but a cacophony, a mind-shattering wave of sound composed of hundreds of individual shrieks of agony, loss, and undiluted hatred. It wasn't merely loud; it was psychically invasive, tearing at the sanity of all who heard it, threatening to shatter minds with the sheer weight of accumulated suffering.
As the horrifying sound washed over them, streams of dark, ominous gas, like tangible despair, billowed forth from the screaming mouths, coalescing into shadowy, indistinct spirits that hovered around the Host's body like spectral parasites drawn to a feast of decay. The remaining lesser undead on the battlefield - the skeletons, the zombies - abruptly ceased their own moaning, turning their empty sockets towards the towering figure, shuffling slowly, instinctively towards it, recognizing a new, terrible master.
A moment of stunned silence gripped the Zephyros army. Then, the breaking point was reached. A single soldier screamed, a raw sound of pure terror that acted as a key, unlocking the floodgates of panic.
"Monster! What is that thing?"
"By the Angels, save us!"
"We're doomed! Run!"
The whispers turned to shouts, the shouts to incoherent cries. Discipline, forged through years of training and recent battle, evaporated like mist under a harsh sun. Soldiers stumbled backward, eyes wide with primal fear, weapons falling unheeded from trembling hands. Some turned and fled blindly, scrambling over fallen comrades and broken terrain. Others simply collapsed where they stood, sinking to their knees, paralyzed by terror, sweat pouring down their faces, muttering frantic prayers. A young recruit near the front vomited violently, bile spattering his boots. The proud Zephyros formation dissolved into a terrified, scattering mob.
"HOLD YOUR RANKS!" Jacobs's voice, amplified by his Rank 4 power and raw desperation, roared like thunder, momentarily cutting through the hysteria. "DO NOT BREAK! IT IS UNDEAD! A MONSTER, YES, BUT STILL UNDEAD! STAND YOUR GROUND, SOLDIERS OF ZEPHYROS! DO NOT LET FEAR UNMAKE YOU!"
His words, backed by the sheer force of his will, struck a spark in the hearts of the veterans nearest him. Harold, forcing himself past the initial shock, echoed the command, his Paladin aura flaring weakly. "STAND FAST! FOR THE LIGHT! FOR ZEPHYROS!" Nathan, his shield instinctively raised though his face was pale, added his own powerful shout, "Unit 18, REFORM!"
Their combined authority, the familiar voices of command, managed to stem the absolute rout. The panicked flight slowed, faltered. Soldiers looked towards their remaining leaders, seeking direction amidst the overwhelming terror. The immediate urge to flee was suppressed, replaced by a quivering, desperate uncertainty.
"ALL UNITS!" Jacobs seized the momentary pause, his tactical mind racing despite the horror confronting them. "FALL BACK! ORDERED WITHDRAWAL! ESTABLISH A WIDER PERIMETER! DO NOT ENGAGE DIRECTLY! BUY US TIME!" He signaled urgently towards Henry and Harold, beckoning them closer while Nathan began bellowing orders, reforming a semblance of a defensive line with the soldiers closest to him.
While the Zephyros forces scrambled to obey, establishing a ragged, wide circle around the central knoll, the Undead Host remained momentarily stationary. It seemed… preoccupied. Ignoring the scattering soldiers, it lowered its massive head slightly. Its grotesque body pulsed, and with sickening sounds of rending and slurping, it began to absorb the lesser undead shambling towards it. Zombies and skeletons alike were drawn towards its bulk, their forms dissolving, pulled into the Host's composite mass, vanishing into the grey-green flesh. Each absorption caused the Host's ambient aura of death to thicken slightly, the tormented faces on its surface seeming to writhe with renewed vigor. It was replenishing itself, drawing strength from its fallen kin.
Jacobs reached Henry, Harold, and Nathan, his face grim, etched with horror but burning with fierce resolve. "Report!" he barked, his voice tight. "Assessment!"
"It's the Undead Host," Sophia's voice, miraculously steady though pale, came from beside Henry. She must have followed him during the chaotic retreat. "Rank 5 composite entity. Formed from thousands of individual undead compressed into a single vessel."
"Beleth's creation," Henry added grimly, the name tasting like ash. "Sophia described it from the archives."
"Rank 5?" Harold breathed, his knuckles white on his warhammer. "Angels preserve us… How do we fight such a thing?"
"Its nature is its weakness," Sophia stated quickly, her analytical mind overriding her fear. "Because it is composed of countless lesser undead, it lacks the inherent magical resistance or singular vital point of a true Rank 5 entity. Conventional attacks, especially those imbued with light or purification magic, can damage it. Holy water, blessed weaponry… they will inflict harm, degrading its composite form layer by layer."
"So… even our Rank 1s can wound it?" Nathan asked, his shield held steady despite the tremor Henry could see in his arm.
"Yes," Sophia affirmed. "Sustained, coordinated attacks focusing damage can wear it down. We aren't facing a single, invulnerable behemoth, but rather… eroding a mountain of corpses. Its regeneration is potent, fueled by the necromantic energy binding it, but it is not infinite."
"There's more," Henry interjected, relaying his earlier observation based on his Mystic Sense. "The Necromancer performed a large secondary summoning just before we reached him - likely pulling components from the Host to create those mid-tier guardians. That must have weakened the main body significantly. Its current absorption of the lesser undead… it confirms it. It needs time to recover fully, to reintegrate that lost mass and energy. We have a window."
"Time…" Jacobs latched onto the word. "Time is what we need." He straightened, a new determination hardening his features. "When Henry first warned of the deeper ritual, before the assault began, I took a precaution. I dispatched my fastest runner back towards the nearest garrison outpost with an urgent request for aid, specifically requesting senior clergy support." He met their hopeful gazes. "Word came back via signal mirror just before the Host emerged. A Rank 3 Priest, Father Bern, along with a dedicated support unit of twenty-five battle-mages and warriors, is en route. They carry significant consecrated supplies. Estimated arrival," Jacobs calculated quickly, "within two hours!"
A wave of profound relief washed over the assembled captains and nearby soldiers who overheard. Reinforcements. A Priest. Holy magic. It wasn't a guarantee of victory, but it was a lifeline, a tangible reason to fight, to endure.
Henry looked at Jacobs with renewed admiration. Even amidst the chaos, facing an unknown ritual, the Captain's foresight had potentially saved them all. He then looked around at the faces of the soldiers still within earshot, at the fear still lurking deep in their eyes despite the news of reinforcements. Hope was fragile; terror was pervasive. Discipline held them in place, but their fighting spirit was perilously close to shattering completely. Someone needed to rekindle the fire.
Now, the entire army was preserved, and everyone had time to adjust their emotions, recover their strength, and prepare more fully for the upcoming assault.
Henry nodded, stepping towards the unit under his command. His eyes swept over each soldier; fear still lingered in their gazes, but there was also a spark of hope.
He stood upon a rock, looking at his entire unit. He activated his own Rank 3 aether slightly, not for attack, but for presence, drawing the eyes of the nearby, trembling soldiers.
"Men, listen to me!"
The entire unit gradually turned their gazes towards him. Henry raised his hand, pointing towards the colossal monster looming in the distance.
"That thing is a Rank 5 monster. But we are not helpless. We can harm it, we can destroy it. Just hold your formation, attack at the right moment. And we have reinforcements on their way!"
A small murmur arose. Henry continued, his voice firm,
"This mission is dangerous, yes. But if we succeed, its glory will be tenfold a regular mission. It will be a milestone in the life of everyone here."
He paused, his gaze somber.
"To be honest… when I first saw it, I was afraid. I felt nauseous, I wanted to turn and run. But if we allow ourselves to be controlled by fear, are we any different from those soulless corpses?"
"We are alive. We still have beating hearts, standing feet, and comrades standing shoulder to shoulder beside us. It is in this moment that we define who we are. Not with words, but with actions."
His voice rose, growing stronger with each word.
"This is a decisive battle. When it ends, we will tell future generations that - on that day, we did not retreat! On that day, we conquered our fear! And on that day - together, we defeated a monster unlike any other in history!"
Henry raised his fist high.
"For ourselves!"
"For ourselves!" Several soldiers shouted back.
"For Zephyros!" Henry yelled.
The entire army, as one unified body, roared in unison:
"FOR ZEPHYROS!" The roar erupted, rolling across the graveyard, a wave of sound pushing back against the oppressive aura of the Undead Host. It wasn't the cheer of assured victory, but the defiant cry of soldiers choosing to fight, choosing to face their fear together. The line solidified. Weapons were gripped tighter. Eyes, though still holding fear, now also held a spark of grim, burning resolve.
The sound waves echoed throughout the valley, reverberating like thunder. The atmosphere was no longer filled with the stench of death, no longer with groans of fear. Only the will of steel, unwavering gazes, and hearts boiling with hot blood remained.
In the other three units, equally passionate sounds had also erupted. All four commanders had awakened the fighting spirit of the soldiers under their command.
They would hold. They would endure. They would await their reinforcements. And then, together, they would face that monster.